Amish Surprise

When Jamie and I had decided to look in the Bradenton/Sarasota area for housing and work, we spent a day driving through neighborhoods to get a feel for what the area was like.  At one point in the journey we passed what seemed to be an Amish-themed shopping area but it was pushed to the backs of our minds as we traversed the city boundaries. That was back in July.

A few weeks ago, with the happy discovery of O’Brien Family Farms ten miles east of home, we bought butter and kettle corn that came from Troyer’s, a business in an Amish community in Ohio according to the label.  Then one evening Jamie and I had an Amish collision.  I had seen an ad on Craigslist for a baker’s assistant at Yoder’s Fresh Market and Jamie had a recommendation from locals for Troyer’s Restaurant, both of which are Amish-run operations in the little settlement of Pinecraft, an Amish village in Sarasota on Bahia Vista. It was the very area we had discovered eight months ago. We never need an excuse for an adventure but it just so happened our two-year wedding anniversary was that Saturday. Prepared to celebrate, we hit the highway south .

According to an article in The Amish Country News and The History of Pinecraft 1925-1960: A Historical Album of the Amish and Mennonites in Pinecraft, Florida, by Noah Gingerich,  what is now Pinecraft began as a the Sarasota National Tourist Camp in the 1920’s. Amish and Mennonite visitors came to camp in tents not only as a respite from northern winters in Ohio, Pennsylvania and Indiana, but also to farm during their southern stay.  One particular crop farmed was celery, which is a vegetable that has a place of honor in Amish wedding feasts.  Celery makes its way to the table in a traditional stuffing with chicken, as creamed celery and as a table decoration in vases.

Over time, the camp area was developed into small homes and today remains a close community of little lots.  Some members of the community live in Florida year-round, owning their homes as well as additional rental properties.  A large portion of the Amish and Mennonites arrive from the north via chartered buses.  Homes in the settlement are a very sought after commodity with the price per square foot higher than in other neighborhoods of Sarasota.

To be honest, the whole thing has blown my mind a bit.

As we waited at a stoplight a few blocks from the Bahia Vista and Beneva intersection that is the stepping off point for Pinecraft, I could not believe my eyes as three ladies in white kapps and traditional blue and purple dresses, zoomed over the crosswalk on their large three-wheeled bikes at breakneck speed.  The baskets on the rear of the bikes were full of grocery bags from SweetBay, a chain supermarket in the mall further up the street.  One gal had a large fashionable handbag on her shoulder and was pedaling in flip-flops.

It turns out that bicycles are the primary mode of transport for the citizens of Pinecraft and as it is primarily an older population, the tricycles abound. No room for horses and carriages here.  We were dumbstruck and kept trying not to stare as we searched for our destination, Yoder’s Restaurant.  When we found it, there was no parking nearby and the line of customers was snaking through the carpark.  Yoder’s also offers a green grocers, a gift shop and a bakery/deli in separate buildings.  We were determined to have a nose about even if lunch was now postponed so I pulled down a side street in search of a place to leave the car.  That in itself was a visit to the twilight zone.  The small streets were clogged with tricycles and people visiting their neighbors. Men in hats with long beards, long pants and suspenders stood in groups chatting.  Women in dresses, aprons and kapps sat in lawn chairs and on steps.  There were good natured waves and smiles as we slowly navigated our way through the melee but the Taurus seemed immense.  It was like driving through someone’s living room and we couldn’t get over the feeling we were trespassing and invading many privacies. 

We parked at strip mall several blocks away and entered the daily lives of the Amish of Pinecraft.  They were everywhere.  Outside the health food store, an older lady in a  cornflower blue dress was looking at a model of a human spine being shown to her by an instructor from Palmer College of Chiropractic Medicine who was offering free spine checks. A couple in their early 70s waited at the crosswalk with us.  Jamie spied the telltale label of a bottle of Pepsi in the plastic bag the gent was carrying.  On the sidewalk and in the bike lanes, women on tricycles navigated the cars and pedestrians.  I say navigated but it was more that they dictated the flow of traffic.  You don’t mess with a lady in a white kapp on a trike!  There was good business at Big Olaf’s Creamery for ice cream and a steady stream of traffic to the small post office.

