Orange Groves and Spiders
It was 1965, and for me, there was no greater joy than the first day of summer break from school. The three months to come seemed like an eternity back then. I couldn’t even comprehend the end of it. I had a sense of freedom that would remain unmatched for the rest of my life. And when I say freedom, I mean it quite literally, at least from my view. Yes, us kids had rules, but there was nothing about any of them that interfered with our interests. Weekdays were ours for the taking. They were bracketed by leaving the house in the morning and being home for dinner, followed by TV, and then bedtime. Saturdays were reserved for activities with my dad, like fishing, hunting, baseball, or going to the beach. Sundays were for the whole family for things like going to church and visiting Pop and Mamaw in Mims.
Doug was my best friend and next door neighbor. We were both ten years old. My brother, Tracy, was two years younger than us and was part of our gang. Each morning after eating and reading the back of our cereal boxes, Tracy and I would venture out the front door and face the new day with adventure in our heads, but no specific idea for how to go about it. On this day, we began our daily ritual by doing just that and out the front door we went. Right on cue, Doug emerged from next door and walked toward us with a mischievous grin on his face. We all looked alike in many ways. Dime-store shorts, lame looking plaid shirts, crew-cut haircuts, and no shoes.
“Wanna play?” Doug asked.
“Okay, I said, as if there would be any other answer.
“Me and Tracy were thinkin about goin over to Yella Sand Hill. Wanna go?” I asked.
“Yeah, that sounds like fun. Let’s go.”
It was only about a half mile from our house. The shortest route was by cutting through the O’Mara and Coonish yards. Behind those was a tiny creek, but we knew exactly where to go so we could jump over it without getting our feet wet. We then cut across a field toward the dirt road that led us to our destination.
We spent the morning frolicking on Yellow Sand Hill, which was our go-to spot for fun after school let out for the summer. It was an undeveloped piece of land, surrounded by dirt roads with small homes scattered about.The hill was about eight feet higher than the land around it, composed of yellow sand and a few scattered pine trees and scrub brush. At the top, there were the remains of a small airplane that had crashed there many years before, the subject of all manner of speculation about why it was there. We’d decided to dig out the soft sand on its edges, hoping we could find the bones of the poor sap who flew it into the ground or some relic worth keeping. No one knew the history of that plane, so like any good kids, we had to imagine it all. After an hour of disappointment and finding no bones or mementos, we decided to hike toward the woods behind it. Later that week we would return and turn our diggings into an underground fort.
The three of us stared across the creek at that jungle. It was dark, thick with underbrush, and creepy. We were drawn to it by an unknown force which beckoned us to explore its secrets. The creek was a straight, deep crevice in the earth, dug for irrigation along the border of an orange grove. Patches of orange trees like this one were everywhere around where we lived. Some were small, others occupied hundreds of acres of land. Running the length as far as we could see, the creek had a fifteen foot mini-mountain of dirt on the other side, holding a treasure of clods suitable for an epic battle between us and any of the kids who lived around these parts. We called them dirt-clod fights which was Florida’s answer to snowball fights. But, today none of those kids were around. Instead, we pondered how to best access the adventure and mysteries that lie ahead.
I looked at Tracy, a stream of glistening sweat rolling from his hairline and down his deeply tanned face to his chin, finally falling to the ground. “Maybe we should give this place a name,” I said.
He gave me that look. You know, the one that only a little brother can give you when he’s amazed he would be included in such an important matter.
Without a second thought, he said, “Perdyland.”
“What? That’s dumb. Sounds like sumpn a girl would say.”
“Nuh uh. You sayin’ it ain’t perdy? I don’t care what you say. That’s what I’m callin’ it from now on.”
Lacking any alternative, it was thereby dubbed the dumbest name for a place I’d ever heard. “How we gonna get across the creek? We ain’t got no shoes.”
“There’s moccasins in that creek and you know what Daddy says ‘bout moccasins. Your foot will swell up like a watermelon and you’ll die before you get home.” Tracy’s eyes grew to the size of coffee saucers. It was one of the only times I ever saw fear on my little brother’s face.
Pointing to our left, Doug chimed in. “Let’s go over there by that orange grove on the other side and we can get to the woods next to it. There’s a big ole tree leaning over the creek there. Maybe we can swing over it like Tarzan on one of those vines.”
It was a giant gnarly live oak, moss attached to every limb, hanging from its limbs like it was sad. A lot like the climbing tree in our backyard, only bigger. There were half a dozen vines, but one hung loose, dangling and centered over the creek. Doug picked up a fallen limb nearby which was just long enough to reach it from our side of the creek. He pulled it toward us and I grabbed it. I gave it a couple of hardy tugs to make sure it would hold our weight. The vine had little bumpy twists and turns and was about an inch thick, its bristly surface offering the purchase we’d need for a good grip.
