HOME, SWEET HOME (SORT OF)
In a sense, I can say I am from nowhere. My surname is Anglo-Irish, an amalgam that disqualifies me from crying during "Danny Boy" or cheering for Manchester United. I'm a third-generation native of Florida, a rootless state without an identifying cultural icon -- unless you think hustlers and drifters fit that bill.
But people need a sense of belonging to something, a sense of home. So for better or worse, I feel an intense connection to my hometown of Winter Park, Fla., and believe me, it's not the easiest of love affairs. Winter Park is like Gene Tierney or Vivian Leigh -- a beauty that can seduce with a glance, a glance that also says, "Oh by the way, I'm one crazy-ass bitch, too."
Winter Park was a society backwater for most of its history. It is situated on a chain of lakes just north of Orlando, and in its early days its resort hotels were the winter homes of well-to-do Yankees. Legend has it that when a member of Atlanta society went nuts, he was exiled to Winter Park. After all, one can't have family pretending to be Napoleon in the Piedmont Driving Club, but one also can't have family languishing in Waycross.
Winter Park never got over its early exposure to money, and money is what defines it now. It is a suburb of arriviste McMansions and older lakefront estates, of high-end eateries and retail stores (for some reason, Park Avenue has become a Mecca for wine bars; if you're looking to become a well-heeled lush, here's your town). Years back, the town placed signs at the city limits that read "You are entering Winter Park. Please drive with extraordinary care." Some wag changed one of those signs so it said "You are entering Winter Park. Please drive extraordinary car." Many people felt the second sentiment was closer to reality.
I guess we should have seen that one coming back in the early '80s. While I was home from college one Christmas, I noticed that the police department was sporting a couple of new patrol cars. Of course, just not any cars would do for the police department of Winter Park. These were no Fords or Chevies; one was a turbo Saab and one was a turbo Volvo. Upon seeing them for the first time, my father wondered whether the Police Department would complete the snob appeal and get an unlisted phone number.
Is there trouble in paradise? Are there comforting tales of bourgeois misery, of people learning that money can't buy happiness? Of course, but I'm not going to bring any of them up here. This is a humor blog, and there's nothing funny about such stories. But a friend's experience is somewhat illustrative of Winter Park's affluenza.
My friend owns a black cat that attacks its tail. He wanted to help his cat get over this strange affliction, so he took the cat to a veterinarian in Lockhart, a rural community in central Florida. This vet's recommended treatment reflected the straightforward thinking one might expect from salt-of-the-earth types: cut the cat's tail off. Naturally, my friend wanted a second opinion, so he took his cat to a veterinarian in Winter Park. This vet had a completely different diagnoses: The cat was "depressed" and needed to take kitty Valium. Really. I guess if it's good enough for the owners ...
Going home, as I did last week, is usually a bemusing and dizzying experience because Winter park changes so much each year. What is comfortably familiar one year is gone the next, usually replaced by something more attractive and less charming. And sometimes you don't know what the hell the new is. During a cell phone conversation, my mom wanted me to find out what sort of business had replaced a bank that had been at the corner of Park and New England. Once I got to the designated corner, I had no idea what had usurped the bank. I found curtained and darkened windows and a vague sign. Design firm? Art gallery? The notice on the door saying that the bar opened at 4 p.m. was a pretty strong indicator that the business was a restaurant, but in Winter Park it's quite possible that it was still the bank -- and it was just moving in a new direction, image-wise.
But not everything that is lost is to be completely lamented. The house where I was raised was itself razed. Gone. Not one brick left standing upon another. And that was a small loss. That house was functional -- it kept in air conditioning, kept out the rain and prevented neighbors from seeing those unfortunate moments when the Family Parnell was springing for each others' throats. But aesthetically speaking, that house was a sullen insult to architecture and was once described by my father as "a perfect example of the s-------t of everything." So it was not surprising to see it being replaced by a palace that took up both our former lot and one next to it. But all the cool oak trees that had been there were gone. So was the dogwood tree, the camellias and the azaleas. There would be only the splendor of the new house where ours had been. It didn't look like there was room for much else. And I thought that a shame.
But that's life and that's my hometown. And however weird or material it gets, it will always be home.
