Tale of a Bipolar Life
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The Tale of a Bipolar Life
Although posted on my website in January 2016, this was written in 2005, three years before we sold our Utah house to settle permanently in Florida. We are now permanent residents of and based in Florida, living in a different and larger condo for seven+ months, and summering in a house we built in northern Wisconsin, on the south shore of Lake Superior in 2008. The bipolar scenario remained the same, though we now have a tendency to think of our Florida time as the summer season (although it includes Christmas), and of our Wisconsin months as the cooler season (even if it can get blistering hot and humid at times.)
Arriving at the Ferry Dock on Madeline Island, Wisconsin, on Memorial Day 2014
As recent retirees, we have joined the ranks of people whose lives are focused on two poles, in search of clement weather all year round. The condo we bought as an investment 15 years ago while living in Minneapolis became our second home two years ago. That’s when I became a bipolar wife.
Like all members of this recently-coined species of birds, my husband and I migrate to warmer climes when the snow threatens. However, we feel more like turtles, since we travel with a car top carrier on the roof rack of our fully-loaded and expertly-packed vehicle.
Loading our Highlander for the trek across the 2,400 miles separating our Salt Lake City home from our beach condo in southwestern Florida is the last step in our preparation for our second season as “snowbirds.” It is also a challenge which requires a well-developed spatial-brained wife, and an able-bodied husband to do the lifting/pulling/pushing/carrying who can follow directions without flinching.
Turning this condo from a rental property into our home required complete redecoration during our first winter. The transformation also needed the addition of myriad little -- and not so little -- personal things. Most of these things were bought locally, but, that first winter, a great many came with us from Salt Lake.
After months of planning what soon felt like an exodus, I compiled a comprehensive packing list of all we wanted and needed. The shipment included that delicate pottery vase bought in Peru last year; a cherished framed photograph of the Oregon coast; the watercolor print of a much-loved harbor on the Wisconsin shore of Lake Superior; extra sets of champagne flutes -- an essential part of gracious living; the carefully-packed clock my husband had been given as a retirement gift; and his cello -- practicing was a must to keep his fingers nimble. Not to forget the pile of unread books intended for the beach; and our favorite CDs and DVDs; plus the photographs of those big and small people whose smiling faces remind me of the few constant elements of our bipolar life.
The complexities of living in two places can be a challenge at times. It’s no trouble at all adjusting to wearing shorts on Christmas day, storing the parkas we donated when we left Utah, and being surrounded by palm trees, vibrant bougainvillea and colorful hibiscus. Nor has the pleasure of being greeted by swooping pelicans and playful dolphins on my morning walks on the beach worn off after two seasons.
But I struggle, when returning to each home, to readjust to the king bed in Florida after the queen bed in Utah; a smaller computer screen in Florida, after the flat screen of our Utah PC; reaching for the colander in the upper shelf of the right cabinet, instead of the lower shelf on the left side; looking for the cutlery right of the sink instead of left of the stove. And is the garbage can under the sink, or around the corner by the back door?
On the Gulf coast of Florida, most snowbirds hail from Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio and Iowa. Easterners and New Englanders flock to its east coast, on the Atlantic ocean. Canadians follow the same geographic division. When we started meeting couples with the same lifestyle, I quickly realized that, no matter where their other homes were, all snowbirds lead bipolar lives. Since wives usually run the households and manage the couples’ lives, this bipolarity primarily affects them.
The initial transition of the first year takes an emotional toll as well as a mental one. Until new friends are made there, the worst part of a bipolar life is the leaving of friends here (Oh, why do you have to go? We’re going to miss you! Too bad you won’t be here for this or that event, etc.), and the interruption of familiar activities (the disappointed looks on the faces of the volunteer coordinator at the food bank or the church choir director when they hear they have to find a replacement until April). This emotional process takes place twice a year, when the time comes to abandon the familiarity of here to switch to the challenge of continue starting anew there.
The mental gymnastics required to live in two places simultaneously can sometimes lead to confusion, especially the first couple of years. As when I told my husband that, no problem, we could use the spare teak set in the family room until the new dining set is delivered. Not only do we not have a family room in Florida since we are in a small apartment, but the teak set is... in Salt Lake. Wondering endlessly when we can’t find something whether we’ve forgotten it there or just misplaced it here, and having to remember if I have this recipe here or if I left it there. Having duplicate copies of my stable of favorite recipes typed and in two separate 3-ring binders solved the latter problem.
We discovered that most people west of the Rockies act as if anything east of the Continental Divide – where “back east” starts -- belongs to another planet, while most Easterners and Midwesterners consider anything west of the Mississippi -- where “out west” begins -- an alien world. As evidenced by the supermarket employee in FL taking my grocery cart to my car who exclaimed when he saw my license plate: “Wow! Utah! I’ve never seen a car from Utah before!” Or the Walgreen’s clerk who questioned if we could find medical care in Utah, and did we have hospitals, too? I wonder if residents of New Mexico or Arizona might make similar remarks when they find cars from Connecticut or Maine in their town parking lots.