“Tracy,” I said, “You go first ‘cause you’re littler’n us.” He nodded as if that made sense. Tracy was always our sacrificial lamb. He was fearless and always up for anything, from slightly dangerous to death defying, like the time I asked him if he wanted to go for a ride in our clothes dryer, right after Mother finally talked Daddy into getting one. Until then, Mother always hung the clothes on a line in our backyard. Tracy got a little banged and after I heard him yelling I twisted the dial to the off position. That turned out to not be that fun, so I decided not to take my turn.
Tracy marched toward me, took the vine, choked up on it like a baseball bat, and without the slightest hesitation, ran back as fast as he could. He curled his legs to his chest and launched on his quest to reach the other side.
“Ahyeah eeyah, eeyah, eeyah, ee ah,” he bellowed, giving his best interpretation of Tarzan. He sailed through the air with a twisted smirk and over the edge of the creek. Just as he reached the end of his arc, he let go of the vine, landing with a slurpy thud in the soft jet-black mud on the other side. After holding his arms up like a muscle-man accenting his tiny biceps, he threw it back as hard as he could and I grabbed it to prepare for my turn. I was a little heavier and my ride, giving more momentum, allowed me to land about two feet further on the other side. Doug, about the same size as me, followed. We climbed to the top of the dirt mound and gazed at the orange grove before us. Acres and acres of trees, set equidistant in carefully arranged rows, with rusty-orange orbs, they awaited our personal harvest.
“I’m gettin’ a orange!,” said Doug. He took off running down the back side of the mound of dirt. He ran between two rows of trees, aiming for one with lower hanging fruit. With a sudden jerk and twist he let out a fearful scream like he’d been shot in the gut. He was squirming and rolling and hollering on the ground like he’d caught fire. He hadn’t seen the giant web stretched between the two trees.
With Tracy by my side, I ran toward Doug having no idea why he was thrashing around. Doug yelled, “Spider! Get it off! Get it off!”
I watched as Tracy reached in with his bare hand and swatted at the biggest spider I’d ever seen. The meaty arachnid fell to the ground and darted away as Doug tried to remove the sticky, unyielding web covering his face and shirt. He was spinning in circles and reaching around his back, making sure the spider wasn’t there. The web stuck to him like the stretchy, drying fibers of rubber cement as it’s pulled apart between your fingers.
“I got it off, “Tracy said. “I think it ran away.”
It was a banana spider, as big as a full-grown man’s hand, its long bendy legs, and gushy head and thorax about three inches long. It was bright yellow with black stripes on its legs. Doug was hyperventilating, but now free of the monster, he began to calm down.
“Did it bite ya?” I asked.
“I don’t feel no bites, so I guess not. Holey moley, that skeert me. Have you ever seen anything like that?” He was still trying to peel away the sticky strands of the web.
“Yeah,” I said. “Daddy showed me one while we were fishing near the groves over at Skeeter Lagoon. He called them nanner spiders. He said they can bite, but usually don’t. I reckon if they did, it would hurt sumpn fierce.”
The Florida oranges in these groves were unlike the ones people find in grocery stores today, all bright orange and clean and shiny. No, they had brown brown stains on the surface, thin skin, and were typically smaller, yet they yielded the sweetest and tastiest meat and juice found anywhere on earth. We each snatched a rusty orange from a nearby tree. Sharing a thick twig, we each punched a hole in the side and squeezed the thick, pulpy juice into our mouths. With the sticky sweet juice running down our chins, I watched as my friends’ faces lit up like they were drinking the nectar of the gods.
Nearby was the border of the jungle now known as Prettyland. I walked to the edge, followed by my fellow adventurers, each of us feeling like pioneers about to wage war against nature and find the treasures left by the Spanish explorers two hundred years before. It was an old forest, never before conquered by man. Much of it was impenetrable due to thick swaths of saw palmetto with broad leaves three feet wide and long stems that resembled the blade of a hack saw on each side. And if you were unfortunate enough to brush up against one of those stems, you’d pull back a sliced up bloody arm.
“Let’s go in over there,” I said, pointing to what appeared to be a game trail nestled between a big live oak and a palm tree. It was dark in there, but being brave and all, we marched through the opening. The air was thick, almost like breathing in water. Sweat rolled off our faces, dripping down our neck like a leaky faucet, but being raised in Florida, we knew nothing else at this time of year. No one we knew had air conditioners. It was just a fact of life that we just ignored. We still noticed it was cooler in the forgiving shade, but nothing comes without a price and we were soon invaded by mosquitoes due to several days of recent rain. Mosquitoes were just a part of life in this part of Florida. Either you stayed indoors, which is what we called torture, or you endured their relentless attacks. We swatted them away like we were fanning ourselves as we moved toward our newly discovered paradise.
“You think there are any panthers in here?” Tracy blurted out. Panthers were legendary in Florida at that time. Everyone knew the stories about them sneaking up on little kids and dragging them away screaming and to never be seen again, even though none of us ever actually knew anyone it happened to.
“Nah, I don’t think so,” Daddy said they’ve all been hunted out around here,” I said.
