Golf Carts

After my husband retired, he wanted to live in an over fifty-five community. A place where cars didn’t jump up and down or stereos didn’t sear your eardrums from half a block away. No racing motorcycles whose mufflers seemed to be their only decoration.

We moved south to the land of perpetual sun and into a retirement community, right on a beautiful golf course. It was quiet, but the quiet was deceptive.

Our first morning we were shaken by a horrendous thud against the house. We ran out to the patio.  A golf ball hit the side of the house with such force it bored through the stucco and into the interior support mesh. We promptly moved the patio furniture to the other end of the patio and hopefully out of the line of fire.

We took a walk around the neighborhood. Tire tracks appeared during the night. The black marks ran over the curb and bumped along the sidewalk for several yards before finally regained the road. Night vision problems, difficulty in concentration, or too much to drink?

Most cities have bike lanes. This community had golf cart lanes. Yes, golf cart lanes along every roadway, and designated golf cart spaces, right next to the handicapped spaces in every parking lot. These electric vehicles were silent, but their sudden appearances were deadly. They shot out from alleyways, driveways, and intersections at lightening speeds, far faster than their drivers ever attempted in a full-size vehicle.

However, in the grocery store these Daytona 500 drivers dropped to a pace slower than the desert tortoise. They also kept to the center lane, preventing faster traffic from passing. If you were unlucky to get behind a health-conscious senior, you had two choices. Turn around and go another way or pull up a chair and have a cup of coffee while they read the ingredients on every item in the isle — on both sides. I’m not kidding.

On Christmas Eve the community had a parade. A hundred and twenty-five golf carts, decked out in lights and playing Christmas carols, wound up and down every street and cul de sac. It was a sight to see. I mentioned something about ships in the desert to my husband and got an elbow in my ribs.

While having lunch one afternoon we overheard two elderly gentlemen discussing how to leave a tip for the waitress. They couldn’t figure out the change. After the waitress eventually rescued them, we watched to see which vehicle they climbed into and which direction they went. We went in the exact opposite.

After these incidents we weren’t too surprised to hear this small community had a higher accident rate than Tucson to the north.

My husband met another retired gentleman at the dog park. They compared community experiences.

The gentleman concluded, “You know I’ve just got to get away from all these old codgers.  They are driving me nuts and what’s even scarier, I am an old codger!”

Well, there are different degrees of old codgers...the Cognitive and the Not So Cognitive.

We moved a short time later into a mixed community. Kids ride their scooters and bikes up and down the sidewalk in front of our house. Young people drive too fast and leave skid marks at the stop sign. That’s okay. The center isle at the grocery store is very rarely blocked and we have yet to see one tire mark on the sidewalk.

This experience underlined the necessity for diversity.

“Thank you, Lord, for creating a world with infinite diversity. Amen.”