Leisureville (7 page)

Because these neighborhoods were surrounded by intense rural poverty, and in an area with limited services, father and son suspected that residents would want to keep their world of leisure as self-contained as possible, so they provided just about everything the residents might need—and all of this was accessible by golf cart. It didn't take long before golf carts were ubiquitous and residents lost interest in driving anywhere outside the compound.

Harold acknowledged the peculiar primacy of the golf cart when, with the help of a local politician, he built a golf cart bridge across the highway between the older Village of Orange Blossom Gardens and the ever-expanding newer areas. The bridge is still there, rising steeply on both sides of the busy highway, with seniors zipping across it daily.

Harold soon became a local celebrity. Unlike his son, he enjoyed socializing with residents, and some say he was a heck of a ladies' man. He built a modest home in the middle of Orange Blossom Gardens and took long walks around the neighborhood. In time, the
family learned to capitalize on Harold's popularity, and embraced his emerging reputation as The Villages' kindhearted “founding father.”

Harold's iconic smile was soon everywhere, even on The Villages' own scrip—promotional paper money given to prospective residents and redeemable at businesses owned by The Villages. When the family wanted to promote its efforts to build an emergency medical facility near Spanish Springs, an enormous photo of Harold appeared on a billboard. He was shown, dressed in a loud sports jacket and porkpie hat, pointing at an empty parcel of land: “I'll live to see The Villages Regional Hospital right here!” He did.

It's hard to tell if the decidedly less fancy Village of Orange Blossom Gardens is a place filled with fond nostalgia for Gary Morse, or an embarrassment of sorts, much as Jay Gatsby's humble beginnings were for him in the novel by F. Scott Fitzgerald. At heart, Gary is a businessman, and since the Village of Orange Blossom Gardens was built out long ago, it probably holds little interest for him, at least financially. Curiously, few residents have any recollection of Gary from the early days; others have no idea who he is. But they remember Harold fondly, making Orange Blossom Gardens the center of Schwartz' personality cult.

A walk through the original development is a trip down memory lane. Unlike the sea of upscale homes, fancy boulevards, and state-of-the-art recreation centers in the fantasyland across the highway, Orange Blossom Gardens feels as if it belongs to an earlier era, as in fact it does. Younger Villagers call it the community's “prehistoric” area, or the “Old Burial Ground.”

One day I made the foolish decision to walk across the bridge connecting Orange Blossom Gardens with Spanish Springs. I was forced more than once to hug the walls as retirees zoomed past in golf carts. Once safely across, I strolled through the neighborhood. Many of the houses were gussied-up trailers with postage-stamp yards; some of them were already being torn down to make way for
larger homes on double lots. The deed restriction against lawn ornaments had evidently been dreamed up after the development crossed the highway; I saw ornaments everywhere: a family of plaster deer lying down in a circle of red mulch; the obligatory lawn gnome; and a cutout of a little boy peeing while his toddler girlfriend shields her eyes in red-faced embarrassment. I also saw old women in curlers and hairnets —something that one rarely, if ever, sees across the highway, although there is no rule against wearing them.

I knocked on the door of Elton Mayer, one of the fledgling community's first residents. He is sometimes referred to as Orange Blossom Garden's “first Mayer.” Unlike many of the residents on the other side of the bridge, Elton was actually old. Given the relative youth and vigor of the residents across the way, I was surprised to see someone walking with a cane. At eighty-six, Elton was in good health, but he was clearly not about to hop over the net after a game of tennis.

Elton's house, like the homes of many of his immediate neighbors, was small but tidy. He greeted me hesitantly at first, but was soon happy enough to talk about the old days. His time was limited, however: his second wife, whom he met at a square dance in Orange Blossom Gardens, was in the hospital.

Elton told me he had first learned of the new trailer park while reading an ad in
Elks
magazine at his home in central Michigan. At the time, the ads for Orange Blossom Gardens had a dated yet poetic style, perhaps reflecting Harold's years of experience in mail-order advertising: “For the residents of Orange Blossom Gardens, theirs is a quality of life that is so softly civilized, richly varied, infinitely better, and in one of the most desirable areas of Florida.” Although Orange Blossom Gardens is an hour and a half from Orlando, the literature nevertheless described the community as the “Gateway to Disney World.”

