Local Wisdom
All last spring and summer I cussed the palm tree by my front door. It's a Queen Palm, an old, tall one, and first it tormented me with its blossoms. Come flowering time, it sprouted three stalks, and when I walked outside to get the paper in the morning, the sidewalk would be covered with white-yellow petals that stuck to my feet. I would then track the petals back inside and create the sort of mess that my wife should not see before she's had her coffee. This went on for weeks.
Then came the fruit-orangey dates that dropped down on unwitting skulls like gooey grenades. There were hundreds and hundreds of them, which attracted thousands and thousands of flies. This went on for weeks, too.
Then came the hurricanes. When they were gone, the palm tree was left leaning at a 45-degree angle. Next stop-my roof.
"I can yank it out, no problem," said a tree guy who was driving through our neighborhood and spotted it. Then he asked for a thousand bucks. The palm tree stayed where it was.
And then there's the matter of the sago palm that sits by the sidewalk. It's a three-headed sago that looks like a botanical sculpture, as if it belonged in some sort of primordial jungle. Fitting, since sagos are, technically speaking, not palm trees. They are cycads, an ancient family of plants that haven't changed all that much from before the time of the dinosaurs.
The only problem with having a sago in your yard in Central Florida these days is that they've recently become infected with tiny insects known as sago scale. These insects have migrated slowly from the Caribbean, up through South Florida and arrived here three or four years ago. Their agenda-death to all sagos.
The sago by my sidewalk is just getting ready to send out its spring shoots and already it is covered with sago scale.
"Might as well just pull it out and plant something else," said the guy who cuts the lawn. "Otherwise, you're gonna be out here every other day spraying it with stuff to kill the insects."
Which is, of course, what I've been doing, I and a spray bottle of insecticidal soap that demands regular application from here until eternity if the sago is to have a chance. Such is life in Florida.
No matter how much I cuss the Queen Palm or the sago, I could not bring myself to get rid of them. For there is something about a palm tree, even an annoying Tower-of-Pisa one, or a three-headed insect-laden one, that so attaches me to life here that getting rid of one would diminish an earthy connection with home.
If you step back and consider a palm tree, it really is something foolish and whimsical, a plant designed by Dr. Seuss. It gives us little of what we need most here-shade, precious shade. And it harbors lots of what we need least here-all kinds of bugs and vermin.
Beyond that, virtually none of the varieties of palm trees that grow here are native to Florida. They are exotics, brought in from somewhere else. As are we all, I suppose.
The other day, reading the newspaper, I came across a story out of Iraq about how the war had wreaked havoc on that country's date palm trees, which are treasured by Iraqis. Where not all that long ago there were 33 million date palms in Iraq, now there are only some 13 million.
The story quoted a verse from the Quran in which the prophet Muhammad said, "There is among trees one that is pre-eminently blessed, and that is the palm tree."
Far be it from me to insult any flavor of prophet. When I finished the paper, I went outside, got some thick rope and tied off the Queen Palm to make sure no storm does it in. Then I gave the sago another dose of insecticidal soap.
No way either one of them is coming down.
Orlando Homebuyer managing editor Bob Morris is a Central Florida native. His new novel, Bahamarama, published by St. Martins Press, is now in bookstores.