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| The Villages Hospital Photo: Ileana Johnson March 2015 |
While traveling 50 miles northwest from the Orlando airport through
Lake County to The Villages, I could not help but notice the devastating
effects of the Obama depressed economy on the local communities, the many
shuttered storefronts, abandoned homes covered by tall grasses, and the
scarcity of commercial development.
The Villages began modestly with 400 units in the 1980s but
were later expanded by H. Gary Morse who had a vision to create individual
neighborhoods that regulated their own design, landscaping, repairs,
maintenance, placement of satellite dishes, hedges, and other amenities such as
golf clubs, dinner clubs, pools, and other activities desired by the residents.
One intrepid veteran decorated his front yard with a very large canon. There
were American flags everywhere, no shame here to fly the Old Glory, among the
many patriotic retirees from around the country.
The themes and leitmotifs of each neighborhood are
whimsically Floridian and delineated by convenient roundabouts. The vehicles of
choice are golf carts, sporting symbols of the favorite collegiate team, carts driven
with impunity even by those who no longer qualify for a driver’s license or
have never had a driver’s license.
The town has grocery stores, doctors’ offices, its own bank
and schools, having graduated recently its first small high school class. The
neighborhoods have a 55-year old age restriction but there are three
communities designated for families with children on the outskirts of the golfing
areas.
The hospital looks absolutely spectacular, like a Disney
attraction, surrounded by a retaining lake where white pelicans roost every
day. Not sure how many alligators are residents of the interconnected retaining
ponds, but I am told that there are a few even though many are caught and
released elsewhere.
My dear friend Marlene drove me one morning in an electric
golf cart, emblazoned with the Roll Tide logo, to their neighborhood clubhouse beautifully
decorated with a nautical motif. The many rooms were a beehive of activity, the
center for Operation Shoebox.
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| Photo: Ileana Johnson 2015 |
One gentleman sporting a white t-shirt with the logo, “I
helped pack 1,000,000 care packages,” was busy folding newspaper clippings that
are included in the care packages sent to our American soldiers in Iraq and
Afghanistan.
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| Photo: Ileana Johnson 2015 |
Tables after tables were laden with goods donated by Sam’s
Club, local, and out-of-state citizens: candy
bars, hand sanitizers, antibacterial wipes, lollipops, crackers, peanuts, and
whatever the organizers decide to purchase with the money donated.
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| Photo: Ileana Johnson 2015 |
One room was busy sewing cloth bags that would include one
of each item, carefully wrapped and packaged to fit as much as possible in a
small space. Another room was braiding bracelets which I was told often came in
handy when soldiers needed string in the middle of nowhere and they unraveled
them.
Another room was crocheting small caps – it gets cold in the Afghan
desert at night. A photograph was sent back of a group of smiling soldiers, all
wearing the caps these ladies had lovingly created.
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| Photo: Ileana Johnson 2015 |
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| Flag Star cutters Photo: Ileana Johnson 2015 |
Another table was cutting the stars from flags that have
been decommissioned and were placed inside a small plastic bag with the
message, “I am part of an American flag which can no longer fly due to sun and
wind damage. Please carry me as a reminder that you are not forgotten. Operation Shoebox.”
It cost about $100,000 in postage alone to send these
shipments to the Middle East. Aside from the time and money spent, I was
impressed by the selfless dedication of these ladies and gentlemen who were
working joyously, faceless individuals who sent small care packages to faceless
soldiers as a symbol of our love to our fellow Americans who are fighting the
war on terror far away, and reassuring them that they are not forgotten.
Each soldier also receives a personalized, hand-written card
inside the package. I can only imagine the trembling, tired, and dirty hands
opening a stuffed care bag while their dusty cheeks are streaming with tears of
joy and excitement in an otherwise drab and scary daily existence.
Occasionally, a few soldiers write back and tell the club members
how much they enjoyed their token of love and what it meant to them. For these
ladies, who could use their spare time to golf, have fun, visit family, spend
time with their grandchildren, it is an altruistic labor of love and patriotism
that many will never forget.
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