Contemplating an early retirement because of his first wife's ill health, Mayer found himself intrigued by the ad. It was a lifestyle he could afford: a cozy single-wide trailer home on a lot beside a
small lake cost just $9,995. The couple took a visit in 1973 and liked what they saw. “I bought this lot the first day I saw it,” Elton said. “It was a piece of paradise—a house on the water in Florida, with orange trees in the front yard.”

There were just thirteen trailers, three model homes, and the beginnings of a small recreation center. There were no age restrictions at the time, although a few years later Harold restricted occupancy to people over thirty. Local shopping was sparse, and nearby towns were run-down and sparsely populated. Elton described a time when he used to walk down the road—now a highway lined with strip malls—and buy pecans “from a native.” Then came the free golf.

“There were just a few hundred homes at the time,” Elton said. “But when they started with the golf, the population tripled in no time, and the homes got bigger. They started out as single-wides like mine, and then they went to double-wides, and then to those modular homes. They put them up in a big hurry because they were selling so fast. They even built their own modular home factory. I had no idea the place would grow so big, but Schwartz was a good businessman. He knew exactly what he was doing from the start. And he did everything first-class.”

Old-timers like Elton rarely venture farther than Spanish Springs, if they even go that far. One wonders if they fully comprehend just how big The Villages has become. “There's no reason to go over there, across the bridge,” Elton said. “We've got everything we need on this side.”

Farther down the street, I met a man named Sam who retired here in 1984 in a house next to his parents, after a life of laboring in midwestern steel mills. He offered to drive me around in his golf cart for a short tour. “Now mind you, back then there weren't any golf carts,” Sam told me. “If we wanted to go somewhere, we had to walk.” I'm caught by surprise when he floors the accelerator and my back slams against the seat.

The development's oldest streets have charming Hawaiian-theme names like “Aloha Way,” which happened to be where Harold lived. Sam pointed out Harold's old house, a simple ranch on a waterfront lot. A little dock led to a small gazebo on stilts. Beyond the oldest streets, the roads were named for members of Harold's family. Four streets were named for Gary's wife and children: Sharon, Jennifer, Tracy, and Mark. There was a Schwartz Boulevard, and a boulevard named after one of Harold's former business partners.

Sam stopped briefly to chat with a friend in his friend's driveway. The garage door was open, and I spotted an elaborate train set with bridges, tunnels, and its own make-believe village.

Sam took me farther into the development, where the golf courses are located and the bigger homes are modular. The streets had ambitious names such as Pebble Beach Lane, Saint Andrew's Boulevard, and Palm Aire. There was a hilltop country club (not all of Florida is flat), which housed the Villagers' perennially favorite pool: a whimsical creation reminiscent of the Flintstones, with a waterfall masking a hidden cave and a Jacuzzi. There was a tiki bar on one side, and on the other, a small karaoke tent with an older DJ wearing a big grin and blasting music loud enough to make me cringe. Inside, the locker rooms betrayed the club's age. They were really just shabby bathrooms with an extra stall for a shower, and a few lockers.

Sam floored the accelerator again and headed home. “I remember when this was all watermelon fields,” Sam said, motioning to the homes below. “You could reach back and pick one to eat.”

Near the bottom of the hill, Sam nearly ran over a pedestrian. “Mind pulling to the side?” the man asked gruffly.

“This is a
street
, asshole,” Sam shouted back, without slowing down. “What a moron.”

I asked Sam what he thinks the major difference is between the two sides of the highway. He didn't hesitate. “Money.”

T
O GET A BETTER HANDLE ON
T
HE
V
ILLAGES
'
SPRAWLING EXPANSION,
one morning I resolve to take a trolley tour. The tours are run out of the sales office, which is housed in a tall mission-style building that takes up a whole city block in Spanish Springs.

I start the day by pressing the snooze button on the clock radio until the Andersons' automatic sprinklers shut off and my bedroom is filled with glorious Florida sunshine. The fresh air coming through the open window smells of wet grass and budding flowers. The New England winter gloom feels far, far away. “It's another beautiful day here in The Villages,” the announcer on WVLG says before I switch off the radio for good. It's hard to disagree.