In the market we found jams, jellies and all manner of canned goods, including the fabulous Jake and Amos Pickled Brussel Sprouts that Dave’s  Aunt Jean always brought back on her trips to Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. There were breads and pies, coffee and ice cream and a deli full of meats, cheeses and salads.  Everything looked and tasted fabulous.  The green grocer area was much the same.  Beautiful produce and great prices. We lined up with teenagers in their short and baggy shorts, ladies from Siesta Key dripping with gold and money, retired farmers from Iowa and Amish and Mennonite folk out doing their daily shop.



Peanut Butter Pie



Given the continued length of the line to get into Yoder’s we decided to head for home with our booty, content in the knowledge we would come back during the week at an off hour for a meal of their famous fried chicken and a piece of peanut butter pie in celebration of my upcoming birthday. Doing anything on the Gulf Coast in winter is an exercise in patience.  Doing it on a Saturday prepares you for sainthood…or anger management classes.  It never occurred to us that everyone else in Sarasota would be going to Yoder’s for pie.

As we drove the highway back to our little gaff we reflected on the experience of Pinecraft.  Despite having the camera, we took only one photo and that was from afar of the gal on the trike. Why had we been so quiet and extra courteous moving among the shoppers and villagers?  Why had it felt so wrong to be driving a car through the tiny streets of the village?  Why had we found ourselves staring at people and then feeling guilty about staring?  Why did it seem somehow naughty to find Pepsi and flip flops there?  Why didn’t it seem polite to take pictures?  All it took was a conformity of dress, appearance and belief among other people to make us acutely aware of our own actions.  That’s really kind of strange and powerful when you think about it.  

I stumbled upon this Pinecraft Blog while looking for photos to include.  Have a peek.  It's quite interesting!

        

(All photos from Google Images except for the last three and the earlier photo of the lady in blue on the tricycle crossing traffic.)

Palmer Ranch on Dwellable

For Whom the Bell Tolls



Photo from Google Images

 On my way to find portabella mushrooms and a bottle of wine for a surprise dinner for Mr. Pearson, I found myself at an intersection waiting for the light to change when the sound of church bells drifted over the car.  It was 3pm and the bells of a nearby church were announcing the hour. (click on these links throughout the blog to hear some lovely bells)  The sound caught me by surprise and made me wonder how many actual church bells and clock chimes were still ringing across the world these days. Many, I hope.

Photo from Google Images

I have only a handful of memories of bells.  We had a bell  at the farm that Mum had unearthed from who knows where, perhaps from the hulking ark of the barn where so many moldy treasures lived out their last forgotten days.  It hung from a bracket outside the door to the ell.  I think only my Uncle Miles and my friend Brent ever rang it and that was mostly as an introduction to something quite silly that they would then say or do.



Winchester Cathedral  (Photo from Google Images)



My months in Winchester, England, as an exchange student at King Alfred’s College came and went with the ringing of the bells at Winchester Cathedral.  The first time I heard them from our rooms just a block from the cathedral I was filled with that sort of joy that erupts when something you have read about or seen in movies actually happens to you.  I was in England, I was in Winchester and the cathedral bells  were ringing on a Sunday morning in August. A few months later I was in London in a red phone box, looking up at Big Ben while excitedly dialing the long international number to the farm back in Maine.  No one was home to take the call and hear the famous sound around me.

Gram Mallory, my mother’s mum, had a grandmother clock that rang Westminster Chimes on the quarter hour.  The clock had to be wound every few days.  Gram kept the keys on a piece of string in a tiny drawer in the kitchen.  When she went into the nursing home, Uncle Miles, who lived with her, couldn’t find the keys anywhere. The clock sat silent near Gram’s little library no longer ticking down the days of its mistress’s life. 



