Chapter 2: You're Not in Kansas Anymore

Chapter 2: You’re not in Kansas Anymore


I arrive. Lakeboro, Florida: where the bugs are bigger, the squirrels scrawnier, the people kinder, the Wal-Mart Superer, and God is everywhere.

What I do hear in Lakeboro: “I want me some”, “I hear tell” and “I’m a fixin to.”

What I do not hear in Lakeboro: horns blowing. This is not because Lakeboro locals are safe, careful drivers. Elderly folks in their Lincoln Town Cars who never quite reach the speed limit but remain in the left lane combine with wild rural youths in pickups sporting Confederate Flag bumper stickers. I see near misses but without the requisite middle finger or “teach ‘em a lesson” blow of the horn. Beeping is viewed as uncivilized. It is hard for me not to beep. My palm and fingers spasm over the horn. If you beep in Lakeboro you must be an obnoxious creature from New York. . . or Miami, which is effectively the same place.

Shopping is different in Central Florida. At Publix, a local supermarket chain, old men bag groceries at every register and beg me to let them carry the food to my car. “Help you with the buggy?” They don’t call them shopping carts here. Employees remember my name, face and idiosyncrasies after only a few meetings. As soon as I enter Quiznos, Savannah begins to prepare the veggie on whole wheat and reminds her coworker that I like extra guacamole. At Big Apple Bagels in the Orlando airport Donna is slicing a sesame bagel before I reach the counter. At Panera the workers remember I prefer bread rather than chips with my salad; the Panera manager tells me she always thinks of Peter Pan when she sees me. Perhaps she knows I will soon be working with lost boys.

Abandoning my oath never to go to Wal-Mart, on Saturday I pay a visit to this big box retailer. This is not just any Wal-Mart, this is Super-Wal-Mart. Open 24 hours with groceries and plants and an automotive shop and everything I need for my apartment at low, low prices. Oh and also a wall of fireworks. I spend a long time navigating through this small village of savings. After many hours I depart with an overflowing “buggy” and I promptly trip on a speed bump. My ankle swells and I worry it will mess up my running. Speed bumps are everywhere. My apartment complex has eight of them in the one-mile loop road. I do not like speed bumps, not in my car, not when I run before dawn and not when I walk in daylight outside Wal-Mart. There is a Boy Scout standing in the Wal-Mart parking lot selling something. He witnesses my clumsiness, and rushes to my aid politely inquiring as to my condition. I am more embarrassed than injured, I hope. Once he determines I am not disabled, he asks me to buy a ticket to his spaghetti dinner. I do. He then insists on helping me to my car and unloading my purchases into my trunk.

I’d never heard of Books-a-Million before moving to Lakeboro, but the manager there, Dean, is willing to do what Barnes and Noble down the street, will not - save me a New York Times every day (no NY Times home delivery in Lakeboro). Stopping at Books-a-Million daily, I begin to recognize some of the regulars employees and customers: Azziza the pregnant cashier, Sam, the wiry guy who lives in the corner writing poems, Starr, the numerically challenged cafe cashier. Sam asks me to read a few of his poems. They are about his three kids and losing them in a custody battle. At Azziza’s register, the woman in front of me is ecstatic over a display of angel medallions. Each angel is meant to be put in your pocket to protect you from one of life’s many pitfalls. She buys a couple, along with two magazines: Handguns and Shooting. I wonder if the company that made the angels had gun enthusiasts in mind when it developed its marketing strategy. Azziza tells me how tired she feels. I say if she feels tired now she should just wait until junior shows up. My witless comment is met with “It’s not mine.” Now, I’ve heard men say that, but never a woman. My brain can’t wrap itself around this new information. Azziza explains, “I’m having it for another couple.”

