Remarkable Trees in the Land of My Ancestors

Many years ago, my father's grandparents lived in 

Florida surrounded by acres of orange trees. I've 

heard stories of that wild land, the various people who 

worked in the orchard, and a brave neighbor who swam in the

 river with the alligators. There was the time that my grandfather

shot a hole in the bottom of the boat because a very large, very 

poisonous water moccasin jumped aboard. He killed the snake, 

but also scared his passenger half to death as he hadn't seen the 

snake come aboard.  

I remember stories of the orchard hands teaching my father to fish 

and tying bacon to his ankles to protect him from chiggers. My 

ancestors hauled water, and lived with the fragrance of 

orange blossoms in the night air. 

Though these stories are a part of my family history, they never 

seemed to take root inside me as something that bound me to my 

great grandparents. I have always lived in the north, comfortable 

and happy away from heat and humidity. 

Last November, my parents moved to the West coast of 

Florida. It surprised me, as I always considered them 

connected to the northlands here. As a family, we spent a 

considerable bit of time in Puerto Rico when I was child, 

as my father had a factory there, so who knows why 

it seemed so surprising that they should feel drawn 

to the tropics once again. 

I flew down to visit them last weekend, in the land of sun and 

alligators. My first sighting of an alligator was at the creek by 

their house. At first I thought a tire was floating in the water, 

until the fish started jumping and the alligators tail - with 

remarkably good tread - sank and re-appeared near the bank. 

If you look closely, you can see the nose sticking 

out of the water to the right. 

We went hiking on a boardwalk through a swamp.

Gray, Spanish Moss hung from the oak branches, 

and the palm leaves created linear light 

patterns that enchanted me. 

I recognized  many forest species, surprised to see

them in such a tropical climate. The old man's beard

below is a familiar forest lichen. 

I leaned in close, marveling in vine lines and leaf textures.  

Eventually, the swamp opened up to a river plateau, 

and we watched vultures soar on the thermals overhead

and egrets forage in the marsh. 

We were gifted by a sundog - a rainbow 

encircling the sun. 

Gnarled live oaks draped in moss

held court in the clearings, and shadows 

danced on palm leaves. In a moment of midnight

magic, I wonder if this palm leaf might turn 

into a peacock?  

One day we visited the Myakka River State Park, the 

largest state park in Florida. We took an airboat tour

and saw herons, egrets, cormorants and many, many

alligators. 

We climbed high into the canopy on this tower, 

walked across a small suspension bridge through the 

foliage, and up higher for the view. 

In the town of Venice, I met remarkable trees, and 

would have spent hours with them, though we were 

just passing through. Below is one of several 

Banyan trees in the center of the boulevard. 

The oaks lining the street also captivated me, wearing 

their Spanish Moss finery and shading the sidewalks. 

All of a sudden, when I viewed the scene below, a 

memory of a painting that hung in my grandparents' house 

came to me. Palm trees, and a man, or men, leaning on a trunk. 

A thread of memory, something familiar though distant, began 

stitching me to this place. These visual stories have been 

with me since I was a small child, though only called up again 

now, as I hear the whispering of the palms in the warm, 

afternoon breeze and smell the grapefruit blossoms 

and jasmine in my parents' garden. My father has come 

full-circle, choosing to return to the land of his youth, and I, 

on a pilgrimage to the land of my ancestors, 

feel connected to stories rooted here that

 I didn't know I had lost.