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The old man sloshed through his front yard for the umpteenth time, his rubber wading boots getting soggy.

“I hate this,” he mumbled to himself. “I wish the county would do somethin’ about all this dang water.”

For three weeks the old man had been forced to leave his truck parked out by the first stand of cypress trees and wade to his front door, which was only about a foot above the lake his yard had become.

“I don’t know why they leave us in this mess,” he stammered.

“What in the world has got you so upset today?” asked the old woman as she rested on the porch swing, swatting mosquitoes.

“All this water,” said the old man. ‘It’s been three weeks and it isn’t dried up yet and the county don’t seem interested in doin’ anythin’ about it.”

“What you want the county to do?” asked the old woman.

“I pay taxes just like everybody else,” said the old man. “I expect some service for them tax dollars.”

“What do you want the county to do?” repeated the old woman.

“I want them to clean up this mess,” retorted the old man. “I want them to get rid of this water.”

“How do you propose they do that?” asked the old woman. “You expect a county truck to come out here and haul off all the water. Where would they go with it? What would they do with it?”

“They could dump it in the Gulf of Mexico for all I care,” said the old man.

“The Gulf is getting plenty of fresh water, already,” replied the old woman.

“Well, maybe they could come out here and pump it out,” countered the old man.

“Where they going to pump it to?” asked the old woman. “The neighbors?”

“Well maybe they could come out here and dig a ditch down to the canal so it would drain off faster,” suggested

the old man.

“How they gonna dig a ditch through other people’s property just so yours will dry?” asked the old woman.

“I don’t know,” said the old man. “They’s the guv’munt, ain’t they? They can do just about whatever they want.”

“Looky here,” said the old woman, swatting another mosquito. “You see that stand of cypress trees over there?”

“Yep,” said the old man.

“How ‘bout that loblolly pine over yonder?” asked the old woman. “You see that?”

“Course I do,” said the old man. “You think my eyes are goin’ bad?”

“No but your brain might be. Now, see that cabbage palm out there with the strangler fig runnin’ up it?”

“Sure, I see that.”

“How ‘bout them mangroves down by the bayou? You ever noticed them?”

“Absolutely. But I didn’t trim ‘em back.”

“How ‘bout all them hackberry bushes and

sparkleberries?”

“I don’t much care for them,” said the old man. “What are you gettin’ at here?”

“What I’m gettin’ at is the reason you got all this water,” said the old woman. “All them type plants thrive in a real wet spot. You live in a swamp, you old coot! ‘Course it’s gonna flood in a heavy rain and there ain’t nothin’ anybody can do about that.”

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Steve Hart is a sailor, angler, explorer, raconteur, amateur citrus-grower and semi-professional theologian who masqueraded as a Florida journalist and pundit for the last 25 years. A fifth-generation Floridian, Hart comes from solid cracker stock but revels in the changing face of 21st century Florida and its patchwork quilt of people, their cultures, traditions, shades and ideas. His book, “Tales from Down Yonder, Florida,” is available in local bookstores and on the Web at www.downyonderflorida.com