Harold Sutherland of Sutherland Auctions

 The clock was given to me but as we had no way to wind it, I didn’t hurry to get it moved from Scarborough to Pownal.  Sadly, when Uncle Miles died suddenly, the contents of the house were put up for auction according to the will for the estate.  In an odd twist of fate, the clock and everything else in the house that had not been squirreled away by relatives with keys to Gram’s ended up in an auction hall in North Yarmouth just miles from my home.  I would often go for an hour or two of deals and laughter on those Thursday nights and it wasn’t until I picked up an odd lots box and found a grade school photograph of my brother that I realized what filled the hall.  For the next few hours I watched item after item of my childhood bid on and taken away.  I had enough cash on me to buy a little chest of drawers but the clock went for far over my funds.  The next day I called my Mum in Florida and told her what had happened. As far as we could tell, no one in the family had been told where and when the auction would be held.



Jamie ringing the bell for us

 

To be sure the happiest bells of my life reside at Chapel Dulcinea, in Driftwood, Texas, where Jamie and I were married.  It was one bell, actually, and it is a request from the benefactor of the chapel that all who marry there ring the chapel bell at the end of their ceremony. Our wedding was at sunset with a nearly full moon looking down upon us. Jamie reached high for the rope-thank goodness he is tall! The peal of the bell spread over the  

cedars and stony soil of the hill country valley below us.  What a beautiful night.

 Without a doubt the saddest bell thus far in my life was the mournful toll of the chapel bell at the Maine Veterans Cemetery at the conclusion of Dad’s funeral service.  It was the final sound after the lonesome notes of “Taps” from the bugler’s horn.  A solemn reverberation.  We drove to Belfast after the service looking for some food and distraction.  Stepping out of the car, I could hear a buoy bell on the Penobscot tolling through the fog.


Belfast Harbor   (Photo from Google Images)



(It seems no small feat in these days of constant, plugged-in noise that something as simple as a bell or a chime can still capture our attention. If you find yourself wanting a beautiful bell of your own, I highly recommend US Bells, in Prospect Harbor, Maine. They are exquisite works of art and sound. All videos in this post come from YouTube and various websites and contain sounds similar to the bells mentioned.)

A Tern for the Better

 

Osprey

 To be sure, one of the best parts of living in Florida is the frequent opportunity to watch birds.  They have the habit of being everywhere and nowhere at once, which seems to be true of birds wherever we’ve lived.  What’s funny about birds here on the Gulf Coast is that they seem to show up in the craziest places or in startling numbers.

Ibis ( Both photos: Google Images)

White Ibis are like cats here in Bradenton; there’s always one walking across your lawn.  Quite often they are in groups of five or more and they will move about like a herd of cattle, grazing on whatever bug or food matter is unfortunate enough to be in their path.  They move undaunted along the grassy verges of car parks and sidewalks, their long, curved beaks ready to pluck the next tasty tidbit in view.  We had one graceful visitor we named Iris, Iris the Ibis, who spent the better part of a morning giving the lawn a thorough going over.  Today on the way home from the beach, we saw six ibis perched on the power lines looking like quarter notes on a big piece of staff paper.  Brilliant and oddly comical.

Wood Stork

 Our most neck-jerking bird sighting to date was several months ago.  Again, we were on Anna Maria Island going to the Bay Fest festival and there on a patch of lawn just a couple of feet from the road was a wood stork looking all the world like a child’s drawing.  We were so shocked I turned the car around immediately and Jamie snapped a couple of photos.  What is fabulous about long-legged birds is how they walk, like women in extremely high heels that are walking cautiously through cow patties.  Each step is strategic and deliberate.  The stork posed for several shots before sending us on to the festival.



Roseate Spoonbill

 Our most coveted unexpected sight was a roadside pond with five roseate spoonbills and an assortment of ducks.  Again, the car was whipped into a u-turn.  It’s hard to explain the excitement and sheer joy of seeing a pink bird, let along five pink birds.  Then there’s the whole novelty of their bills and watching them feed.  Another birdwatcher was happily snapping away photos with a massive camera that stirred serious lens envy in the Pearsons.  He told us that about 15 minutes prior to our arrival, there had been over 30 spoonbills in the pond but a pair of squabbling egrets had moved most of the flock along.  He said the flock is at the pond every morning and evening.  We went back a few days later but the scene was empty save for a policeman talking to someone who was pulled over right in front of the pond.  I hope they were talking about birds and not arguing over warnings for being on the side of the road looking for spoonbills.

