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Find me on the lower tier of a bunk bed. No, I'm not in jail. I'm in the dorms at the Lay Institute For Evangelism in Lady Lake, Florida. It's a boot camp for Seventh-day Adventists. No, I did not enlist. I'm just visiting. Bunk beds are dangerous. I have several times bumped my head.
My day started off slowly enough. I did not wake up until nine. Or when the sun found me deep in my woods. There was no traffic noise. So I wound up getting almost twelve hours' sleep. That's a few more than I deserve. And more than I wanted. I did not start walking until ten-thirty or so.
I had six or seven miles to Belleview, Florida. It was a beautiful day. It has been bitter cold at night, but you cannot find fault with the mornings. It was a nice little jog, just a little bit hard because I was out of aspirin. And because these back roads are narrow and well travelled. I had to walk in an overgrown gutter.
I had a fine breakfast at an old folks' cafe, cheap and just filling enough. And finally rejoined Highway 27, the road I've been on since Tallahassee. It was good to find it. It was like coming home again. Traffic though is a little hairy. This is central Florida. It's where old people come to retire. They drive like Chinamen.
"Ooh, what a racist thing to say!" I do apologise. Don't get me wrong, I like old people. They're polite and they're interesting. The Chinese can be a little brusque, but I'm sure they love their mothers. But I've been to China and I'm in Florida. They drive like maniacs. Slice it up however you will. Some stereotypes are based in fact.
I walked the next ten miles at a happy pace. I tried to stop several times. But none of the gas stations I passed had anywhere to plug in. I was running on fumes. It takes some power to type up these little reports. For whatever they're worth. I sometimes wonder. It's best not to think about it.
My road took me to The Villages. That's the name of a town. And if it sounds ominous, trust your instincts. It may in fact be hell on earth. It's a planned community, founded in the Sixties. It began as a real estate scam. Now it's the fastest growing city in America. You have to be old to live there. It is all run by one vast corporation. It's Republicanism gone mad.
You have to be old to live there. Everything's privatised. The developer is the government. They expand through municpal bonds. Which are tax free. Which means you are paying to make someone very rich.
At first glance it is a paradise. The shrubs are artfully pruned. They have thirty-some golf courses. Everyone drives around in golf carts. Those things will do thirty-five. And no one's afraid to open them up. Hell, you're only young once.
Highway 27 only showed me the edge. There are plenty of places to shop. And medical offices, lots of them. Places to get your golf carts repaired. Hearing-aid shops and smart boutiques, restaurants and auto parts shops. And every one of them neat and trim, and of the same Spanish colonial architecture approved by the HOA.
The "villages" themselves are off the road, each one a neighborhood. All I saw were the high walls and guarded gates. Crime is frowned on here.
As are hoboes. Literally. The place had a really bad vibe. It was getting dark and I was getting nervous. It was nowhere I wanted to camp. Sure I could have tucked myself in. This is a boy with skills. But the corporate cops would have shot me dead for sullying their hard-won perfection.
I was eager to be clear of the place. It was getting dark and it goes on for miles. And all sorts of old folks were glaring at me. There were no hoboes in the brochure. I wanted to stop and talk to someone, to experience a human connection. But it was golf shirts and tans and facelift smiles with no spark of life behind them.
I found a gas station on the far end of town. I stopped to swill some root beer. The gal at the counter looked normal enough. You're not from around here? I asked. "Oh, no! I'm from Ocala. These people are mean."
Across the bridge I found Lady Lake. I worried it was more of the same. But I was back in America again. I've never been happier to come home. It would still be a trick to wedge in my tent. I would have to be creative again. But God sent me Seth, or so I am told. "Come stay with me," he said.
Seth is a junior administrator at the Seventh-day Adventist camp. They're between sessions. He had been praying for a chance to share God's love. I guess I was Heaven-sent.
I do not believe the Lord is my Saviour. I don't believe I ever will. But I believe in most of what He had to say. That Sermon on the Mount stuff is good. And it is how I am trying to live my life. I'm getting better at it every day. And I believe in Christians more than ever before. They're much better than what you see on TV. And I don't mean as they're portrayed in popular culture. I mean as they portray themselves.
I'm showered and fed. I got my laundry done. Seth is a gent. He is twenty-one. He is going to be married in June. And I think he'll make a good show of it. He's living his life in his Faith. He's got perfect teeth and an aura of goodness. He gave me twenty bucks.
I was ashamed but glad to receive it. My cash was not flowing well. But the tap came back on and I tried to return it. Seth was not having that. I'll just give it away, I told him. He gave me forty more.
So guess what, I have cash to dispense. I couldn't be happier. I meet a lot of people in need. There is never much I can do. I've given a few dollars here and there. I share what little food I can. But I do not have a great deal to share. Now, now I do.
I could keep it, I guess. I don't think Seth would mind. Every little bit helps. But it will be a rare treat to give it away. I can hardly wait.
I WORRY that I may have inadvertently fallen in love with the wrong forest ranger. Don't you hate it when that happens?
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