I turn on the television. “The weather's great here in The Villages where golf's free and it never snows,” a smiling blond anchor-woman chirps. “Now here's a Villager showing his stuff at the Alamo Bowl yesterday. Just two pins standing; Yup! He gets the job done. Nice job, Bob!” The camera then turns to a group of women on a putting green. One older woman connects with a golf ball, and it rolls toward the hole. “Oops, a little too much,” the announcer says. “Let's see if she gets it on the second try. Wait, wait, and yes! It's
in, for a par four. Nice job, ladies! We'll be back with more sports and recreation updates on the ‘twos.'”

It's The Villages' own morning news show, which is broadcast on Gary Morse's television station, the Villages News Network, VNN. The anchors look surprisingly like real anchors even though they work for the developer and generally report only happenings inside the gates. They even have that little box above the left shoulder showing graphics and video. There are two companion stations as well; one that lists the plethora of daily activities and another that gives current weather conditions from The Villages' own National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration weather station.

The next news story is about a resident teaching her grandchildren how to make unusually large soap bubbles using a length of string attached to a wand. “You can make long bubbles and they go really far,” one granddaughter tells an on-site interviewer. The newscaster then cuts back in: “Here's a tip—the more humid the weather, the better the bubbles.”

The following segment is about a ribbon cutting for The Villages' fifth fire station. The last news segment is a surprisingly brief piece about a resident who drove a car into the side of his neighbor's house: “No drugs or alcohol involved, but officials say the driver's blood sugar was low.” Then it's time again for an update on sports and recreation. The blond woman cuts to more footage of residents playing golf. “These residents are enjoying golf without snow!” she says. Next, there's a feature about an amateur dog show called Bark in the Park.

I shower, dress, and take another peek at VNN before leaving the house. The stories are beginning to feel repetitive. There's a story about blowing big bubbles and an amateur dog show in the park, and footage of Bob knocking down two bowling pins. The morning show cuts to a commercial break with the tagline: “Covering your hometown like nobody else can.” Apparently, that means over and over again.

After a relaxing breakfast of fresh grapefruit with Dave and Betsy on the lanai, I hop into my car and switch on the radio: “It's such a pretty day and a pretty world in The Villages,” the announcer says. Once in town, I pick up Gary Morse's local newspaper, an unusually handsome broadsheet called the
Daily Sun
. The newspaper dispenser has a sentimental drawing of a newsboy hawking papers, which is ironic, for obvious reasons. The two lead stories are about blowing bubbles and Bark in the Park. As I pass through the lobby of the sales office, I pick up the developer's glossy monthly magazine, which is filled with comforting articles on life in The Villages.

I am in the lobby for mere moments when a resident named Marvel walks up and introduces herself. She is one of several greeters, all of whom happen to be residents of The Villages. A lot of residents choose to work for The Villages, mostly as part-timers looking for a little extra cash and something to do.

Marvel jumps right into a friendly sales pitch. “Oh, goodness, there are so many things to do here—more than a thousand activities each week,” she tells me. “It's such a wonderful place for parents. You know what they say: people live longer when they stay involved and active!”

I sip a complimentary cup of coffee and ask her what it's like to live in a community that restricts visits by younger family members. “It's true that children can't stay longer than thirty days in any given year,” she responds. “But gosh, we're so busy; they're so busy. We're living our lives; they're living theirs. We visit them; they visit us. It works out just fine. Oh, look, I think the trolley's back. Let's go see!”

Waiting outside is a bus masquerading as a San Francisco cable car with the aid of a colorful vinyl veneer. Buddy, a paunchy midwesterner with a big smile, is the driver. He is wearing a festive miniature top hat—a child's party favor—held in place with an elastic band that might ordinarily fit under one's chin. It is too small, so Buddy wears the elastic around the back of his head. Mindy, also a
heavyset midwesterner with a contagious smile, is the tour guide. She wears a festive miniature plastic tiara. “Looks like Mindy is the Trolley Queen today!” Marvel remarks.