The Call of the Florida Backyard Mango
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                                              "Life has a way of shutting your mouth and sitting you down."
                                                                                                                                - Bishop T. D. Jakes 
                                                                Dedicated to Yolanda Holloway​
​                                        In Memory of: Dween Mitchell and Tony Cunningham
                                                                               July 16, 2017
                                                             By  Karah  Raphaelita Newton

 I was born and raised in the 60's and 70's in the beautiful state of Florida. In our spacious backyard was a sturdy, compact mango tree that produced tons of delicious, mouthwatering mangoes every summer.  Mango trees were everywhere: in our neighbors’ yards, in vacant lots, on the side of the road and even deep in the bushes.
 
There was also the thrill and adventure of mango tree climbing.  My seven- year-old heart would beat with sheer excitement as I eyed a budding mango coming into perfection. Seeing the mango’s transformation from timid green to intense golden reddish yellow was like watching an artist painting a phenomenal picture. If the mango could speak, it would shout to my seven-year-old self," Pick me, little girl, before I fall on the ground and get eaten up by the birds." 
 
I was an ace mango tree climber. There was only one person who could beat me at climbing mango trees ─ that was my Cousin Tony.  I would cross my fingers that Tony would not discover the mango I had spotted before I could get to it. You had to be quite skillful to climb a mango tree without falling.  My strategy of climbing barefoot from limb to limb, oh yes, and with a stick in my hands to knock the mango out of the tree, took careful maneuvering ─ a maneuvering guided by an inner compass that enabled me to embrace and become one with the tree as I moved from limb to limb, hanging and hugging each branch as if my life depended on the strength of my grip.  You had to position yourself perfectly to knock the mango out of the tree.  When I was younger, I would shake the tree, but that was not an effective way to get mangoes out of a tree, because sometimes a hail of green mangoes would fall.  I learned quickly by watching Tony and from trial and error how to become a skilled mango tree climber.
 
There is a particular vivid memory imprinted on my mind.  Tony and I had been watching this perfectly shaped mango that stood out from the horde of mangoes on the tree. This particular mango tree was located in a vacant lot in our neighborhood. In a short time, the mango we were watching would be fully ripe. What if Tony got to it before me?   That summer, Tony's cousin Rodney from New Jersey came down for a visit. I was a little anxious that Rodney’s visit meant that Tony would spend less time with me. But, on second thought, Rodney’s visit just might work to my advantage. Tony was now constantly hanging out with Rodney, Dween (our cousin from 4th Street) and Eric, a friend who lived in our neighborhood.  Tony was busy showing his cousin Rodney the wonders of our world. Their adventures included looking for soda bottles and even sometimes stealing them,  taking them to the 10th Street 7-Eleven store and getting paid three cents for each bottle.
 
Tony had set a goal for himself and his three buddies: they would round up at least two dollars in bottles, and with that haul of cash they would buy candies, and ice slurpee drinks. Tony and his crew had been working on this goal for two days. Their next goal was to go into "White Town" to get the best Haden Mangoes in town.  Meanwhile, the mango that Tony and I had been eyeing before Rodney’s arrival had become a beautiful purple and the reddest gold; it was ready for the picking. 
 
Now that the competition was busy entertaining his cousin from New Jersey, here was the gateway for me to conquer and enjoy the beautiful fruit. I clambered up the mango tree with slim, strong, flexible, smooth dark pecan brown legs, a song of victory humming in my heart. As I reached, stretched and swung from limb to limb like Tarzan, with strong confident arms exhilaration mounted, invading my entire being. The fruit was just a few stretches overhead. With the most careful of calculations, tightening and curling my toes in sync with the texture of the bark of the tree, I wedged my bare feet into the hollows between the curves of tree branches and limbered up another notch closer to the mango. What tremendous progress I had made in mango tree climbing. I remembered how when I first started learning how to climb trees, my palms used to sweat like a water fall.  I was now thankful to God, and Tony, as well as to trial and error, for helping me to master the art of climbing mango trees. There it was ─ the fruit of my desire ─ right in front of me. I reached up and grabbed the beautiful mango. I raced home clutching my prize.
 
