Spring has sprung and the snowbirds are going home. Thankfully. Once again, all the out of state plates are heading back north and the streets, shops and stores are once again mine and mine alone. Well, almost mine.
Few people probably know what it’s like living in a snowbird town. Not even the snowbirds do, since they are only here seasonally. Usually the first of the motor homes and cars begin to arrive around mid October and into early November. These refugees from the winter cold stay until April, usually heading back just before Easter.
This leaves almost half the year all to ourselves down here. The locals have the place to our own. And man is it great.
I live in a condo of old people. I think I am the youngest one here. I don’t own, but rent. But I rent year round.
While the pool is packed in the winter, it’s empty in the summer months. It’s tough to find anyone in it at all, at any time of the day or night. The beach is the same, empty. Most of the time you have it all to yourself.. and I mean as far as you can see.
Of course, we’re not the only ones left here. By my estimation there are six units that have full time residents in my building. That makes (wait, doing math here, and you know how that is for me) six our of 51, leaving 45 units empty.
It’s heaven, I tell you. Every Thursday the building has Thirsty Thursday. In the winter months I rarely head down – just too crowded. But in the summer, there’s just the locals, making the event take on the character of a frat kegger. Everyone brings down food, the drinks flow freely and it’s like one big dorm party for old people.
I am told that I shouldn’t say “old people” because I will be one some day. Some people try to tell me I already am. But being the youngest in the building has its distinct advantages. For everyone is still older than me. So given the demographic, a lot of them are the old people, at least relative to me.
Don’t get me wrong, I love old people. One of my best friends on the earth is 86. I’ve known him since he was my age, which at this writing is 52. My mom’s old people, too.
But with the annual migration, I get my freedom back. In winter I feel compelled to wear my flip flops to get the mail in the lobby. That’s because the “shoe police” will invariably call up the elevator at the same time I am heading to the lobby. They will glance at my feet and say, “Ah, no shoes today,” glancing simultaneously at the sign on the elevator wall that says “Shoes and Shirts Required.” I invariably repliy that I thought of going shirtless, but that Greenpeace would feel compelled to roll me back in the water. I always wonder why, in a world of old people, they don’t mention shorts being required. I know that on more than one occasion I’ve almost headed down to the lobby in my boxers. I bet they’d never ask about my shoes again if I did.
Maybe the guy who made me remove my pirate flag from the deck will go home, too. That would be refreshing. Because it did so much harm having it up there. I have a work around on the home owner’s association rules, or as I like to think about them, guidelines. I’ll get it back up there yet.
I only wish I had so little to do in life as to worry about other people’s shoes. But I don’t. I still work for a living, so I don’t get to obsess about the little things in life. I have to still worry about keeping food in my tummy and a roof over my head, which is actually odd since it’s not a roof at all, but another condo above me that keeps me dry.
There are upsides to living la vida oldo, however. I am the Bryn Mawr eccentric. I’m the guy who plays the funny songs on the guitar during Thirsty Thursdays. I can regularly be seen heading out on a weekend in pirate gear. I get caught in the elevator with my iPod earbuds on, singing at the top of my lungs, learning a new song. I am regularly consulted about technology, since I seem to be the only one here who understands how a DVR works. And, if that weren’t enough, I am a renter, not a resident. So I’m not here long term, but still a lot of fun. A bit of a gypsy soul that runs counter to the established routines here.
I am not complaining, mind you. I love it here. It’s by far the most beautiful place I’ve ever lived and way better than living down a dirt road in a mobile home that was on a dead-end road physically and philosophically.
I have a great view, great friends and endless inspiration for writing these little diatribes about life as seen through my eyes. And that my friends, can be a very scary vantage point for others.
Out here on the Treasure Coast, feeling young and alone once again,
– Robb