Al Lopez Park 
                  - Written and Contributed by Edward C. Woodward      

We have a young tulip poplar in our front yard called “Pops.” When my wife and I were tree hunting two years ago, we targeted the quick growing shade variety: sycamore, sweet gum, red maple and the poplar. We settled on the poplar, mainly for sentimental reasons: it thrives among other hardwoods in the creek bottoms and hills of Quincy, my hometown in the panhandle. But would the tree flourish in central Florida?

Browsing the Internet, I found someone who voluntarily planted several poplar trees on public land throughout Hillsborough County and Tampa, including Al Lopez Park. So, curious about the progress of other poplars, Sam and I went to Al Lopez, a 130-plus acre anomaly within one of Tampa’s busiest quadrants: Dale Mabry Highway, Martin Luther King Boulevard, Himes and Hillsborough avenues.

But before we sized up the poplar, a nature trail called. Near the entrance, a Florida softshell turtle burrowed and camouflaged itself in dry sand. I pointed at the turtle. Sam didn’t react. But when the turtle scurried away to a nearby pond, the mobile mud pie made him laugh.

_______  Traffic was audible, but the dense woods muted the distraction  _______

Soon we were on a boardwalk that wound through wetlands with pond-view openings framed by live oak limbs overhanging the water. Traffic was audible, but the dense woods muted the distraction. We merged with a paved jogging trail, but chose a bordering shaded dirt path. I get pumped up by impromptu paths near paved ones: it proves people still explore their surroundings instead of plowing through them in theme-park mode.

 We stopped to watch a pair of chattering blue jays. In my experience as a backyard birder, I’m amazed by the blue jay’s varied voice. I recognize other bird voices in our neighborhood: seagull, mockingbird, mourning dove, red-bellied woodpecker, Eastern screech owl. But sometimes I’ll hear a new voice and it belongs to a blue jay. It’s the Dana Carvey of birds, fitting since its intensity can be Church Lady-esque.

_______  I baited Sam with Cherrios and strolled towards the poplar.  _______

Next, we stopped at the dock overlooking the pond’s south side. We watched a fisherman collect freshwater shrimp and minnows that he said lured bluegill, speckled perch, and sometimes bass. The narrow waterside railings enabled Sam to look at the pond without plunging into it. Sam is a climber, but these railings were Everest-esque for my Florida boy. I baited Sam with Cherrios and strolled towards the poplar.

As we neared the poplar, I wheeled Sam in front of the tree. He pointed at the poplar and giggled. Did he recognize it? We talk a lot about Pops and often look for new leaves sprouting sunward. And the poplar has a distinctive leaf. It resembles a stingray, its stem the tail or loosely, Christopher Walken’s pompadour in “Balls of Fury,” take your pick (I knew I’d salvage that $7 movie ticket). The Al Lopez poplar, a few years older than ours, appeared healthy. It had a wider limb span than Pops, though a similar trunk girth. So there’s hope beyond another deciduous season when we wonder if Pops will re-emerge after months of dormant hardened buds. The seasons are subtle in this part of Florida, and Pops pacifies my quarterly calendar envy.

Lunch time neared, so Sam and I settled under an oak tree and ate, joined by a mourning dove, squirrel and blue jay. Sam toddled towards the dove, but I lured him back with a banana. The setting felt like our backyard, excluding our Sanford and Son collection of plastic toys. Then again, anytime outdoors feels like home.