God Has Videotape: Little World, no. 3

My neighborhood was once full of huge, ancient oak trees. When I pulled onto my street, the temperature dropped 10-15 degrees even on the hottest summer afternoon. Quite a few still line the roads, but the summer of 2004, when we took three direct hits from hurricanes, thinned the ranks considerably. Luckily at the time, I had only one oak on my property—actually half of one, as the tree straddled the property line—and my neighbor Elizabeth and I had already scheduled its removal after discovering a giant crack at its base. When we heard that Charlie was on his way, we called the tree company and begged to have it removed early. The dispatcher confirmed the poor condition of the tree with the inspector who had given us the estimate and sent out a crew the day before the storm hit, saving Elizabeth's roof and my driveway from annihilation.

The tree company was supposed to grind the stump right away, but Charlie—and then Frances, and then Jeanne—took out so many old oaks in Central Florida that the crews were busy removing trees from roofs and off crushed cars. Elizabeth and I didn't complain, knowing the damage we had been spared. Then one day, six months later, we came home to find a giant pile of wood shavings where the stump had been. We decided that we would cart the mulch into our backyards, but that was heavy, hard work, all the more depressing after the three huge yard cleanups—complete with chain saws—after each hurricane. So the mountain of mulch lay between our two houses for another six months.

One day a neighbor asked for it, and we gladly gave him permission, after which a big hole adorned the swath of grass. We considered our options, eventually giving the lawn guy we share the go-ahead to plant a row of six crape myrtles—a species of tree that does not flatten cars or crash through the living room window during 110-mph winds. Todd got a great deal on 9-foot sticks, all that they were in November. We took turns watering them everyday, even though I often doubted that they did in fact live. When spring arrived, the branches budded, and I got excited about the landscaping possibilities.

Having spent numerous hours chasing insects with a camera at Leu Gardens, I knew which plants had the greatest number of nectar groupies. Elizabeth and I made several trips to Lowe's to buy lantana and pentas, two butterfly favorites, which we planted underneath the crape myrtles, where they took off in a growing spurt I never imagined.

With the ring of flowering plants around each tree and the leafy tops above, a community of brown anoles took up residence, hanging upside down from the trunks, the males flashing their girlfriends with bright orange dewlaps. They all eat well on the numerous bugs that come to nectar at the plants.

Apparently, the lizards find the landscaping pleasing as I have observed plenty of romance:

I have seen—and managed to photograph—cassius blue, monarch, gulf fritillary, and skipper butterflies drinking either at the crape myrtle blooms or from the flowering ground cover underneath.

The occasional swallowtail always times its visit when I am out with Yo-Yo, who won't hurry her sniff-fest of the street no matter how urgently I tug the leash, trying to get back into the house to retrieve the camera.