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.

Road sniffing has top priority, Ma.

It is constant joy to walk out to my car and scare off the tiny creatures who enjoy the oasis we planted.

Forty-eight Hours of Hell ... And Counting

Termites are a fact of life in Florida; everyone has them. Since my neighborhood has wood frame houses raised off the ground, we are vulnerable to the swarming drywood variety, the slowest eating and reproducing of the three main species, the best to have if a house gets infested. Any type of termite, however, requires treatment, so tented homes are a common sight. After workmen drape the house with impermeable plastic tarps, dangerous gases are pumped inside, and since the air conditioning is off, the temperature rises to 120+ degrees Fahrenheit. Conditions inside cannot sustain life of any kind. Even the house plants die if someone forgets to remove them. So the home's occupants and many of their belongings must go elsewhere until the house is disrobed and safely aired out.

I am writing this post at my dining room table. Usually I can look up to see its smooth spacious surface marred only [if too many days have elapsed since the last house cleaning] by dust and dog hair. Today, however, every bit of the table top—except for my tiny, clutter-free corner here at the end, just big enough for the laptop—is covered by bags stuffed full of things from Elizabeth's house: wine bottles, cereal boxes, spices, vitamins, drugs, dog food, cat food, etc.

I am spartan, a real minimalist. I prefer bare surfaces and empty corners. I am having to live in conditions where every roomy area of my house now has Athenian-quality heaps of stuff. The top of the bed is buried under Elizabeth's possessions. Her giant face care basket is on the tiny bathroom vanity. Items tumble out of the refrigerator and freezer every time one of us opens the door. I have to sit on the floor to watch TV as the dogs have already draped themselves over my few pieces of furniture. Pet hair has quadrupled as Banana, the beagle, isn't a single-coat breed.

Normally, I would be writing at the desktop in Command Central, but currently, this room houses all of the cats. We were worried that they would be frightened under Elizabeth's house while the workmen were securing the tarps and then inadvertently gassed. They can't roam free in the house because four dogs together—all of them hunting hounds—tend to develop the "pack mentality," and we don't want Felix or Joey torn to pieces.

I have already had to clean up blood, however. Bug and Pequod got into it yesterday, an argument over a bone, position on the couch, Yo-Yo's attention—I'm not sure what. Both dogs are covered in puncture wounds on their necks and front legs. Apparently, they have worked out their status issues as they are less growly today. I still keep a full water bottle within reach in case I have to hose either of them off again. And, of course, I also have a bottle of Febreze, as four dogs—three of them high-energy basenjis—tend to get so excited during play that "accidents" occur.

I can only pray that the workmen are back this afternoon to untent the house. I am resigned to another night of Pequod and the Banana shaking their dog collars on the hour every hour after 4 a.m. in an attempt to make everyone in the house eat breakfast on their schedule. But if my prayers are answered, we will be humping all of Elizabeth's things next door tomorrow. Her father said that at least this summer break while cohabitating we have electricity, a luxury we went without during Charley last year. I suppose he's right, but boy, am I looking forward to the return of my clean dining room table.

Elizabeth isn't having any fun either. She swears that she will write a post titled "The Ninth Circle of Hell." As she is always claiming that she will write posts but then doesn't follow through, I am not linking to her blog until I actually see the goods, but if she does manage to crank something out, I will, in fairness, provide a link so that she can tell her side of the story.

Trimming the Bush

Okay, I admit it: In a few areas of my life I still procrastinate. I go too long between haircuts. I might have 11,000 miles on the car before I take it in for its 10,000-mile service. Sometimes the basenjis get their Heartgard on the third or the fourth of the month instead of the first. And I usually let the front bushes get a little "Amazon" before trimming them back. Such was the case until this past weekend:


In some ways I'm happy that I waited as long as I did because I was able to take a couple of interesting pictures. I finally bought a book to help me with my photo woes; the subtitle really caught my attention: Simple Techniques for Taking Better Pictures. Its author, John Hedgecoe, claims that photographers have to "see the potential in a subject." So I took the camera outside and shot this:


I used the "portrait" setting so that I got the crisp foreground in contrast to the blurred background. I like this photo because it looks like a serpent or a sea monster tentacle slithering towards the viewer. And the bush was indeed acting like a dragon: snatching at the car as I pulled into the garage, slapping at my face as I walked past it to the front stairs.

Not everything about the bush was reptilian, though. I also took this picture which reminds me of a flock of ducks heading south for the winter:


What I like about these pictures is that I took them on my residential street in the middle of a sprawling metropolis, but I could say that I shot them during a trek through El Yunque and no one would know that I was lying!

After the camera came the clippers, reducing my "rainforest" to landscaping that makes my neighbors happy:


The basenjis, meanwhile, sat on the back porch, hot and bored:

Grass Seed Defiant

Weather-wise, Sunday evening was a perfect night. The afternoon thunderstorms had blown through much earlier than usual, so the sky was nearly cloudless and the humidity relatively low. The dogs and I were out on the back patio fighting over the two chairs [whoever got up to get a drink or chase a squirrel lost his/her place until someone new got up to sniff the bushes or check the time]. At one point, I tried to shove Bug off, but all he would do was collapse even deeper into the cushion and flash his white belly to be rubbed. So I went inside and got the camera. The evening light sparkled on the smooth, green, very long grass blades, and I wanted to see if I could capture the moment.


When I saw the picture above, I thought immediately of the Francisco Goya painting The Third of May.


On Monday afternoon, the Hurley Men, who service my lawn, came with their big mowers and "executed" that defiant grass with its revolutionary agenda—just as Napoleon's troops did the Spanish rebels in the painting. But I know all of those individual blades, mulched and crisping in the hot sun, have become martyrs who inspire the survivors to challenge my oppression, rise up over ankles and the concrete patio edge, and shout, "It's a good thing you don't live in a neighborhood with a homeowners association!"