Florida’s per capita income was $17,842 in 1990. That ranks nineteenth among the states. There’s money here.
Figure about $220 billion annually. Or thirty-three weeks worth of the national debt.
The average Florida family had a income of $30,949, ranking 39th. In plain terms, families with children are much more likely to be poor in Florida.
There is no greater gap between individual wealth and child poverty in the USA than here.
The children of The Sunshine State are more likely to be born small, grow up impoverished and undernourished, quit school, or die a violent death.
This trend of child abuse during the 1980’s was primarily downhill.
Florida’s profile of the average person who commits a non-violent crime is now a boy between the ages of eleven and seventeen.
Some suggest a connection between societal child abuse by the government and our growing police state.
Others are afraid to leave the house.
The day after Christmas we headed north along the Atlantic seaboard through West Palm Beach. You’ve probably heard of William Kennedy Smith.
Police cruisers greet you at the “Welcome To Town” sign. In the middle of town, there’s a couple of cop cars parked facing both directions. Cop cars glide up and down the length of the town. At the end of town, a couple more black & whites watch your departure.
The palace guard moving the gawking masses past baronial beach homes. No wonder these places are called “compounds.”
You can look, but don’t even think about stopping. Every town is like that on this stretch of the Atlantic coast. In the prettiest parts of the country, what the government doesn’t own, the wealthy control.
It’s about what I expected. Worse.
Leaving the privileged enclave, we found a deserted beach where Merry Miler could park for free and the dog could put paw to sand. We frolicked in the surf and Gang barked. Salty waves and an undertow forced him to remain ashore.
The dog must’ve felt left out. When a jogger came by, Gang looked at him, looked out to the water, then took off after the jogger. I watched this happen.
I knew the crazy canine was leaving with the runner. Forever.
Maybe he thought the guy was me, might have lost my scent. Maybe the dog was bummed because I’d left him ashore when we went into the sea. Whatever. Who knows what’s in this animal’s head. He was gone.
I watched the dog run toward the horizon and I started pushing to the beach. I touched sand and a wave knocked me to my knees. I struggled to my feet as Gang became a diminishing speck in the distant.
I started running after him. I called. He didn’t hear me. My voice was weak from exertion. The crashing surf was loud.
I screamed the dog’s name. He slowed to a jog. Turned his head, as if listening, then he hurried on. I ran and I ran. Too slow. Gang just followed the runner, as if the man was me.
Thank god, the guy finally stopped. The dog, too. Both were surprised to see me. Red-faced and gasping. I looked back down the beach to where the chase had begun and deep into my heart and I said to myself, “Old son, you gotta get back in shape.”
I don’t know what Gang was up to. Or what he was thinking or why he took off like that. Watching something you love run away from you… not a pretty sight.
Finding a place to settle down for a couple of months proved another trial. We cruised through a half-dozen towns near Tampa, moved down the coast to no effect. Read a thousand classified ads. Made dozens of phone inquiries.
“You want what?,” the voice would say, “For how much? Ha ha ha ha ha.”
We drove up and down the streets of likely neighborhoods, looking for signs.
We changed our goals from A CHEAP BIG PLACE ON THE WATER WITH A LOT OF ROOM FOR GANG FOR TWO WEEKS. That’s what we started out looking for. We settled for the first tiny place that would take us.
We just wanted a place for a couple of weeks so we could recuperate from the rigors of the trail. Just two weeks.
We spent days looking for a place to stop, days we lost by not stopping.
It’s snowbird season. Half the Caucasian middle class of Ohio and Michigan are driving their silver-gray Mercury Classic Cruiser Ralph Lauren Model down Highway 19 at this very moment.
Either you sign a year’s rent or you have to pay “seasonal” rate. That means a $350 unit costs $900 month.
And permit dogs? Don’t make me cry. City parks don’t allow dogs. Most beaches post signs with a picture of some gnarly Scottish Terrier and a big X. Landlords won’t return calls if you mention the D word. Some towns, it seems, are canine-free zones.
You can imagine how we feel about parking the dog in the van and parking the van in the sun. We soared to new heights when we found the Sunset Apartments on the Peace River, a nearly perfect location. (The name only begins to convey the magic.)
We plummeted to deeper depths when – after agreeing the old man’s death was tragic, but, sure, we could wait to move in until after the body was removed – the manager says, “We have only one rule: NO DOGS.”
People have laughed in my face when we broached the subject of our furry companion. So now I lead off with the fact of Gang’s existence.
As dog is my witness.