Dances with Death

Somewhere inside me, the distaste for Florida has increased. I have complained about several things, including the danger I faced on my bicycle, the dearth of pretty views in this flat landscape, the relentless heat. There is also this feeling of “not home” – I miss my old neighborhoods and the friends and family nearby.

But I have come to realize that there is another, more sinister problem about living in Florida. Let me explain.

In 2017, I left a technology career in the New York area. Having been laid off at age 65 it seemed unlikely that I could find another job at a comparable salary. New York is an expensive place to live, so what to do? We came to Florida, where we could afford to live comfortably on a smaller budget. Deb had friends and family here but not in other places we could potentially afford, so Florida seemed like a rational destination.

Florida is known for its many retirement communities. People come down here to enjoy the last few years of their lives in sunshine among friends in similar circumstances. Many “snowbirds” start with a sort of “pied-à-terre” away from the harsh winters up north, and eventually stay here full time. It’s known as the place where old people come to die. (Is that from Robert Klein? George Carlin?)

Since we have been here, we have made new friends in our community. But we have also lost a close friend, and have lost several friends and acquaintances in the neighborhood, to cancer and other causes. We probably will “lose” some snowbird family members due to the difficulties of traveling while old. COVID has also prevented one of the activities that could have made these things more endurable, or at least escapable: travel.

So the problem here in Florida is that we are surrounded by death. Hardly a day goes by when we don’t learn about someone falling ill, whether suddenly or at the beginning of a long decline. They say, “No-one gets out alive” – but must we continually be reminded? There’s even a community down here named, “Journey’s End.”

It might be a good thing to be reminded, often, to live each moment in the present and to live each day as if it were your last. But in view of my current health situation, what good will that do me? There is not enough time, and I have too many regrets.

I am dancing with death, moving closer, then further away, twisting and squirming like Elaine on Seinfeld. I know the music will end, the dancing will stop. I don’t know when, but it won’t be very long.

I had a dream once, in which Deb, Ronni, Allison and I had a joyful dance together in another realm. Perhaps it was one of my premonitions. While I’m still on this Earth where each day should be celebrated, I wait for a time without time in a realm where time is meaningless, and only love, joy and kindness matter. And dancing. There should be dancing.

Originally posted Dec. 20, 2018 in FaceBlech.

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I’m old enough now to have begun “living the dream” and moved to sunny Florida, where I no longer have to shovel, rake, or mow. Every time I take a drive around here I pass dozens of gated communities. Each community has a name. When you tell someone where you live, you often give them the name of your community along with your actual address. I laugh when I see the names of some of them. Others leave me scratching my head in confusion. For example:

* Timber Creek, which has neither timber nor a creek anywhere nearby.

* Isles of Boca, which is, of course, completely landlocked.

* Harbour Green, consisting of concrete and houses nowhere near a harbor.

* Tides at Newport Bay, which is miles from the ocean so it’s not YET subject to tides - wait about 20 years, they say.

* Sherwood Forest - you mean Robin Hood has a condo?

* Coral Trace, in which surely there is no trace of coral anywhere except maybe as an end-table decoration.

* Whisper Trace, probably the nearest thing to “it’s not really there”. And what’s with all these “traces” anyway?

* Broken Sound — I’m concerned. Was this named for staccato gunshots? Or a body of water that has failed in some way?

* Isles at Hunter’s Run, where there have been no hunters for decades, no isles, and a low probability that any of the senior residents do any running.

* Hammock Reserve, evidently a place set aside to grow tree-borne beds.

* Snow Hill - are you kidding me?? This is Florida, remember?

* Mill Lake, where there never was a mill, and the so-called lake is a three foot deep pond.

* Waters Edge, which is, of course, at the edge of a five-foot-wide flood-control channel.

* Central Park: unhappy with living in Florida, they named the community nostalgically.

* Forest Hills - no forest, and flat as a kitchen counter. Also nostalgia-based.

* Patch Reef - is that a command?

* Waters Bend North, Waters Bend East - I guess it depends which way you’re looking.

One community is named Patios on the Park. To me this is nearest to the truth because nearly everyone has either a golf course or park to look at from the patio. Another is named Ashland, which is possibly another nostalgic reference, to F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Flushing Meadow.

Now, why are so many communities named “Pointe” (pwant? pointy?)? The word “Point” is too unpretentious, I guess.

One developer here in South Florida has created a bunch of projects each named Valencia-something: Palms, Isles, Lakes, Cove, Reserve, Preserve... We seniors have enough memory problems already, and thanks to these names, I don’t know where some of my friends actually live.

But my all-time favorite community name is Journey’s End. Finally some truth in advertising: Florida is where you come to get old and die.

I used to live on Long Island, NY, in a community called East Northport, which was east of South Huntington. I had friends in West Islip, which was north of Islip. So apparently I have exchanged one kind of brain-bending name silliness for another.