Damn! I was lost somewhere in rural Florida along Rt. 17. I forgot to charge my phone this morning at the motel, and now I have no GPS. The last thing I saw was a billboard advertising the Arcadia Rodeo. Like what, roping iguanas and riding gators?
I was searching for Grapefruit Gardens, a retirement community on the Southwest coast. A place that the brochure described as, “Heaven for seniors, before you get to the other one.” I just wanted to get away from the New England cold and snow.
The pictures were enticing. People smiling with perfect white teeth. Golden tans. Slim bodies in tennis whites and lots of wavy hair. Sunsets and cocktails. The ideal place to live. All I had to do was find it.
Ahead of me at the side of the dusty highway was a hand-lettered plywood sign advertising “Cracker Bob’s oranjes and boiled peenuts.” Behind this bad spelling was an old mildew-stained single-wide and a truck jacked up in the dirt driveway, needing another rear wheel. I knew what he was selling. I didn’t know if he could help me.
I pulled off the road and beeped the horn. An ancient man slid from under the truck. He said, “Howdy, young fella.” Precisely what I thought he’d say. He looked like Yosemite Sam.
“Howdy, yourself. I’m looking for Grapefruit Gardens.”
He spits some juice in the dust. “Ain’t near here. It’s prob’ly that way towards where all them other people live that don’t give a hen’s ass ‘bout Florida. The polluters and environmental rapists. The Snapchat weasels.” He pointed west toward the Gulf and spits in that direction.
“Sounds like you don’t think much of those places.”
“Nope, they done nuthin’ but ruin the state. Greedy developers that swindled the land and then destroyed it to make a quick buck. It’s where them sunset sycophants live.”
I didn’t want to rile up old Bob, but I was curious. I asked, “What’s a cracker?”
“That’s a Florida cowboy. I was one.”
“Really? Like roping and riding and stuff like that? Where are all the cattle?”
He pointed down the road in both directions. “See them fence lines? That was all cattle pasture. Florida was second only to Texas at one time. Then the developers took over. Hell, them Vanderbilt brothers had a twenty-six thousand-acre spread not far from here they sold in the ‘70s. Like they needed the money. That’s five thousand houses in Rotunda now. Put a lot of good wranglers out of work.
Now I saw Bob in a new light. Sixty-years-ago, he probably looked like Rowdy Yates. Now he was a bent and leathered old man living on dreams. Then I saw the large buckle and pointed to it.
“Yup, second-place all-around cowboy, 1972. You outta’ go to the Arcadia rodeo next month.”
I thanked Bob, turned my car around, and headed 1350 miles back to the cold and snow. Some things are still worth preserving if you believe.
I was searching for Grapefruit Gardens, a retirement community on the Southwest coast. A place that the brochure described as, “Heaven for seniors, before you get to the other one.” I just wanted to get away from the New England cold and snow.
The pictures were enticing. People smiling with perfect white teeth. Golden tans. Slim bodies in tennis whites and lots of wavy hair. Sunsets and cocktails. The ideal place to live. All I had to do was find it.
Ahead of me at the side of the dusty highway was a hand-lettered plywood sign advertising “Cracker Bob’s oranjes and boiled peenuts.” Behind this bad spelling was an old mildew-stained single-wide and a truck jacked up in the dirt driveway, needing another rear wheel. I knew what he was selling. I didn’t know if he could help me.
I pulled off the road and beeped the horn. An ancient man slid from under the truck. He said, “Howdy, young fella.” Precisely what I thought he’d say. He looked like Yosemite Sam.
“Howdy, yourself. I’m looking for Grapefruit Gardens.”
He spits some juice in the dust. “Ain’t near here. It’s prob’ly that way towards where all them other people live that don’t give a hen’s ass ‘bout Florida. The polluters and environmental rapists. The Snapchat weasels.” He pointed west toward the Gulf and spits in that direction.
“Sounds like you don’t think much of those places.”
“Nope, they done nuthin’ but ruin the state. Greedy developers that swindled the land and then destroyed it to make a quick buck. It’s where them sunset sycophants live.”
I didn’t want to rile up old Bob, but I was curious. I asked, “What’s a cracker?”
“That’s a Florida cowboy. I was one.”
“Really? Like roping and riding and stuff like that? Where are all the cattle?”
He pointed down the road in both directions. “See them fence lines? That was all cattle pasture. Florida was second only to Texas at one time. Then the developers took over. Hell, them Vanderbilt brothers had a twenty-six thousand-acre spread not far from here they sold in the ‘70s. Like they needed the money. That’s five thousand houses in Rotunda now. Put a lot of good wranglers out of work.
Now I saw Bob in a new light. Sixty-years-ago, he probably looked like Rowdy Yates. Now he was a bent and leathered old man living on dreams. Then I saw the large buckle and pointed to it.
“Yup, second-place all-around cowboy, 1972. You outta’ go to the Arcadia rodeo next month.”
I thanked Bob, turned my car around, and headed 1350 miles back to the cold and snow. Some things are still worth preserving if you believe.