There are some businesses I do not patronize. A couple blocks from my apartment I pass a large sign visible far down Route 27, which says, enigmatically “We take personal checks and hold ‘em for 15 days.” It is only when I get close that I can see this is a check-cashing place. I thought the “hold ‘em” was a threat but I didn’t get it. I pass Golden Pawn next to Bob’s Bail Bonds and across the street from Discount Meats. Pawnshops, bail bondsmen, check cashing places and cheap beef, I hope not to be in need any of these goods or services in the near or distant future.

I also have no desire to take a tour of the Prison Work Farm. I drive by the farm on my way home from Wal-Mart. The prisoners in their green and white striped uniforms are working in the fields under a cloudless day with a 90+ degree sun beating down on them. A little tram car drives past. The tram, not unlike those cute faux trains that move people from their cars to the front gate in Disney’s parking lots, has a fringed roof. In the tram are visitors interested in watching the prisoners toil. The visitors sit in shaded comfort and observe as the tour progresses. I didn’t notice, but I have to wonder whether they were sipping mint juleps as they buzzed along.

Just past the work farm there is road construction. When I am forced to slow in the bumper-to-bumper traffic, I get a chance to examine the roadwork. The pavement has been torn up so new water and sewer pipes can be laid. Ditches have been dug along the south side of the road. Since the water table is near the surface here in Florida, ditches quickly become wet. It must have been too wet because fans have been brought in to try to dry out the ditches. Not just fans, I pass a fan boat that has been backed in and parked half in the ditch, fan running. You don’t see that in New York!

I drive by a water retention pond. Every neighborhood has one to prevent flooding. This crater is large and deep; it hasn’t rained for a few days so the bottom is more swamp than pond. Whole families are gathered around the top. Children with flattened cardboard boxes run and slide from the rim down the steep sloping sides to the mucky bottom. Sledding, Florida style.



People aren’t the only creatures that are different in Lakeboro. Squirrels here are emaciated. Despite a wealth of acorns, these rodents appear to be on the verge of starvation. Maybe squirrels don’t need their thick fur coats in a land where it’s always green and never winter. Florida squirrels may be small, but not the cockroaches. I came prepared for big cockroaches (I heard tell of them). When I see my first giant roach trucking across the linoleum in the kitchen of my apartment, I am stoic. After all, I’m going to be a principal, the leader of a school. I’ll need to be a pillar of strength in the face of all challenges. And don’t forget, I lived in New York City, so I know roaches. When I mention the pest to the friendly woman in the Franklin Gardens Apartments office she tells me five things I didn’t know:

1) My apartment will be sprayed for bugs on the last Tuesday of every month.
2) They’re called Palmetto Bugs, not roaches.
3) Unlike roaches they aren’t in search of cookie crumbs, they have a penchant for cardboard.
4) They poop everywhere.
5) When they fly they feel sticky on your skin.

FLY?! I suspect this native Floridian is pulling my Yankee leg. No way, cockroaches don’t fly. They scamper, they’re quick, but fly?

I wear my new sandals as I walk outside to the Franklin Gardens’ mailboxes. They are dressy sandals and match my suit. Avoiding the road and speed bumps, I walk across the grassy lawn when I notice my feet start itching; I look down to see dozens of red ants feasting on them. They are tiny, don’t brush off easily and keep returning no matter where I position my feet. Fire ants. The name fits. Their bites burn. I awaken several times during the night itching. When I go to run in the morning my ankle is still puffy from my speed bump encounter and my feet, ankles and shins are spotted with dime sized red itchy bumps. As soon as I tie my sneakers I have to poke my finger under the lacings to scratch. No more sandals outside.

Fire Ants, flying cockroaches and scrawny squirrels may have adapted to the Florida heat and humidity, but I am struggling. My alarm goes off at 4:00 am and it is already 80 degrees. I run; it’s dark and hot and moist. After a quarter mile I’m rubbing stinging perspiration from my eyes. Then I hear the sloshing sound of my own sweat pooling in my ears. After half a mile I am simultaneously running and wringing out my sweat drenched hair; I’d like to take off my sopping shirt. I can barely believe my watch - I take 43 minutes to run 5 miles; I should be under 40. After my run, as a reward for surviving, I jump in the pool. The Franklin Gardens swimming pool is crowded with splashing children and shouting adults on weekends, but in the predawn light I am alone. I can swim, float and watch the sun rise behind three palm trees. It’s idyllic.