  On the verge of creepy is the recent arrival of big flocks of big birds.  Near  our house, crows have been appearing in large groups.  We’ve all seen those big flocks of grackles and starlings that move as one unit in amazing feats of agility but lately it’s been crows in our neighborhood.It’s usually mid-morning and they come cawing from the direction of the river, flying in all directions at once, their shadows dancing a macabre waltz on the porch awning and driveway.  It’s like a clip left on the cutting room floor when Hitchcock was filming “The Birds.”  (Pictured Above:  Willet)

The vultures have also been massing.  We have turkey vultures and black vultures here in Florida.  While it’s common to see them tidying up carcasses along the road (I refer to them as “the road crew”) it’s a bit spooky to see them in large numbers riding the thermals, avian tornados hundreds of feet tall above the pastures and orange groves.  For some reason it’s even more foreboding to see them kettling at the coastline and yet it’s incredibly beautiful to watch.  My favorite vulture visitation happened on a November day back in Maine six or seven years ago.  We were starting a new tradition of an early Thanksgiving as Dave was usually away deer hunting the week of Thanksgiving and would miss the turkey and trimmings.  Friends and family were just tucking in around the table that took up the entire living room when what to our wondering eyes did appear but a turkey vulture perched quite contentedly on the grape arbor looking towards the house! He stayed for the entire meal.  My brother wisely recommended we use the buddy system if anyone left the house.  One misplaced step and you would be ripe for the picking…hahaha. (Turkey Vulture & Black Vulture:  Google Images)

(Pictured above:  Brown Pelicans, Great Blue Heron, Gull, Sanderlings.   Pictured above:  Royal Terns)
Depending on the day and the fishing, you can expect to share the beach with brown and white pelicans, great white egrets, gulls, herons, osprey, oyster catchers, black skimmers, willet, sandpipers, sanderlings, crows, grackles, pigeons, parrots and my happy favorites, the terns. While well acquainted with the common terns and Arctic terns back home, I was instantly captivated by the Royal Terns with their bright orange beaks and punk rock head gear.  Most often you will find them in groups, sometimes mixed in with the waiting gulls.

(Pictures:  Black Skimmer, Brown Pelicans, Great Egret, Brown Pelican) 

Let me first say that the gulls along the beaches of Anna Maria Island are a brutish lot.  They may cut a dashing figure for a picture postcard but they are grifters of the most notorious sort.  We’ve watched them mob beachgoers for their sandwiches and chips.  Upon stepping out from under a sun canopy with a cheese doodle in his hand, a four-year old was instantly set upon by a pack of gulls and left crying, pecked and doodle-less within seconds.  We had gulls trying to land on a hot hibachi to snag shrimp we were grilling. Most astoundingly though they have the cheek to steal fish from the mouths of the terns and pelicans.  We watched in disbelief as a gull flew alongside a pelican, hovered as the pelican dove into the water, and then landed centimeters from the pelican’s mouth within seconds of it breaking the surface in the hopes of nabbing any fish sticking out of the pelican’s beak or any spilling out as the pelican tossed its head back to swallow.  The practiced precision is amazing.  Oooh, the buggers!

(Pictured below:  Royal Terns and Cheeky Gull)

By comparison, the Royal Terns are positively polite.  Gregarious but not ingratiating, they seem to suffer humans tolerably well.  If you approach a flock at a gentle pace, they will move en masse to grant you passage, sometimes letting you walk right through them.  They don’t beg; they don’t steal; they simply fish, chat and look fabulous.  At least in my mind that’s what they do.

(Pictured below:  Royal Terns & Jamie)

For me, it’s always a great day at the beach when I’ve spent it in the company of the Royal terns and Mr. Pearson.  Several months ago we were lucky enough to share a stretch of sand with a massive flock of the Royals.  As with big piles of leaves or giant puddles, human beings can’t seem to resist the urge to run through flocks of birds.  Over and over again, Jamie and I stood still with cameras going while children and adults alike flung themselves along the sand sending the terns to flight in a flurry of feathers.  Unlike being mobbed by the gulls, this was magical; a living snowstorm of white and wing that rose and subsided on the whims of passersby.  It was an afternoon we will never forget.

