Leisureville (17 page)

“Chapter 190 is perfect for Florida,” Wahl continues, “because it helps developers build a fantasy in the middle of nowhere. Sumter County could never have provided us with the services we needed. The nearest municipality was poor and miles away. Chapter 190 let us do it ourselves. And the CDD form of government protects the development forever.

“A typical subdivision uses a homeowners association. But an HOA can go belly-up. We're a form of government and we can't cease to exist. Our assessments are collected with county taxes; and taxes must be paid. It's a guaranteed collection system.”

Although much of Wahl's job is to represent the Villagers' interests, he is quick to express frustration with residents, such as the POA, who challenge Morse's policies. “Those people don't understand how the system works,” he says. “They don't want to understand it, and they don't appreciate what they have—a lifestyle essentially unmatched in the continental United States, and probably the world. When it comes down to it, if they don't like it here, they can always move. Living here is voluntary.”

Wahl clearly doesn't relish his role as the local punching bag. “All I ask for is fairness. There are two sides to every story.” He tells me he has devised a system for dealing with errant reporters. “The first mistake, they get a phone call; the second mistake, they get an e-mail; and after the third mistake, we communicate on an e-mail basis only.”

Although his soliloquies are aggressive, Wahl ends each one with the pained look of someone who's been terribly misunderstood. “I don't represent the developer,” he insists. “I represent the district boards.” I find this splitting of hairs tiresome and politely excuse myself for another interview. He walks me outside, and invites me to have a Swisher Sweet cigarillo with him.

Changing the subject, I ask Wahl if the rumors about Gary Morse's personal fortune crossing the billion-dollar mark are true.

“The Morse family isn't that kind of wealthy,” Wahl responds. “And I can remember a time when things weren't so rosy. I can remember cash flow problems and all sorts of worries about making payroll.” When I ask him what time period he is referring to, I am surprised to learn that it is the same year as Gary Morse's weekend-long surprise birthday party, during which hundreds of guests were flown in on chartered jets.

Wahl puffs on his cigarillo and exhales deeply. “Our commitment is to building a retirement community where dreams not only come true, but they exceed all expectations.” he says. “I might be biased, but I think we're doing one hell of a job. This is my baby. I got it to adolescence, and soon adulthood. And it will continue forever without me.”

“Any regrets?” I ask. “Could anything have been done better?” He takes another slow drag, glances out to the horizon, then turns to meet my gaze.

“I wish we had built the golf cart paths wider,” he says. “And we should have had a lawn ornament restriction from day one. But you learn to live with your errors.”

Many of the residents I speak with express little concern about their lack of representation. “Just as long as they keep this place looking so nice, and they keep on building more golf courses, then I'm happy,” Betsy Anderson tells me. “I don't want to get involved in
politics. I didn't come here for that. And frankly, I don't care how much the developer makes. He's done a great job.”

Dave Anderson is more philosophical about what I perceive to be his voluntary disenfranchisement. “Forget the developer; he's already alienated himself. It's the people who now live here that define what the community is. We're the ones shaping things.”

To me, The Villages' increasingly affluent residents just don't seem to feel the pain. Much as with American shareholders who are too often apathetic in the face of executives' obscene pay packages, the financial hit that Villagers are taking for the Morse family is spread across enough residents—tens of thousands of them—that it sparks little interest. New construction continues to be viewed as an expression of Morse's benevolence and business acumen. “Wow, they built us a new recreation center!” rarely translates into, “We are paying every penny of it, many times over.”

As one might expect, Villagers are not alone in their lack of interest in something as basic as governance. And there's little correlation to age: a good number of younger families are also choosing to live in similar planned communities because they, too, want the reality of the outside world to go away. They don't want messy towns with messy town politics; they want orderly communities where decisions are often made for them, preferring to live in developments that
resemble
towns, as opposed to the real thing. When I think about my own town, with its century-old buildings, and our annual town meetings, where citizens vote on budget items and proposed laws, this sort of thing strikes me as a tragic parody. Sure, my town also suffers from voter apathy, but at least most people have an opinion—and we don't allow ourselves to be governed by a developer.

About an hour's drive from The Villages lies the town of Celebration, which is owned by Disney and markets itself as a “traditional” age-integrated community, although it too will soon have an age-segregated neighborhood. Surrounded by alligators, interstate
highways, and theme parks, Celebration is nonetheless reasonably charming. The houses all have homey front porches within speaking distance of sidewalks so that neighbors can stroll and meet more easily. The schools and downtown civic and commercial buildings are all within easy walking or biking distance, and some people even
live
downtown, often in apartments above stores. The nostalgic nod to yesteryear is nearly movie-set perfect—the designers even provide fake fall leaves and winter snow for seasonal celebrations. Most residents I met spoke of their handsome community with great enthusiasm.

What's missing? A real government, for starters. Celebration was designed, owned, and run for many years by a global entertainment conglomerate in search of profit, rather than by elected officials. At this point, Celebration remains an unincorporated community with its residential areas partially “governed” by a homeowners association, but much of the commercial area remains in private hands. Disney recently sold the town center to a private real estate investment firm based in New York City.

There's a stately building in the center of downtown Celebration labeled “Town Hall,” but it's really just a meeting place for the homeowners association as well as the board of directors appointed by the developer. The governance of Celebration is anything but simple. Thrown into the mix are the following: the developer, the Celebration Company, which is a subsidiary of the Walt Disney Company; the Residential Owners' Association, the Non-Residential Owners' Association (consisting of commercial landowners and appointed by the Celebration Company); the Celebration Community Development District (now consisting of residents); something called an Enterprise Community Development District (governed by the developers' appointees); and a “managing agent,” Capital Consultants Management Corporation, which has headquarters in Phoenix and Dallas, and bills itself as a “full-service community management firm.”