“Yeah”, said Doug. “That’s what my dad says too. We don’t need to worry too much, but maybe we ought to get us a big stick to use as a spear just in case.” So we spent the next half hour chopping down some saplings and carving a point with our pocket knives, careful to make sure hilt felt right. Feeling sufficiently protected, we followed the trail and came to rest under a giant magnolia tree. Its waxy shiny leaves littered the forest floor, some having turned brown but others recently fallen were a rich deep green. The remaining blooms from the tree immersed us in a sweet aroma that smelled a little like the old ladies at church, but since we weren’t squirming on a hard pew or enduring the frowning scowls from the better-than-you matrons of the church, it was okay. We enjoyed its contrast with the smell of decomposing vegetation and whatever little critters had recently met their demise.
Tracy was scrunching up under the leaves with his bare feet, trying to find bugs he could smash. I was watching a furry squirrel dance, jumping from one tree to another. Doug couldn’t get comfortable on the magnolia root he was sitting on so he shuffled away between one root and the next, then leaned back against the trunk and shut his eyes like he was about to launch into a dream.
Basking in the shade, I reached down from my seat under the tree, grabbed a handful of moist dirt. I squeezed it and watched as a few drops of water emerged between my fingers. It had a strong, rich, and earthy smell to it, somehow releasing its ancient secrets of life and death. To this day, I can’t get a whiff of that without an immediate psychic return to my youth.
“You reckon the Seminoles lived here way back when?” I asked. “I bet they liked these magnolia trees. Maybe they used this place as a church back then since it smells so good.”
Doug glanced my way and said, “I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s nice here”
“Indians didn’t go to church,” said Tracy. “That’s why they kilt ‘em all, idnit?”
“Nah. They killed em all ‘cause they were savages. You’ll learn ‘bout that in third grade,” I said.
It was still before noon, so we hadn’t even thought about going home. The oranges we’d consumed kept us sustained with regard to thirst and hunger, so we decided to move on to see what we could discover. I stayed in the lead because I was the only one careful enough to always keep an eye on the trail to look for snakes. Something my father had drilled into my brain since I was old enough to walk. We seldom went anywhere in the woods or near water where we didn’t see snakes. Mostly black racers, rattlers, and moccasins.
The trail meandered through the forest with twists and turns but we noticed more palm trees than oaks or magnolias as we progressed. There were palm fronds lying around everywhere, all brown and crunchy. The palm trunks were to be avoided because they were basically little splinter factories. Plus they didn’t really have limbs per se. They were all at the top of the trees and just below them were the stubs of recently broken limbs, up-facing and shaped like drawn out, cupped triangles. They were certainly nothing worth trying to climb, which to us, was the purpose of trees. But they had value as their discarded fronds were ideal for building the roofs of lean-to shelters, or in our parlance, forts.
We soon came upon a natural creek, not one of those irrigation ditches found where new construction occurred. The jet-black water was moving slowly as if it didn’t have a care in the world, only that it needed to get somewhere, but not in any hurry. It was a good twelve feet wide and in the center about 4 feet deep.
“Ya know what I’d like ta do?, I said. “Get us some of those big ole oil drums, strap some boards on top and float down this thing as far as we want, camping along the way, just like Huck Finn.”
Doug responded, “Who’s Huck Finn?”
I looked at him like he was a Martian, completely bewildered. “You never heard of Huck Finn?”
“No, who’s he?
This is where I should have known better because no one else my age had graduated from comic books yet. But by age ten, I’d already read all sorts of classics, Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, and Alas Babylon being among my favorites. I’d caught the reading bug early, which would stick with me for the rest of my life.
“He’s only the best adventurer in history. When he was our age he was riding rafts down the mighty Mississippi River and getting into all kinds of trouble. But he had some really good fun along the way.”
After further exploration, we realized we’d been out most of the day. No one my age had a watch, so we had to gauge the time by how hungry or tired we were. Our family only had one rule about setting off for the day. Be home by supper. And supper was always ready by about a quarter to five because Daddy always got home at exactly 4:30. Not that we would be in trouble if we didn’t make it on time, it was just that there wouldn’t be anything left for us to eat if we didn’t make it on time. If we were out past dark, they’d probably come looking for us. Sometimes I wondered if my other two brothers hoped we’d be late so they could have more pork chops. Plus they’d get a good laugh watching us having to eat nothing but green beans, which was usually the only thing left.
We spent the rest of that day exploring and imagining. There were many other trails, but we stayed on the main one, saving the others for more adventures in the future. Our inner clocks told us it was about time to go home, so we reversed course and marched our way back to the orange grove.
By the time we got home, Daddy was just getting out of a car full of men, carrying his long black metal lunch box, the hinged one with the thermos in it. The fathers always car-pooled back in those days because Cape Canaveral, where all the dads worked, was a long drive. Plus, the men had to leave the car for their moms so they could go to the grocery store or take the kids to the doctor, which seemed to us, at least a weekly event. Almost none of the families had more than one car. By now, I was starving and hoping Mother had cooked up a mess of pork chops or maybe some fish we had in the freezer.