In Praise of Old Florida
In the morning, my son and I try to spot Dwight and Dorothy, a pair of donkeys that live in a field near my parents’ house. In fact, we have no idea if their names are actually Dwight and Dorothy. These are just names we gave to the duo one day this past winter when we spotted them along the fence line closest to the road and pulled over to have a little chat with them. To my three-year-old, the donkeys are the highlight of his day. He knows his daddy owned a donkey some years back; I often think about surprising them with one because donkeys are cool with living on only an acre of property, right?
When we’re occupied with trying to pinpoint our donkeys in the pasture, It’s hard to believe that I once had grand plans of ditching rural life. It wasn’t that I necessarily hated rural living. I’m the product of seven generations of family members who chose to call this area of Old Florida home. I just simply fell prey to the “grass is always greener on the other side” mentality common to so many. A change of pace, coupled with abundant retail and recreational opportunities, seemed attractive.
I should’ve known I couldn’t hack city life that one time I got stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic in South Florida and nearly had my old truck overheat. Or the time I ruined my favorite pair of jeans by traipsing through the salt-treated streets of Chicago. I also once thought it was a good idea to haul all my luggage from the airport to my hotel via a subway during morning rush hour in Washington, D.C.
I was built for life in rural Old Florida, in the place tourists shun in favor of sandy beaches and the mouse. Where the scenery is arguably more picturesque, once you figure out how to do business with the mosquitos and no-see-ums. Where the best place in the area to get fresh, no-fuss seafood is in an old seafood market bait freezer.
Had I settled in a metropolitan area, I would miss donkey-sighting games like these with my son. I’d miss the sound of the wind rustling through live oaks. I’d miss the Spanish moss dancing on the evening breeze. I’d miss the sight of lone cabbage palms rising from the the middle of a pasture. I’d miss listening to cicadas singing through the hot summer days and nights. I’d miss the 5 a.m. roar of the airboaters headed out to the duck blind and the evening squawking of the sandhill cranes. I’d miss this rickety old lakeside cottage and the way the setting sun peeks through the cypress boughs at the water’s edge.
Sure, we may have to drive 45 minutes to find any semblance of a retail experience. But that’s merely the tradeoff for living in paradise. This is Old Florida. The stuff of this place courses through my veins. It’s the only place I ever aspire to be.