When I ask a woman at the front desk (I had assumed she was the town clerk) for an explanation of the community's complicated organizational structure, she tells me to contact a local realtor. A notice in the public restroom asking visitors to turn off the lights adds to my curiosity. It's signed: “The Management.”

On one of my trips to Phoenix, I visited a new planned community with the blandly patriotic name Anthem. Built by Pulte Homes and its subsidiary Del Webb, it has both “traditional” and age-segregated neighborhoods. Located thirty miles north of Phoenix, Anthem is a true exurb in the middle of nowhere, at least for now.

As with The Villages, segregation is a theme that seemingly runs throughout the community's design, with similarly priced housing clustered in “neighborhoods.” Adults over fifty-five have the choice of living in a separate gated neighborhood where they can exercise and socialize in their own child-free recreation center.

I was naturally drawn to a large park and sports complex in the center of Anthem, where I introduced myself to a young supermarket executive taking a walk with his daughter. He spoke enthusiastically about the planned community's amenities—the park has a toy train that children can ride, and the recreation center has a water park and an indoor climbing wall.

To be sure, it is leagues ahead of the usual housing development, many of which lack even a rudimentary community green. A typically dreary American subdivision isn't even in the same ballpark. I suspect that most Americans, myself included, if given a choice only between the two, would be tempted to live in a faux wonderland like Anthem.

“We
love
it here,” the young man told me. “Crime is low. We can let our children run around, and they have plenty of other kids to play with. There's so much to do! And it's easy to make friends. Anthem's like it must have been in the old days: one big community.”

But although Anthem may be a community—with a recreation center, ball fields, schools, and even some strip malls for shopping—is it actually a city? Or is it just an amalgamation of housing tracts like The Villages? “Just what
is
Anthem?” I asked.

“Gosh, I hadn't really thought about it,” the young father responded. “I think we're part of Phoenix. Or maybe we're just part of Maricopa County. I don't know. I think we live in both.”

“Who runs the place?” I asked. “Do you have a mayor?”

“A mayor? I think so. But don't quote me on that. Actually, wait a minute, I think Del Webb runs the government.”

“Del Webb
runs
the government?”

“They're really good to us,” he responded. “A bunch of us asked them for a skateboard park, and we got one. I thought that was awesome!”

S
UN
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, S
UN
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W
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RAND ALL
border a major thoroughfare called Grand Avenue, which connects the distant town of Wickenburg on one end with downtown Phoenix on the other. The Sun Cities sit just outside Phoenix, in an area called the West Valley.

Although Phoenix now dwarfs the little community of Wickenburg, this was not always the case. In 1863, a lone German miner, Henry Wickenburg, discovered gold in the far western valley. Several years later and some fifty miles to the southeast, another adventurer decided to revive a prehistoric canal system and cultivate produce for the rapidly growing population of Wickenburg. He transported the food using a wagon trail that connected the two settlements. At the time, it was called Vulture Road.

It is said that during the restoration of the ancient irrigation system, an Englishman looked at the parched ruins of the Hohokum tribe and said, “A city will rise phoenixlike, new and more beautiful, from these ashes of the past.” He was right about Phoenix, but as far as Del Webb was concerned, the Englishman might as well have been talking about Sun City.

By the time Sun City came onto the scene in the early 1960s, the surrounding area with its bountiful aquifer was mainly used for
growing long-fiber cotton named after the Pima tribe. But when the price of cotton plummeted after World War II, landowners began courting developers, like Webb, who bought up thousands of acres. Webb cut swooping curves into the starkly angular fields, and steered the West Valley's flagging economy from cotton balls to golf balls.

Although Sun City's first residents complained of cricket infestations, tumbleweed, and valley fever (a lung infection caused by windblown spores), the community's early years were nevertheless brimming with promise. Webb developed the community in phases, but the homes sold so briskly that it was as if the construction never stopped. Every year or two residents saw the completion of yet another recreation center, golf course, or shopping area, in addition to hundreds and hundreds of homes. It was an optimistic era fueled by Webb's seemingly continuous investment.

Sun City's very first recreation center, called the Oakmont, has undergone some minor renovations over the years, but for the most part it looks much as it did when it opened in 1960. It's decidedly small by today's standards. There's one large room that can be used for small theatrical presentations, dances, and other gatherings. Down the hall is a workout room with equipment that looks about twenty years old. On the day I visit, a few men in trousers and collared shirts walk on treadmills or slowly pedal stationary bicycles, as “Start Me Up” by the Rolling Stones fills the room.

In the other direction is a room for the jewelry club, which costs just four dollars a year to join. One door down is the pottery club. I find several women giggling as they trade gossip and paint molded ceramic kittens, puppies, and other tchotchkes. One woman light-heartedly pokes fun at my book project: “I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I left my cane at home!” The others all share in the laugh.

Outside there is a nine-hole golf course, and a swimming pool with seniors tanning on lounge chairs. There is no kiddie pool, nor is there a playground; Sun City does not have a dedicated area for
children to play. A sign on the pool lists the hours during which children ages four to sixteen may use the pool: eleven AM to one PM.

Next door to the Oakmont are Sun City's first five model ranch homes, each measuring a mere 860 square feet, which 100,000 people visited that first weekend in 1960. The recreation center, golf course, and nearby shopping center were built before these homes were completed, to counter the image of other, less scrupulous developers who promise future amenities, but don't deliver. This clustered configuration—neighborhood, recreation, retail—is the basic pattern one still finds in many of today's larger age-segregated and planned communities.