Dinner conversations with my family are quite confusing for Ryan who comes from a family of logical, structured New England Puritans; this is why he was delighted when my middle sister married Judson. Since Judson is a CPA, Ryan was certain he would bring a sense of logic and order to our table talk. Ryan was wrong.
We were having dinner with my sister and Judson last week when Judson mentioned that his great-grandfather once owned over 3000 acres of land on what is now Miami’s South Beach. I mentioned that that land would be worth a fortune now and Judson nodded and said that in the late 1880’s his great grandfather sold the land really cheaply to a guy named Fisher, (as in “Fisher Island”) because it was too expensive to keep elephants.
“Excuse me?” I said, confused.
Judson explained that what is now Miami Beach was once a mosquito infested swamp, so his great-grandfather imported elephants to clear the mangroves because avocados won’t grow in a swamp. “Avocados?” I asked.
Judson nodded; he told me that his great-grandfather wanted to grow avocados on Miami Beach but he had to drain the swamp first. “But he had a hard time getting elephants to the island,” said Judson, “there was no causeway yet; elephants can’t swim, you know. They sink like a stone.”
“Is that why they have long trunks?” asked my sister. “So if they sink they can still breathe?”
Judson nodded. “They’re not like hippos,” he said obscurely.
Before I could comment, Judson added that the few elephants that got to the island got some kind of toenail fungus from standing in swamp water and died.
“I guess that’s why you never see elephants in rice paddies,” said my sister.
“Or cranberry bogs,” said Judson. I glanced over at Ryan who was staring at my sister and Judson in utter incomprehension as Judson added that the cost of transporting the sick elephants back to the mainland pretty much bankrupted his great-grandfather.
“Why did the elephants have to go back to the mainland?” I asked, unwisely.
“Well there were no elephant vets on Miami Beach,” said Judson, clearly resisting the urge to say, “Duh!” I was going to ask if there how many elephant vets there were in Miami in 1888 but I decided not to.
As it turned out, Judson’s great-grandfather managed to eventually get one or two avocado trees to produce fruit, but ran into more problems. ‘There was no way to get the avocados back to the mainland,” he explained.
“Wait,” I said. “If he could get the elephants onto the Island, why couldn’t he get the avocados off?”
“It was a conundrum,” Judson agreed, and he chewed silently for a moment, deep in thought.
My sister had a thought. “Why did he raise avocados?” she asked. “Guacamole hadn’t even been invented yet.”
“He fed the avocados to the elephants,” said Judson
Ryan could not help himself. “He brought elephants to the Island to grow avocados so he could feed the elephants?”
“Yes,” said Judson.
“What did the elephants eat while they waited for the avocado trees to bear fruit?” I asked, and Judson shrugged his shoulders.
My sister had a sudden thought. “What did they do with the pits?” she asked, meaning, I assume, the elephants.
“They spit them out,” said Judson. “Like you do with watermelon seeds.” Ryan was now staring, open mouthed, at Judson and my sister, while I was imaging elephants shooting avocado pits, bazooka-like, out of their trunks. “And that’s why my great grandfather sold his land to Carl Fisher,” Judson concluded.
I gulped. “I never knew the history of Miami Beach,” I said politely. “So I guess you grew up in Miami?”
“Miami?” said Judson. “I’m from Buffalo.”