Bonus video:  See if you can spot the endangered  le petit maillot de bain bleu in this footage.  Always an unexpected sight!

Bradenton Beach on Dwellable

Thank You For Not Littering

One cool thing about seeing life in terms of stories and pictures is that quite often, if you watch long enough, you discover amazing patterns.  When I say amazing I don’t necessarily mean awe-inspiring realizations but more the quixotic combinations that life forms from the amoeba to the human come up with to navigate their daily petri dish.




Jeff, myself and  Wendy the Cat

 It happens that I’ve spent the last four years living with smokers.  Back in Austin during my days with Jeff and Wendy, Parliament cigarettes were a food group at Casa del Pepe.  At home, at some else’s home or in a bar, the cigarette butts would be disposed of properly, but just out and about the butt would get tossed on the ground, maybe stepped on and left.  It made me crazy and in reply to my scolding to pick that litter up, I would be told that the butt on the ground represented a job for someone clearing the streets of trash in Austin.  Baloney, was my response.  Only sometimes would I pick up the butt, having to draw the line somewhere at just how much picking up I would do for someone I wasn’t legally responsible for, but I always put the empty cigarette packets in the recycling.  Eventually, butts were not tossed on the ground when we were out together and these days Jeff has more important things to put to his lips, like his beautiful pregnant wife and their precious little girl.

Jamie is also a smoker, though by American standards he is not only a light smoker but something of a throwback.  He rolls his own cigarettes and has for a long time.  The first time my dad saw Jamie pull out a pouch of tobacco and a paper he slapped his knee in amazement and said, “Now that takes me back.  My father used to roll his own.” Some people have that same reaction but the majority of folks here in the US who stumble upon this guy with tattoos and an accent fiddling with white paper and something leafy usually assume my husband is rolling a joint.  It can lead to some funny and sticky situations as you might imagine.  Twice at one outdoor concert, security guards told Jamie they didn’t care what was in the pouch, they didn’t want to see him rolling anything so he was left to covertly make his tobacco cigarettes while the drunk girls behind us spilled beer down my back and smoked their Marlboro Lights.

To his credit, Mr. Pearson is a stickler about disposing of his duff ends, even keeping them in his pocket (and subsequently into the washing machine!) if there’s no place to throw them away.  The odd thing is, it’s incredibly difficult to find hand-rolling tobacco these days and the stuff that is available is often horrid compared to even the cheapest tobacco that’s available in Britain.   Jamie’s favorite brand, Amber Leaf, is a Virginia or brightleaf tobacco, but it’s not available for purchase in the US despite its American origins, at least not that we have uncovered, even online.  Bless Jamie’s mum, Melody, for tucking a pouch of Amber Leaf and little filters into her Christmas box.  If he can’t get a “decent cup of tea or a decent pint of beer” then he can at least have a decent smoke.  (He’s just kidding about the tea and beer…mostly.)

One thing that is quickly evident if you happen to compare tobacco packaging from the US and the UK is that American tobacco producers are certainly doing the very least they have to where the obligatory health warning labels are concerned.  American warnings are printed quite small and put on the side of the pack where they won't get in the way.  When I first met Jamie in London and he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, I was flabbergasted at the words “Smoking Kills” taking up fully half of the front of the packet in large, screaming text.  Wow.  It’s not uncommon for the health warning to include graphic photos of mouth cancer, lung disease, at-risk fetuses and other complications associated with smoking plastered on the packaging.  If you are at all squeamish and considering taking up smoking, don’t start in the United Kingdom, kids.  Come to America.

As a non-smoker, I’d be just fine if no one ever smoked again.  I appreciate not having to eat in smoke-filled restaurant or not flying next to someone with a cigarette going.  I’ll speak up (sometimes) if I’m uncomfortable with the smoke you’re making me breathe in but for the most part your smoking is your business unless you are an idiot like the woman I saw today.

