Paloma Zamora González is what many consider a landscaping demigod.
When it comes to yard maintenance, some people expend savant-like attention to detail while others leave yards looking as though they’ve been overtaken by colonies of blind, inebriated pygmies and that’s just fine with Paloma Zamora González, whose grass may well be radioactive it’s that fucking green. So green your eyes could bleed.
Paloma Zamora González is a sui generis of free-form subtropical landscape architecture.
A rigorous gardening praxis fueled her ascent to local infamy. Her domicile is now the uncontested focal point of the Whispering Palms subdivision. Much to the joy of her freeloading neighbours, Paloma Zamora González’s property bequeaths aesthetic value to the neighbourhood in the gestalt sense. Her gardens are broad, explosive masterpieces. Her flowers erupt in grand conical heads, dozens and dozens crammed together in bundled inflorescences. She has Tuscan terracotta birdbaths, a sculptural sprinkler system, dry-cast limestone planters and a Koi pond. She has premium-grade topsoil trucked in from Tampa.
Paloma Zamora González has never owned a dog or a ferret or any other socially sanctioned animal which would use her lawn as its personal excrement repository. Paloma Zamora González’s neighbours own experimental snafus like labradoodles. Some of them own schnoodles or cockapoodles. And that’s just fine. As a matter of preference, Paloma Zamora González likes her lawn to remain void of canine excrement. If she wanted her yard to resemble a fecal landfill, she’d purchase a goldendoodle.
Paloma Zamora González tries to be a tolerant person, she really does. But no one likes to be tested. She works hard on her lawn, often in seething, pitiless Florida heat. Paloma Zamora González thinks whatever you do in your yard is your business. However, if you bring your business or, say, your pet’s business into her yard, there will be ramifications. These ramifications may manifest in the form of a polite, handwritten note. It’s also possible they’ll manifest in some other, non-handwritten form.
Paloma Zamora González has a scythe.
No one knows where she got it or what she uses it for. Sweeping advances in agricultural technology and the ubiquity of the lawnmower have made the scythe an unusual tool for homeowners residing in Southwest Florida. But Paloma Zamora González has one. A scythe. She keeps it out on the breezeway, not far from a breathtaking outdoor waterfall scaled by great epiphytic orchids which bloom in pale yellows from April to July.
One day someone asked Paloma Zamora González where she was from and she said she was born in the eye of a hurricane.
That pretty much settled everything.