The Secret Society of RV Park Mystics
The air in Citrus Grove RV & Manufactured Home Park, deep in the sun-baked, mosquito-laden heart of rural Florida, hums with the cicadas and the The Secret Society of RV Park Mystics
Low thrum of air conditioning units. From the outside, it’s a quintessential anodyne retirement haven: manicured lawns,
glinting chrome on oversized motorhomes, and the occasional golf cart trundling past a cerulean swimming pool.
But beneath this veneer of retiree tranquility lies a peculiar truth: Citrus Grove is not just an RV park.
It is the clandestine headquarters of a commune of elderly mystics and seasoned conspiracy theorists who believe the most potent alien signals whisper not from the depths of space,
But – more conveniently – through the very satellite dishes bolted to the gleaming roofs of their recreational vehicles.
This is the stage upon which I, a freshly minted, perpetually jaded journalist named Maya, stumbled – or perhaps, was inexorably drawn.
My mission, dispatched by a local paper more concerned with bake sales than extraterrestrial encounters, was to investigate a “UFO sighting” that had set the Citrus Grove grapevine alight.
It was a fluff piece, meant to fill a quiet Tuesday slot with a chuckle. Little did I know, I was about to be pulled into a world where aluminum siding met astral projections,
And the biggest conspiracy wasn't out there, but right next door, in a Class A motorhome called "The Stardust."
My initial encounter was with a surprisingly spry woman named Agnes, whose silver hair was teased into a defiant bouffant that seemed to defy gravity as much as her theories defied logic.
She ushered me into her impeccably tidy RV, which smelled faintly of lavender and institutional disinfectant.
“The signals, dear,” she whispered, gesturing vaguely at a wall-mounted flat-screen TV displaying what appeared to be static overlaid with swirling colours.
“They’re strongest when the planets align with the park’s main sewer line. It creates a resonant frequency, you see.”
I nodded, feigning profound understanding, while secretly wondering if I was about to be offered a tinfoil hat.
Agnes, I soon learned, was but one cog in the intricate machinery of the Secret Society of RV Park Mystics.
There was Bartholomew, a gruff former NASA engineer who now believed the moon landing was faked, but for the purpose of hiding a giant intergalactic diner.
There was Clara, a diminutive woman with unnervingly bright eyes, who claimed to communicate with benevolent reptilians through the medium of perfectly brewed sweet tea.
And then there was the enigmatic leader, a man known only as "The Navigator," whose primary residence was a dilapidated fifth-wheel with more satellite dishes than a professional broadcasting studio.
Rumour had it he rarely emerged, preferring to communicate through a series of cryptic notes left on the park’s communal bulletin board, often tucked beneath notices for bingo night.
What truly arrested my cynical journalistic heart, however, wasn't their outlandish beliefs, but the eerie accuracy of their predictions.
Not about the end of the world, or an alien invasion – no, their insights were far more grounded, far more... RV park-esque.
Agnes once predicted, with chilling precision, that the next RV park potluck menu would feature an abundance of ambrosia salad and a distinct lack of anything savoury.
Bartholomew foretold the exact day the communal laundry room washing machine would finally give up the ghost,
saving numerous residents from a fruitless trip with a basket of dirty clothes.
Clara, with tea leaves as her guide, once divined the precise moment the park manager would declare a surprise "Sprinkler System Malfunction Day,"
This led to an impromptu water fight that was the talk of Citrus Grove for weeks.
These weren't grand revelations, but they were undeniably real, oddly specific, and undeniably useful within the microcosm of Citrus Grove.
My initial investigative posture quickly softened into genuine fascination, then, dare I say, fondness.
These weren't deluded eccentrics; they were highly functioning individuals who had found a unique way to navigate the mundane realities of retirement.
Their "conspiracy theories" weren't about fear or hatred, but about finding meaning, connection, and a touch of the extraordinary in the everyday.
The alien signals, it seemed, weren't delivering cosmic blueprints for humanity's future, but rather premonitions about the subtle, yet significant, tremors in their immediate community.
Perhaps the satellite dishes weren’t picking up alien transmissions at all, but rather the collective subconscious hum of 150 retirees living in close quarters.
The RV park became a character in itself, a vibrant backdrop to their peculiar rituals. The hum of generators became the white noise of cosmic communication.
The gentle swaying of palm trees was interpreted as alien greetings. And the ever-present aroma of grilled burgers and suntan lotion formed the olfactory tapestry of their unique existence.
This was rural Florida writ large, a place where eccentricity thrives, unburdened by the pressures of urban conformity.
The senior mystics of Citrus Grove were testament to the idea that the "weird" isn't always menacing;
Sometimes, it's just wonderfully, hilariously human.
I spent weeks immersed in their world, documenting their theories, observing their "readings," and even, on one memorable occasion,
Attempting to interpret the swirling patterns in my own coffee grounds under Clara’s tutelage.
I learned the language of RV culture – the subtle nods between Fifth Wheeler owners, the unspoken hierarchy of Class A versus Class C, the intense rivalry over who had the cleanest awning.
I saw how their shared belief, no matter how unconventional, fostered a deep sense of community.
They looked out for each other, shared meals, and debated the merits of various astrological alignments with the same fervour they discussed the best brand of tire sealant.
The conflict of my initial assignment evaporated. The “UFO sighting” turned out to be nothing more than an overly enthusiastic drone enthusiast, but by then, it no longer mattered.
My journalistic curiosity had shifted from debunking to understanding, from skeptical observation to genuine participation.
I began to see Citrus Grove not as a collection of isolated motorhomes, but as a living, breathing organism, its pulse dictated by the shared beliefs and collective unconscious of its inhabitants.
In the end, I wrote a very different article than I’d initially intended. It wasn't a comedic exposé, nor a dry debunking.
It was a portrait, painted with affection and a healthy dose of bemusement, of a community that found its unique interpretation of the universe, all within the confines of a very ordinary RV park.
The Secret Society of RV Park Mystics, I concluded, wasn't predicting alien invasions; they were predicting life,
in all its mundane, glorious, slightly-off-kilter glory, right here in rural Florida.
And perhaps, in their ability to find the extraordinary in the ordinary, they were the truest mystics of all.
As I packed up my laptop, the faint scent of charcoal and the distant rumble of a diesel engine filled the air,
A Final reminder that sometimes, the most profound secrets aren't hidden in the stars, but right here, under a very Florida sun, in the heart of a perfectly unassuming RV park.
"Thanks for reading. Until next time, keep exploring Florida's peculiar charm!"
Florida Unwritten Staff