Let me first say that in my perfect world I would have access to things like motor vehicle records and DNA-based GPS for the purposes of tracking down people and offering them the chance to right their grievous wrongs perpetrated in my presence.  At the very least, I would have the wherewithal to join the YouTube nation of people filming things on their cell phones because isn’t far more embarrassing to have the whole world see what you casually do than to have one person point it out to you outside a hamburger shop? But I wasn't in my perfect world.  I was in Bradenton.

While sat at a table by the window waiting for our order of mind-blowing fabulousness at Five Guys Burgers and Fries, I noticed the two women at the picnic table outside.  They were both dressed quite elegantly in white linen blouses, smart-looking trousers, posh shoes and plenty of diamonds and gold to catch the mid-winter sun.  The taller of the two, a very attractive gal perhaps in her late sixties with perfectly highlighted blonde hair and a brilliant smile which she shared frequently with her companion, reached into her Coach bag, pulled out a package of Marlboro Lights and lit up.  It was like watching Lauren Becall having a burger and a smoke.  The cigarette was merely an extension of her exquisitely manicured performance.  Then she stood up, stretched her slim torso and tossed the cigarette butt on the sidewalk.  A quick grinding out of the last ashes with a practiced and elegantly-clad toe finished her act and she stepped around the butt, around the trash can that was three feet from her table and came inside to powder her nose.

I was beside myself with disgust and immediately began weighing my options as to what to do when she came out of the bathroom.  But then the burger and fries arrived and I was reduced to just watching the offender saunter back outside and join her companion in lighting up another Marlboro. Moral outrage is no match for half a double cheese and bacon burger and hand-cut French fries.  I briefed Jamie on the situation developing at the picnic table and by turns we scrutinized the women between mouthfuls of beef and careful monitoring of the ketchup to fries ratio infront of us.  I was very nearly in my happy place when the ladies beyond the glass started gathering up their things to leave, having tossed their finished cigarettes on the ground.  Purses were casually deposited on shoulders.  Extra napkins were wrapped around soda cups to catch the condensation, saving clothes and upholstery from moisture stains.  Both women slid their large Chanel sunglasses down to cover their eyes and stepped lightly off the curb towards their car.  But then the taller woman turned around, fumbling with her keys and the Marlboro Light packet she was trying to carry in one hand.  She took a few graceful steps back towards the restaurant and placed the empty cigarette package deftly in the trash can.

Thank you for not littering.

Life in Florida

Though there is constant interaction between both sides of my brain, it seems that I can either write or paint but not at the same time.  Today seems good for writing.  The last few months have been full of paintings and creative endeavors for art shows back home in Maine over the holidays.  My first attempt to enter the local art scene here in Bradenton was an abysmal failure.  Who knew everyone only buys tropical paradise themes here.  Thank goodness Mainers and a handful of Texans are more art curious and kind supporters.

Florida is proving a strange place to be living, a curious vortex of things that don’t quite make sense.  Despite orange groves everywhere and a Tropicana bottling plant just two miles away, orange juice is more expensive here than it was in Austin or back home.  Due to agriculture on a large scale, there are precious few small farms that sell their produce at road stands and farmers markets.  We have taken to buying our veggies off stands at the flea market where the prices and often the quality are much better than the local supermarkets but even there many items are coming from California or other countries.  “Shop Locally” is verging on oxymoron here.  Conversely, I have never been so excited to see fresh, baby bok choi as I was at the St Petersburg Morning Market last week.

Right now the strawberries are in supply from Plant City and it’s tomato season in Ruskin.  The trouble is, the berries have little taste despite their enticing color and heady bouquet.  The tomatoes, too, are an exercise in disappointment.  They are either hard or rotting and in either case mostly without flavor.  But to be fair, we have all become the guinea pigs of an economy where what matters is quantity and not necessarily esthetics. It’s not just here in Florida.

