Corporate Rights vs. Country Life: Landowner Rights for Who?

Picture it: Florida, the 1940s. My great-grandmother, a spitfire with an eye for Eden, staked her claim in Coral Gables—a once pristine paradise of swaying palms and cozy cottages. She built a darling little house, a jewel in the crown of a quieter Florida. I’ve been back to see it, and let me tell you, that once-charming corner’s now a faded memory, chewed up by the urban sprawl that turned serenity into a gritty sequel. By the 1970s, Miami and Coral Gables were bursting at the seams, and Great-Grandma—whose heart still beat to the tune of San Francisco’s hills from her business-and-pleasure days—up and moved the family to Tallahassee. Those rolling vistas reminded her of the Bay Area, a welcome escape from the developers’ chokehold.

Fast forward to the mid-’80s. I’m a preteen Tallahassee lassie, romping through Wakulla County summers with my “cousins”—not kin by blood, but bonded by my mom’s bestie, close enough to count. One day, my “aunt” was winding through those backroads when she spotted a “For Sale” sign on a wooded five-acre plot. She tipped off my mom, who was craving a fresh chapter after a family loss. Mom snatched up that land quicker than a gator snaps at bait, hellbent on making a new start and the best of a bad situation, with room for my horse to roam (adios, boarding fees!). Years later, she gifted me half that slice of heaven, and in 2023, I went all in, buying the nine acres next door to fend off the creeping doom of development. DR Horton keeps sending me love notes every six months or so—sorry, boys, my fan mail comes with a “return to sender” stamp.

Here’s the thing: I’m not blind—development’s as baked into Florida as sunshine. But where’s the line between their rights and mine? We didn’t move here to reshape the landscape or pave over its soul—that’s not why we came. We chose this life, my family and I, blending into the rural rhythm rather than trying to rewrite it. We never wanted to change the very place we picked for its wild, untamed value. We made peace with the 20-mile trek to Tallahassee for groceries once a month, planned like homesteaders, and stretched further for goods—all to help preserve the seclusion and beauty that drew us here. That was our pact: adapt to the land, not bend it to our whims.

So when the Board of County Commissioners (BOCC) struts in, preaching “developers’ rights,” I’ve got questions. Since when does a corporation’s vision outweigh the folks who’ve lived and loved this dirt for generations? Is this about “property rights,” or just money flexing its muscles? Tell me why a developer can slap a quarter-acre lot subdivision next to my 11-acre refuge just because some suit in a boardroom claims it’s their “right.” Florida’s own Chapter 163—the Community Planning Act—is supposed to harmonize growth with what’s already here, not hand developers a free pass to steamroll the rural heart we fought to keep intact.

Let’s be real: a corporation isn’t a family swapping tales of Great-Grandma’s grit over supper. It’s a profit-hungry machine draped in “special interest” garb, masquerading as progress. I’m a card-carrying Republican—give me liberty and free markets any day—but when did “enterprise” start meaning “trample the people who’ve sacrificed to preserve this place”? I’m not anti-development; I’m just fed up with the notion that a developer’s blueprint gets to rewrite the peace we chose over pavement. Maybe it’s time the BOCC and their Tallahassee cronies remembered that property rights aren’t just for the deep-pocketed—they belong to those of us who’ve blended into this land, not tried to break it.