Matlacha, Florida, 1983-2022
A long-time islander looks back ...
Red Rose was a 1972 Chevy flatbed hay-haulin’ truck, and on her best day, she moved us from Cincinnati to Fort Myers on a non-stop, 12-hour expedition down I-75 South. Tarped, tied down and secured with plywood, bungy cords and ropes, our plaid couch, stove, fridge, king size bed, and a Carin terrier named Duncan, were among her passengers. Someone painted ‘Crosby’s to Florida or Bust’ on this young couple’s truck – early that warm July day in 1983.
The old hay truck had no A/C, and we cranked the windows down. Temperatures rose 5 degrees every hundred miles as we headed toward (Lexington – 70, Knoxville – 75, Chattanooga – 80, Atlanta – 85, Tampa – 90). Then, when nearing Lee County, Florida, a gigantic Green Darner *dragonfly landed on the dashboard, her membranous wings vibrated – then calmed; her green-sequined body sparkled in the afternoon sun.
This will be our new life in Fort Myers, we thought, and 32-year-old Steve and I reveled in the idea of landing in a sleepy fishing town on the Gulf of Mexico with palm-tree lined streets and an easy “flip flop” vibe in our early 30s. The population of all Lee County was just 100,000 in those long-ago days. Our thoughts wrestled between keeping good paying jobs in Cincinnati and completely starting over in a small, southern town where we had no family and where teacher salaries were among the lowest in the U.S.
But, there was something rare about old Southwest Florida where nature still held her ground before masses of people poured in during the decades that would soon follow.
Layers of native green in clumps of mangroves, spikes of palmetto, gentle coconut palms, stands of Eastern yellow pine and an expansive periwinkle sky, set the backdrop for a land occupied by a few people, armadillos, walking catfish, corn snakes, alligator snapping turtles, miniature skunks, gopher tortoises, deer, wild hogs, bobcats,and an occasional black bear. Mosquitoes could be fierce, but in the ’80s and ’90s, Lee County Mosquito Control fought back using chemicals, deemed safe for people, sprayed from retired World War II Douglas C-47 planes. Their roaring engines evoked a bit of panic and nostalgia as the 1940 era heavy machines flew just above rooftops and swaying palms.
Somehow, we found tiny Matlacha Island in Lee County, really a small fishing village with active mullet fishermen and crabbers, a beautiful and interesting jumping off point. Renting from Gold Key Properties (Marty and Loren) on the island, our tiny apartment behind their office overlooked Matlacha Pass.
Fiddler crabs, their massive claws waving in alarm, skittered across the dock from a vantage point that allowed a view of miles of grey, choppy, open water framed by tiny mangrove islands. The 1983 summer days at the apartment were muggy, as all days are in July; the sun’s piercing rays dialed in, and dozens of egrets, spoonbills and ibis flew south above the pass on their way to their rookeries on bird island. In the far distance, thunderheads rose as massive cumulus clouds absorbed the moisture. Miles of the sky connected with saltwater forming grey, vertical columns of mist, ever-expanding spaces where clouds seemed to drink the ocean.
With only a few thousand dollars down, we were swayed to get any waterfront property we could buy. Our realtor/landlord (Gold Key Properties – Loren and Marty Yeatter) helped us understand buying this type of property would be lucrative. We then found an aging single-wide trailer right on the water on Harbor View Drive (we had no intention of living there), and we found a tenant to make our mortgage payments.
Actually, the tenant found us, and his name was Melvin Hanson.
Melvin was a salty, raucous, notorious character and fisherman, who let us know he drank too much, partied too hard, but he paid his rent on time. He shrimped on “The Apache” owned then by Charlie, and the shrimp boat was docked in Matlacha. Melvin hung out at the Lob Lolly Bar and the Snook Inn by the bridge.
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Meanwhile, we found a small 2-2 concrete block house in Fort Myers close to Fort Myers Middle School, where our 30-year history in the School District of Lee County began and so did our family.
Decades passed and we gradually moved to bigger homes, one nice one on the Caloosahatchee River across from downtown Fort Myers, and then our kids grew up.
You often hear of older people “downsizing.” What does that mean, actually? Does it mean slowing down and tuning out, or could it mean making wiser choices, remaining smart and in control, and moving forward to a way of life that is more carefree, thoughtful, peaceful and less consumed by responsibilities? What would our next move be at this point after 30 years in Southwest Florida?-this was our question.
That’s when my talented husband cooked up a plan to remodel and retrofit our 1968 Jefri single-wide trailer in Matlacha across from the Olde Fish House Marina – the perfect spot to land again for two almost-native Matalachians.
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Jenny is a 2004 Chevy Silverado diesel truck with a Duramax motor and Allison transmission. She has a four-seater club cab and looks brand new still today. While her main job continues to be towing our travel trailer to sites around the country like Zion, Arches, Glacier and Highlands Hammock State Park in Florida, on her best day in 2014, her job was to pull a 20-foot utility trailer with our couch, king size bed, recliners, a futon and three dogs named Nellie, Ajax and Gucci, to 2480 Harbor View Drive in Matlacha from our big house in North Fort Myers, Florida, to our little island home.
*A dragonfly is a symbol of change, transformation and self-realization. It teaches us to love life, to rejoice and have faith even amidst difficulties. The dragonfly has been a symbol of happiness, new beginnings and change for many centuries. The dragonfly means hope, change and love.
(From: “Dragonfly Meaning.” HindustanTimes.com, Dec 15, 2020, https://www.hindustantimes.com/brand-post/the-meaning-of-dragonfly/story-49iDbUXmhAppRXeVs4krjJ.html)
To reach ELIZABETH CROSBY / Special to The Eagle, please email