I think what makes it all the more unpalatable though is that false advertising is a very real part of life here in the Sunshine State, whether it’s the blush of a strawberry or a job ad in the paper. We have both become skilled at investigating any business that invites us for an interview, though even then they still manage to catch us out.  One place was scamming seniors on magazine subscription renewals, moving its office often to avoid the cops.  Another was an online newspaper that misrepresented the position they were hiring for after a lengthy and friendly interview discussing something completely different.  There was the pizza place that was more interested in human resources-generated questions than whether you could make pizzas under pressure. The young owner has obviously been putting those human resources profiling classes from his M.B.A degree to use with little success as he keeps advertising for help two months later.

I showed up for an interview at a cool and groovy shop/art gallery/bakery not far from our favorite beach. We had been to the shop many times with company or for a nibble.  When the owner finally came out from his office he said, “Do you mind if we go outside and do this so I can have a cigarette?”  I should have said, “Actually, I do mind, yes.  Thank you for asking.”  But I didn’t because to me that would have seemed as impolite as having to sit through an interview with smoke being blown in your face, which is what happened.  As it was, he spent more time talking with people on the sidewalk than he did with me.  Needless to say, I didn’t get the job nor have I been back for coffee.

Oddly, it’s been a pattern that the people running businesses here in the Bradenton area are often guys in their fifties from New York and Chicago in uniforms of stained t-shirts or Hawaiian shirts, baggy shorts, filthy flipflops, big gold chains on their necks, big watches on their wrists and even bigger attitudes.  They mock Jamie’s accent and ask me if I go around “shushing” everyone because I’ve been a librarian.

We try very hard to be circumspect as we meet each day.  Our landlords are great.  The postman is friendly.  The cable guy went beyond the call of duty.  The lady at the sushi place chats with us now when we stop in.  But after ten months of living here, we have acquired the feeling that many people, upon retiring here, start their new lives by abandoning their manners, their patience and to a large degree, their humanity.  Whether it’s road rage, aisle rage, queue rage or just plain rage rage, it’s tough sledding if you are a nice person.  You can forgive the tourists for being idiots; it’s much harder to forgive the locals. And maybe that’s just it.  Maybe it’s because most folks who live in Florida are not from Florida.  Like all of us who move to some place new, we bring our internal geography with us and attempt to force it into the contours of a new map.  Plus there is also the possibility that we were as rude in Ohio as we are here.

•Sexy, fashion-conscious blue-haired beauty, 80's, slim, 5'4' (used to be 5'6'),
searching for sharp-looking, sharp-dressing companion. Matching white shoes and belt a plus.

•LONG-TERM COMMITMENT

•Recent widow who has just buried fourth husband and am looking for someone to round out a six-unit plot.Dizziness, fainting, shortness of breath not a problem.

•SERENITY NOW

•I am into solitude, long walks, sunrises, the ocean, yoga and meditation.
If you are the silent type, let's get together, take our hearing aids out and enjoy  quiet times.

•WINNING SMILE

•Active grandmother with original teeth seeking a dedicated flosser
to share rare steaks, corn on the cob and caramel candy.

•BEATLES OR STONES?

•I still like to rock, still like to cruise in my Camaro on Saturday nights and still like to play the guitar. If you were a groovy chick, or are now a groovy hen, let's get together and listen to my eight-track tapes.

•MINT CONDITION

•Male, 1932, high mileage, good condition, some hair,
many new parts including hip, knee, cornea, valves.
Isn't in running condition, but walks well.

 http://www.funnyordie.com/lists/a27cc6b611/actual-personal-ads-from-florida-senior-citizens



(photo from Google Images!)

 Then there is the issue of aging and longevity.  It’s the active seniors cutting you off in traffic and shoving you aside in the produce department, not the ones relegated to nursing homes. As in any city, you only see those who are still able to be independent.  Independence coupled with a sense of entitlement in a concentrated population is, let’s face it, daunting.  Imagine a never-ending Sunday dinner with all of your relations being right about everything and you’ve got Florida.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for people living vibrant and interesting lives right up until their last breath but I’m relieved I never had to encounter my 96 year old grandmother in her bikini top and sequined pareo pushing me aside on her way to the tiki bar for another margarita while she complains to her Speedo-wearing (barely!) husband about the tourists.

 

For now we soldier on, thankful for things like fresh orange juice from free fruit and walking the beach with the sandpipers at sunset.  It’s a nice place to visit…