On one of my many visits to Bonita Springs,
I took a bicycle ride down Goodwin Street,
an old familiar road that paralleled the Imperial River.
I came to a house along the river
that was surrounded
by a thick carpet of grass.
The fresh cut of St. Augustine grass
permeated the humid morning air
as the sound of a lawnmower
could be heard coming from the backyard.
The lush greenery was punctuated
with variegated crotons, red hibiscuses,
ixoras, a large purple bougainvillea,
an orange Poinciana tree, and
two colonies of white and pink periwinkles,
gracing the front entrance.
I used to help Papa mow this yard many years ago.
Papa, my cousin, and I would arrive
in a ’54 Chevrolet truck,
with three Sarlo mowers jammed in the back.
It wasn’t the easiest way of earning
some spending money
during the summer months,
but I enjoyed giving Papa a helping hand.
Of all the yards mowed along the river
I never met any of the owners
for they all would migrate up North
with Winter’s thaw before mowing time.
With the season finale of the northern leaves,
they faithfully returned
to their winter nesting site along the river
with a cropped yard awaiting their return.
It was on a hot and muggy morning,
while mowing this very yard,
I unknowingly ran across a fire-ant bed
that did not peak above the surface
of the Augustine grass in the backyard.
When I discovered red ants crawling
all over the bottom of my pant legs,
I hit the disengage lever of the Sarlo
and darted down to the dock, and
dove headlong into the coffee-colored waters
of the Imperial River,
clothes and all.
When my cousin saw me climbing
back onto the boat dock,
all I had to do was mention “ants,” and
he bent over with laughter.
In spite of the afternoon showers,
heat and humidity,
that summer my cousin and I
mowed like the wind
along the river.
During our water breaks,
we would avail ourselves
of any abandoned fruit found on the trees.
Papa would go through the trouble
of notching a hole in our oranges
so we could squeeze the juice from it or
peel the skin off the mangoes for us
with his trusty yellow handle Case knife.
It was in this very yard
that I had cut my little toe.
I carelessly stepped a little too close
to the rotating mower blade;
I was wearing Converse tennis shoes.
Papa quickly removed my shoe
and inspected my wound.
His remedy was to pour
Sinclair motor oil
on my wound!
I thought he was crazy.
Then he informed me
that it was just a scratch,
and I would live
to mow another day.
The toe never got infected and healed nicely.
The man mowing in the backyard
guided his self-propelled mower
around the corner of the house
and looked up at me.
He must have thought that I was staring at him
as I straddled my bicycle on the side of the road.
But it was at that very moment
my thoughts were returning to the present.
Snapping out of it and slightly embarrassed,
I smiled and waved to him and
pedaled on down the road
that ran along the river.
At a time when the birds
would have already flown north;
it was good to see that this house
had become a permanent nesting site.
The orange trees and a mango tree were still there bearing fruit.
At least these homeowners could feast upon
the once abandoned fruits of nesters past
that once gave my grandpa, my cousin, and myself
a taste of sweetness long ago
along the river.