In a sense, I can say I am from nowhere. My surname is Anglo-Irish, an amalgam that disqualifies me from crying during "Danny Boy" or cheering for Manchester United. I'm a third-generation native of Florida, a rootless state without an identifying cultural icon -- unless you think hustlers and drifters fit that bill.
But people need a sense of belonging to something, a sense of home. So for better or worse, I feel an intense connection to my hometown of Winter Park, Fla., and believe me, it's not the easiest of love affairs. Winter Park is like Gene Tierney or Vivian Leigh -- a beauty that can seduce with a glance, a glance that also says, "Oh by the way, I'm one crazy-ass bitch, too."
Winter Park was a society backwater for most of its history. It is situated on a chain of lakes just north of Orlando, and in its early days its resort hotels were the winter homes of well-to-do Yankees. Legend has it that when a member of Atlanta society went nuts, he was exiled to Winter Park. After all, one can't have family pretending to be Napoleon in the Piedmont Driving Club, but one also can't have family languishing in Waycross.
Winter Park never got over its early exposure to money, and money is what defines it now. It is a suburb of arriviste McMansions and older lakefront estates, of high-end eateries and retail stores (for some reason, Park Avenue has become a Mecca for wine bars; if you're looking to become a well-heeled lush, here's your town). Years back, the town placed signs at the city limits that read "You are entering Winter Park. Please drive with extraordinary care." Some wag changed one of those signs so it said "You are entering Winter Park. Please drive extraordinary car." Many people felt the second sentiment was closer to reality.
I guess we should have seen that one coming back in the early '80s. While I was home from college one Christmas, I noticed that the police department was sporting a couple of new patrol cars. Of course, just not any cars would do for the police department of Winter Park. These were no Fords or Chevies; one was a turbo Saab and one was a turbo Volvo. Upon seeing them for the first time, my father wondered whether the Police Department would complete the snob appeal and get an unlisted phone number.
Is there trouble in paradise? Are there comforting tales of bourgeois misery, of people learning that money can't buy happiness? Of course, but I'm not going to bring any of them up here. This is a humor blog, and there's nothing funny about such stories. But a friend's experience is somewhat illustrative of Winter Park's affluenza.
My friend owns a black cat that attacks its tail. He wanted to help his cat get over this strange affliction, so he took the cat to a veterinarian in Lockhart, a rural community in central Florida. This vet's recommended treatment reflected the straightforward thinking one might expect from salt-of-the-earth types: cut the cat's tail off. Naturally, my friend wanted a second opinion, so he took his cat to a veterinarian in Winter Park. This vet had a completely different diagnoses: The cat was "depressed" and needed to take kitty Valium. Really. I guess if it's good enough for the owners ...
Going home, as I did last week, is usually a bemusing and dizzying experience because Winter park changes so much each year. What is comfortably familiar one year is gone the next, usually replaced by something more attractive and less charming. And sometimes you don't know what the hell the new is. During a cell phone conversation, my mom wanted me to find out what sort of business had replaced a bank that had been at the corner of Park and New England. Once I got to the designated corner, I had no idea what had usurped the bank. I found curtained and darkened windows and a vague sign. Design firm? Art gallery? The notice on the door saying that the bar opened at 4 p.m. was a pretty strong indicator that the business was a restaurant, but in Winter Park it's quite possible that it was still the bank -- and it was just moving in a new direction, image-wise.
But not everything that is lost is to be completely lamented. The house where I was raised was itself razed. Gone. Not one brick left standing upon another. And that was a small loss. That house was functional -- it kept in air conditioning, kept out the rain and prevented neighbors from seeing those unfortunate moments when the Family Parnell was springing for each others' throats. But aesthetically speaking, that house was a sullen insult to architecture and was once described by my father as "a perfect example of the s-------t of everything." So it was not surprising to see it being replaced by a palace that took up both our former lot and one next to it. But all the cool oak trees that had been there were gone. So was the dogwood tree, the camellias and the azaleas. There would be only the splendor of the new house where ours had been. It didn't look like there was room for much else. And I thought that a shame.
But that's life and that's my hometown. And however weird or material it gets, it will always be home.
posted by John Parnell at 12:04 PM
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