Mrs. Brickell's Neighborhood

Donald Bermudez stands next to an ancient banyan tree, its long thick limbs shading a good part of the corner of SW Eleventh Street on the west side of the Metrorail on SW First Avenue. Legend has it that at the turn of the century, highway robbers and blacks were hanged from its branches. Nearby a new fourteen-story condominium rises from a construction site.

"It's just progress," explains Bermudez, gazing with resignation at the building. "Everything is going to be towers. Miami is an important place in the world."

Later, sitting on the rocks by his spring, he dips a beaker of clear water from the spring. A few yards away are holes his daughters, the next generation of Bermudez archaeologists, dug in the yard under their father's tutelage. There is a proper time to unearth the past, he believes. The old folks told him that he should keep the spring's location secret, but circumstances, he says, have changed.

The Bermudez family will eventually sell their home, says his father. "The house is worth pennies, but the land ..." Ishmael Bermudez's voice trails off. The family is already talking with adjacent property owners about the possibility of selling all their parcels as a piece.

The old patriarch stands by the spring. "I love this property," he declares. "It's my second home." He talks about surrounding the spring with high steel fences or including some sort of deed restriction to keep it safe, but there's little conviction in his voice. He is no stranger to the ways of the world. "It's a pity not