Along with everything else, food is different here, and my vegetarian eating habits make it all so complicated.

Winn Dixie, “The Beef People” does not, unsurprisingly, sell tofu. Fortunately Publix does. But the Publix check out clerk, noticing the absence of meat on the conveyor belt is incredulous: “You don’t eat meat, not even hamburgers?” I attend a Franklin Gardens breakfast get together featuring a good ‘ole southern breakfast complete with cheese & jalapeno grits, biscuits with sausage gravy and cornbread. When I don’t pour the white sausage flecked “gravy” on my biscuits I am told it is the best part and I must try it. “There’s only a little sausage in it, not enough to worry about. You can always pick out the sausage.” I pass on the sausage gravy, but I am surprised by how tasty grits can be with the spicy peppers added.

A few days later, a man in a white pickup truck stops in front of my apartment. He walks to the door and asks whether I am the lady of the house and whether I like a good steak. No, I am a vegetarian. Okay, how about chicken? Uh,no thank you.

Religion is different here too. God is not limited to Sundays or to billboards in Central Florida; God is everywhere, at buffets, in meat markets, swimming pools and even goats.

My arrival in Lakeboro is just after Easter. Outside one Baptist church is a marquee telling all who pass that “The Easter Bunny did not rise from the dead.” The sign outside one Methodist Church announces, “He is risen. Car Wash Saturday.”

Every Saturday, on the sidewalk in front of Discount Meats, a plus-size, well-dressed black woman stands beaming and holding up large poster board signs. “Jesus Saves” “Put your trust in Jesus.” “Honk if you love Jesus.” She is surrounded by more signs with equally pithy sayings. She smiles, waves and holds up her messages to passing motorists and Discount Meat customers.

Arriving at the Franklin Gardens swimming pool in late afternoon, I join about half a dozen sun revelers. The pool is empty except for two men, a middle aged black man and a younger, tall, thin, white man. How odd, the white man is standing in the pool wearing a long sleeved t-shirt despite an air temperature of 97 degrees. Hmmm. I turn my back on this scene, relax into my chaise lounge and open Tourist Season. I am reading this Carl Hiassen novel so I can understand Florida culture. My reading is soon interrupted by loud chanting: “Praise the lord, Praise heaven, thanks be to God.” Twisting in my seat, I see both men emerging from the pool. The white man is fully clothed; not only is he wearing a long sleeve t-shirt but also long khaki pants. His clothes are sopping wet. They cling and drip, dragging heavily from his slim frame. Leaning over, he half heartedly tries to wring out the pants but quickly gives up and the two men walk off toward the apartments on the west side of the complex. I survey the faces of my comrades, I see no amazement; they are not unnerved; their eyes say: “Silly woman, people get baptized in swimming pools every day here in Central Florida.”

A birth at a farm half way between Lakeboro and Gainesville has garnered a great deal of attention from the NASCAR faithful. Headlines in the daily paper shout about a miracle goat. It seems this goat has a birthmark resembling the numeral “3.” Locals are flocking to see this holy goat believing it is a divine sign from the deceased race car driver, Dale Earnhart. The goat has been dubbed “L’il Dale.”

In Lakeboro, July 4th is not referred to as “Independence Day” rather it is called “God and Country Day.” It is such in the daily newspaper, emblazoned on t-shirts and engraved on the medal I win in the July Fourth race, the “God and Country Day four miler.”

Lakeboro, Florida is not like anyplace else I have lived: not New York, New Jersey, New Mexico, Michigan, Massachusetts, California or Wyoming. In some ways it is more foreign than some European countries I’ve visited.