Finding Miranda

CHAPTER 5: THE CASTOR BEAN

When the Little Cypress National Forest was established in the crook of Florida's elbow, there were a few logging roads and two short, narrow residential streets deep inside the forest. That was in the 1940s.

The dozen small homes clustered on adjacent Magnolia and Orchid Streets were the only structures permitted within the Little Cypress. They were grandfathered in, largely to save the money it would've cost to condemn the properties under eminent domain laws and pay off the resident families. Those two crooked streets and twelve rickety-looking wooden houses in the middle of the woods made up the miniscule community called Minokee.

"Minokee" was said to be a Seminole Native American word meaning "chock full of big, hungry reptiles." Experts disagree on the exact translation. In any case, the forest around Minokee was not exactly a swamp, but a short jungle hike would take a person from the asphalt streets to the puddles, ponds and streams where alligators and cottonmouth water moccasins plied their toothy trade. On calm evenings the growls and grunts of mate-seeking bull 'gators carried all the way to the verandas of Minokee. It wasn't quite as romantic or exotic as hearing lions roar in the night across the Serengeti, but it was an excellent reminder that the Little Cypress National Forest had its own "king of the jungle." And the king of Minokee's jungle was not warm, cute, lovable Simba.

Miranda Ogilvy was hired on Friday afternoon. She spent Saturday unpacking her few belongings and settling in to her late Aunt Phyllis' little old Minokee house. Sunday was going to be her day to rest up from relocating three hundred miles with less than a week's notice, following the sudden death of her aunt. On Monday morning, Miranda would report for duty as the newest librarian at the Live Oak Municipal Library.

Sunday morning found Miranda too excited to sleep, so the sun was not even up yet when Miranda slipped into the rubber flip-flops she kept by her front door. She wore nothing else but the extra-large SpongeBob Squarepants tee shirt in which she slept. After sharing her Miami apartment with two roommates in order to afford the rent, Miranda relished being alone now in her own house and not having to be dressed for society before leaving her bedroom.

She planned to retrieve the Sunday paper from the front yard and then spread it all over the living room while eating powdered doughnuts and drinking coffee right there in front of God and everybody—well, nobody—and that was the beauty of it! No one would tell her to get dressed, eat in the dining room, don't leave a mess, don't get the newspaper sections out of order. No one would say anything because no one was there but Miranda, in Miranda's very own, very small, very old, slightly weird, much appreciated, pokey Minokee house.

She parted the blinds beside the front door and peeked out into the gray morning. A twinge of pink touched the tops of the palm and live oak trees; the sun would crawl over the horizon soon. Too early for anyone to be up, surely. Too delicious that she could race out and snatch the paper off the lawn with no one the wiser. She smiled to herself, unlatched the front door, and scampered out onto the porch.

"Mornin', Miss Ogilvy!" shouted the old lady across the street.

Miranda squeaked and dove under the broad leaves of a tall plant.

"Mornin', neighbor," sang out another lady.

Miranda cleared her throat. "Morning, y'all," she called tentatively.

"You can stand up, dear, it's only us girls," came from another porch nearby.

Miranda pushed aside leaves the size of garbage can lids and reconnoitered. She could see an old lady with—was that a rifle? -- across the street, another lady next door to Gun Lady, and two more on porches along Miranda's side of the street. Slowly she stood, picked up the Sunday newspaper, and stepped around the mammoth plant to the curlicued iron gate in her waist-high stone fence.