I become (briefly) a Winter Texan - part one

This orange tree is just outside my living room door. Actually, ‘my’ is a misstatement; the living room is actually in the guest home of my friends Don and Jode. I met Don and Jode a few years ago while sailing on a tall ship from the south of France to the Caribbean. Another time we sailed from Panama to Tahiti. Here’s one of my favourite pictures of them.


Don and Jode live in northern Michigan, but winter in Texas.

I was last in Texas for the 1998 Dallas Marathon – 42 kilometres of somewhat limited sightseeing. But previously I’d got to the LBJ Ranch outside Austin (by the way, one of the late president’s daughters used to live in Toronto) and to San Antonio to tour the Alamo. However, I’d never been to the state’s deep south, the area along the Rio Grande, the border with Mexico.

So here’s my temporary home.

Not only is this my first mobile home, it’s my first experience of having the U.S. Border Patrol on – or, at least, over – my doorstep. Don and Jode’s winter retreat is a couple of miles from the frontier. I’ve frequently spotted or heard the patrol’s helicopters and often seen officers waiting for the inevitable illegal immigrants.

Here’s the guest home living room, furnished in what might be termed ‘comfortable rec room’.

Don and Jode recently bought the place – about twenty years old and a short walk from their own mobile home – to encourage her parents to visit. I feel particularly safe because the former owner plastered it with police decals.

This is what I can see from one living room window.

And here’s the view from ‘my’ porch – the community’s shuffleboard area just below the flagpoles.

The resort has space for eight hundred and fifty RVs and semi-permanent mobile or ‘Park’ homes.

There are tennis courts, pool tables, a computer room, small library, various art classes, exercise room and two pools – one indoor, one out.


Coming from an ethnic grab bag of a city, the place stands out as curiously white, meaning ALL white. I'm inevitably reminded how much, in my time, Toronto has altered. I'm not implying this resort is the last bastion of 'white flight,' just that, despite all the social changes in the States since the 1950s, some pockets appear untouched. I'm reasonably sure a black, Asian or gay couple, for that matter, would be politely, if cautiously, accepted. Whether they'd want to be here is something else.

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Many of the winter residents are Midwest farmers. But I’ve also met retired truckers, corporate executives, television producers and former, fairly senior, military officers. A onetime Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman told me there are eight Mounties here.

As well as cops (I've cycled with a former Chicago policeman) turns out there are lots of other Canadians. This licence plate suggests the demographics.

Okay, I’ll admit it. Having never been in a mobile home resort before, the concept wasn’t high on my list of places where I thought I’d feel comfortable. Only my affection for Don and Jode persuaded me to give it a try.

Superficially, it might not always be to my taste. For instance, I’m a frustrated lover of pickups and South Texas is a pickup lover’s paradise. But even I don’t see myself in a Maple Leaf pickup.

However, Canadians take second place to no one in – how shall I delicately put it? – a super abundance of imagination. This home belongs to a Canadian couple who I don’t think I met. Click on the picture for the full ... er, effect.

I suspect some here embellish their abodes in ways they would never up north. Or, if they do, they don’t live in my condominium. To be fair, though, most of the places look quite normal. Here’s Don & Jode’s.

Putting aside my, no doubt to some, baffling and/or irritating views, I’ve been generously welcomed. I was loaned a bicycle; neighbours share their daily papers and I’ve been invited to any number of social events. Many have shown me through their RVs and mobile homes. From group bicycle rides to street parties, I’ve been made to feel included.

I’m a downtown person, but even I was taken by what is, in effect, a cottage community, a low-key winter suburb without the usual suburban downsides. Streets are so quiet that most walk, bike or use golf carts. Residents sit out on their verandas and wave at passersby. People stop to talk and there are frequent gatherings under the ubiquitous car ports. There are no irritating teenagers, no graffiti, no loud music and – I was told – doors are often left unlocked.

Towns once barred trailer parks - seen as sub-standard housing for poor people with suspect morals; now, affluent ‘Snowbirds’ or ‘Winter Texans’ with RVs and mobile homes are embraced for their substantial contribution to local economies.

So, what’s there to do and see? That’s coming up in part two.