My Uncle JB was visiting our house with a friend from Georgia. At the sight of my mango, Uncle JB’s friend’s eyes opened wide in amazement. “That is the most beautiful mango I’ve ever laid my eyes on!” he exclaimed. “Not only is it beautiful, but it came from a tree that has the best tasting mangoes in the neighborhood,” I boasted. “You mean the tree over there on Johnson’s vacant lot?” Uncle JB chimed in. “Yep!” I replied, bobbing my head up and down showing off my newly plaited braids that took my older Cousin Gwen one full hour to do. “That’s exactly where I got it from.” Aunt Ruth closed her eyes and inhaled, “The mangoes on that tree are absolutely delicious.” The tall, lanky man from Georgia shoved his hand in his pocket and offered me three dollars for the mango. Who would pay for mangoes? I thought. This man from Georgia has got to be nuts!  As a seven-year old, I made up my mind then and there that I would never live in Georgia, and I certainly would never pay for mangoes. As crazy as I thought this visitor from Georgia was, I gratefully took the three dollars and flashed him a broad smile showing all my pearly white teeth. 
 
When Tony, Rodney, Dween and Eric got back from their expedition, they had one candy bar each, but no Haden mangoes. They looked hot, sweaty, disheveled and defeated.  But oh, what a perfect day I had. My heart felt a tinge of compassion for Tony and his crew.  On the inside, I had this bubbly feeling, like a person who had just been handed a nice tall glass of ice water on a blazing hot summer day. Sooo refreshing!  Even though I had no friends to play with that afternoon, I had a wonderful adventure climbing the mango tree, and to crown it all, I got paid a whopping three dollars for my trophy mango. I decided that I’d be super nice and give Tony and his crew a special treat. Uncle JB and Aunt Ruth, and their friend from Georgia gave me a ride to the 10th Street 7-Eleven.  When I got back home from the store, I surprised Tony and his crew with 11 cents strawberry slurpees. Sipping on their ice cold drinks, the four boys smiled from ear to ear. 
 
Recently, I came across a post by one of my Facebook friends that featured pictures of Florida home-grown mangoes.  They looked so delicious. I felt I could reach right into the computer screen and grab one. The post brought back vivid, fond memories of the brightest yellow, reddest purple, light orange mangoes that I ate as a child running barefoot on the hot summer Florida sand.  
 
I have since relocated to several states. I currently live in Georgia. The taste of mangoes has never left my mouth. When I moved out of the state of Florida, the first time I saw mangoes being sold in a supermarket, I thought that it was hilarious. I thought to myself, I would never pay for a mango. Mangoes were so plentiful in my home state. Yes, I enjoyed eating them but at the same time I took it for granted that mangoes were  exotic fruit. After being away from home a number of years, (Unfortunately, only one of my visits back home was during mango season) the idea of buying mangoes from the local supermarket did not seem so ludicrous. As I began to wrestle with the idea of purchasing mangoes I remembered a quote from Bishop T. D. Jakes:  "Life has a way of shutting your mouth and sitting you down.” I had scoffed at buying mangoes. Now, here I was pondering the purchase of this exotic fruit that I once took for granted. 
 
To satisfy my mango cravings, I have carefully shopped around in different local supermarkets in search of the perfect mango. No matter where I purchased them, somehow, these store-bought mangoes never quite measured up to the delicious variety back home in Florida. To put it frankly, I have been so disappointed with the taste of mangoes I’ve bought that I have made a clean-cut, clear decision: never again will I purchase another mango for myself.
 
This morning I got up early to do a neighborly favor for an elderly couple who lives a few houses down, across the street. I went over, picked up the Sunday newspaper from their driveway and placed it at their front door. The sun was shining pretty bright for so early in the morning.  As I was walking back to my place, I saw a neighbor on her quaint Southern front porch.
 
Three gleaming white steps ushered onto an open, unscreened porch bordered by an elegant white wood railing. From the porch ceiling hung a basket of fern whose lush greenery was matched by a row of geraniums that ran along the base of the porch. Two stately pots of flowers stood in welcome, one, at the side of the first step and the other, on the porch near the top step. The porch shaded the pastel yellow house from the morning sun.  In the midst of this post card setting, my neighbor, a petite lady in her early 40s, sat serenely in a white grandfather rocking chair with a tall, slender back. 
 
I snapped out of my admiring gaze to waive hello and exchange pleasantries with my neighbor.  “Would you like some homegrown mangoes that my cousin brought me from Florida?” she offered.  Her cousin was visiting Georgia, and had come by to spend a brief time with her. “Well, of course!” I replied.  Funny thing is, earlier this morning, a strong desire for Florida backyard mangoes had come over me. The lady got up from her chair, disappeared inside, then reappeared with three exquisite mangoes in hand. One was green; one was half ripe, and the other was fully ripe.  I thanked her and took the precious fruits.  
 
I have just devoured the ripe mango. It was decadently delicious; juice was flowing from both sides of my mouth.  Oh yes, this mango was sooooo yummy for my tummy. What a precious gift. Sinking my teeth into that mango, I was a seven-year-old child back in Florida again.