Free Leisureville by Andrew D. Blechman Page B

enforcement.
    Deed restrictions were developed in fourteenth-century England and were particularly popular in America in the pre–civil rights era, when they were used to keep out Negroes, “Mongolians,” andJews, among others. Early homeowners formed associations to enforce these “gentleman’s agreements.”
    Today’s deed-restricted communities like The Villages are similarly although less offensively, “utopian.” Most restrictions are designed merely to keep life’s usual surprises at bay, addressing such mundane issues as home renovations, paint colors, and what kind of flowers one may plant. But some deed restrictions—and their rigorous enforcement by powerful homeowners’ associations—can be severe to the point of being comical. For instance, one woman in California was repeatedly forced to weigh in her overweight poodle because it hovered around the community’s thirty-pound weight limit for dogs. The Villages’ covenants require the removal of weeds and the edging of lawns, which must be at least fifty-one percent sod. Hedges over four feet high are prohibited, as are clotheslines, individual mailboxes (mail is collected at central kiosks), the keeping of more than two pets, window air-conditioning units (all homes must have central air-conditioning), door-to-door solicitation, and Halloween trick-or-treaters. In newer neighborhoods, lawn ornaments are forbidden except for seasonal displays “not exceeding a thirty-day duration”—the same time limit put on visiting children.
    Many people feel that careful planning and mandatory conformity is a small price to pay to ensure that your neighbor doesn’t threaten your investment by changing his oil in his driveway, or building a swing set in his backyard. This is part of what makes The Villages’ villages so predictable and manicured.
    Gary Lester, The Villages’ spokesman, made this abundantly clear to me during our interview. “I bet you’re wishing right now that your neighborhood was better planned,” he said. “I bet you wish that there were rules about when and how people could put their trash out and how they can park a boat or an RV. I bet you’re thinking that you don’t want that RV parked on the road or in the driveway for a month or more, that you’d like the trash to be carefully bagged and placed outside the day of pickup.”
    â€œYou have a point,” I responded. “But where does it all end, and at what cost? Do you, as a former minister, think that age restrictions have a positive effect on our nation’s social covenant?”
    Lester paused, considered the question, and then, to my surprise, declined to answer it.
    Back on the bus, Mindy enlightens me about the community’s three dozen or so pools. There are four pool classifications: family pools, adult-only pools, member-only exercise pools, and premium-membership social pools. “Any resident can use any pool,” she says. “There are no class distinctions at The Villages. The amenities are for everyone.”
    Buddy calls her over and whispers in her ear, and Mindy hastily corrects herself. “Actually, the social pools are for priority members only, but the golf courses and country clubs are open to all residents.”
    The bus crosses a four-lane thoroughfare as we head to an even newer area of the development. I see golf carts descend out of sight like burrowing animals as they approach the highway, only to re-emerge effortlessly moments later on the other side. “Those are our golf-cart tunnels. Aren’t they neat?” Mindy asks.
    With so much territory to cover, the tour begins to quicken its pace. I scribble furiously to keep up in my note taking. “Now put that pen down and look up for a moment, Andrew,” Mindy says. “I don’t want you to miss this—our very own boardwalk and lighthouse!” We are entering Sumter