While the first thing that comes to mind in Utah when meeting someone new is: “Mormon or not?”, in Florida it’s: “Full-time or snowbird?” The population at large is composed of three distinct groups:
- the full-time, or year-around, residents who try to bear -- with or without a grin -- the onslaught of bodies and cars during all seasons outside of the summer;
- the seasonal residents, who spend two to six+ months in their second home or in a seasonal rental, and try to establish ties with both other snowbirds and full-timers, to create connections they’ll be able to return to next season;
- and the tourists, or “snowbirds”, transients who rent a condo or hotel room(s) for days, week-ends, or a couple of weeks at a time, and stay pretty much among themselves. Neither of the other two groups care to mix with them because tourists don’t treat land or property very kindly and they’ll soon be gone anyway so why bother?
It’s easy to spot the tourists by the way they dress. Either they’re “on vacation on the beach” and wear shorts and sandals even if it’s 45º with a 50MPH gale in January; or they packed forgetting they were going south, and walk the beach with parkas on a balmy sunny morning. They also wear cut-offs and holy T-shirts in restaurants, even the non-casual ones.
You also know full-timers at a glance. Even though they live in a near-tropical climate and vegetation, they dress in the same dark colors as easterners and mid-westerners do, so long as the calendar indicates that these are the traditional “winter months.” Even if it happens to be 85º in the shade.
This mixture of permanent and seasonal residents creates a unique dilemma for the boards managing the coffers of local churches to balance the permanent and the temporary contributions. The seasonal influx of snowbirds also affects the issue of space for local churches. Our own Unitarian church in Naples has solved this problem by adopting the two-service system from mid-January through the middle of March.
In Salt Lake City, the Mormon-based population values large families, resulting in a sizeable proportion of citizens under the age of 30. Since a good many professional positions are held by young people who don’t look old enough to have graduated from college, I am not always confident in the financial, medical or legal advice they dispense.
On the other hand, since the average population in Florida belongs to the above youths’ parents’ -- or grandparents’ -- generation, it’s refreshing for us to spend part of the year dealing with real adults. The kind who replies “You’re welcome!” to our thank you’s, instead of the cheerful but puzzling “Not a problem!”, or a mumbled “Yup!”
For the same reasons, automobile traffic presents different challenges in Utah and Florida. In Utah, we expect recklessness and a tendency to speed from youthful drivers controlled by their hormonal levels. Over-cautiousness due to slower reflexes and poor vision is common in Florida where many drivers seem to think going 25MPH in the middle of the street is the safest driving style. However, driving on Florida’s roads is much easier at night because of reflective lights placed at regular intervals on the dividing lines. Without snowplows to contend with, there is no fear of their being snagged.
I soon learned to structure my activities during the season. Outside of November, December and April, errands and shopping are best done before 10AM and after 3PM to avoid heavy traffic and endless lines. As we know, cell phones do come in handy when delayed in traffic. Nothing original about checking on your cell phone with the friend you’re meeting for lunch in 20 minutes, right? I did just that recently, across a two-mile distance in our local (239) Florida area, by calling a friend’s (201) New Jersey-based cell phone on my own phone with an (801) Utah area code. That’s what I call globalization!
At first, questions such as “What do you do for four months out there? Just sit on the beach?” made me feel obligated to validate our lifestyle with defensive explanations and statements. Now I just tell it like it is: “The same sort of things we do in Salt Lake: we get a life!”
Volunteer and cultural opportunities abound in Florida as they do in Utah. Homeless shelters and food banks need volunteers in both places; book discussion and dinner groups are available in our church communities; museums, stage plays and classical music concerts are equally abundant; and you’d need 30 hours per day to keep up with the various cultural events and lectures available to seniors. The options and resources are endless and so rewarding that being overcommitted often becomes a problem.
Despite Florida’s privileged climate, its retailing business follows the same seasonal rhythms as the rest of the country, irrevocably regulated by the calendar. Even though the average winter temperatures are in the 70s, I couldn’t find a short-sleeve cotton shirt in January “until the summer stock comes out in March.” When I searched high and low in February for a hammock to put on our balcony, there were none to be had “because they are a seasonal item,” meaning available for purchase only as summer approaches. Personally, using a hammock in Florida’s hot and humid summers would be insanity, while an average of mi-70s and low 80s in the dry winter season is ideal. Go figure!
Managing the logistics of a bipolar life often requires a juggling act. But once fresh seeds are planted in the new soil, relationships grow roots here as they did there. Our lives are all the richer for it, especially with the added bonus of being greeted twice a year by a fresh round of heartfelt “I’m so glad you’re back!”
times.)