Every night at dusk Victor left his air-conditioned trailer on Bird of Paradise Lane to hold court in his blue and green woven lawn chair. He carried his pen knife and a small block of wood. He carved crosses, birds, dolphins, and manatees out of blocks of random wood he picked up here and there. Many of the neighborhood children had an item that Victor created from his throne on the concrete slab in front of his little home.

From his vantage point, Victor watched three generations of children grow and move on, and sometimes come back with families of their own.

Victor injured his back in a Kentucky coal mine in 1963 and left Prestonsburg for the Sunshine State. He bought an old Silver Stream trailer from the classifieds in the Tampa Tribune and with his younger brothers Jack and Lew anchored it to a rental spot at Twin Lakes Trailer Lodge. Victor moved to Twin Lakes the day Kennedy was shot.

On that terrible November day, Victor and his brothers anchored the trailer and added gray metal skirting around the bottom.

Victor stood back on the street and eyed his new home.

“Something’s missing,” he told Lew and Jack.

“You need a lawn chair so you can sit outside in this nice weather and be friendly to the people,” said Lew.

The three brothers went off to K-Mart and Victor bought his lawn chair.

The first evening after the brothers departed for Kentucky, Victor set up his chair in front of his trailer. In 1963, even a used Silver Stream shone like a diamond in the fading light of a warm autumn evening. Victor, with his empty green bean can beside him for his tobacco, smiled and knew his life was good.

Over the years, Victor became an institution to the residents of Twin Lakes, and especially the children. Though Victor never married and had no children of his own, he was a father figure to the children of Twin Lakes. Victor knew everything about Florida birds, and liked to watch the egrets and the blue herons on the two little ponds near the park office. Victor also knew everything about every child, who failed fourth grade math, who needed a new bicycle tire, who just got a new stepdaddy.

As the sun set and the street lights came up, the cool of evening released the adults from their homes. Neighbors dragged lawn chairs or stepstools over to the Silver Stream, chewed on the world’s problems, and the men enjoyed a chaw. The adults watched the children cavorting and made sure none got too close to the alligator that perennially came out of one pond or another to birddog a duck.

Sometimes with the same knife he used to carve wood Victor picked an orange right off the tree next to his lot and peeled it to share with whichever children lingered in the street. In December and January, evenings were too cold to sit out. That was a rarity, and Victor in his Wrangler jeans and faded flannel shirt was a friend to all on Bird of Paradise Lane.

During the day, Victor puttered around doing little projects for his home, or the Odessa General Baptist Church where he was a member.

Over the years the rhythm of life in the little trailer court changed. The alligator that stalked the birds on the two ponds grew so big that when he crossed the road, he stopped cars. When the Fish and Wildlife people took Old Herman away, they measured him at a feisty 12-feet. That was a day Victor wouldn’t soon forget.

Antennas on trailer tops were replaced with cables and skateboards and scooters replaced bicycles. Victor’s hands became arthritic, and while he always brought his pen knife and a block of wood outside, he couldn’t carve as precisely as before.

One of the familiar 5 p.m. Florida thunderstorms knocked down the orange tree between his mobile home and the neighbors. Victor replaced it with a small tree from the nursery, but it wasn’t the same.

Even the silver on the Silver Stream trailer was burnished to a dull gray with the passing of years.

The pain from his injury grew worse over time, and he stopped going to the Odessa church, ordered Meals on Wheels, and counted on his neighbors to bring Victor what he needed. Most days his old blue truck sat unused, as driving caused him too much pain.

Despite his pain, despite his struggle to climb down the rickety metal steps from his trailer, Victor never missed an evening outside with the children.

Last week Victor’s brother Lew and his wife Rose Marie came down to celebrate Victor’s ninetieth birthday. They stayed at the Holiday Inn Express up on the highway, as Victor’s trailer was just too small for three people. Rose Marie brought Victor a chocolate mint cake from Carvel and the three of them sat around Victor’s pull down table and enjoyed the treat.

“Victor,” said Lew, eleven years his brother’s junior, “Rose Marie and I want to talk to you about something. “You’re not getting any younger and we think you should consider moving into an assisted living facility. Rose Marie and I are so happy at The Village of Westwood, and we want you to come back to Kentucky and live near us and the rest of the family.”

Victor didn’t appreciate the suggestion, and his next bite of ice cream cake went down his gullet too quickly and gave him a biting headache.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, “But I don’t think I can leave my home.” Lew and Rose Marie got in their rented van and went back to the Holiday Inn Express.

The next morning Victor got up early and took some cash out from under the mattress of his queen-sized bed, that fit into the back curve of the trailer. He made his bed, and ate his usual breakfast of Raisin Bran with whole milk and a banana.

Struggling down the steps and into the cab of his beat-up Ford truck, Victor drove through traffic to his buddies’ pawn shop in Largo. After making his purchase, he drove the truck to a favorite spot near an old wooden gazebo that jutted out into Clearwater Bay.

He reached into the pocket of his Wrangler jeans and unfolded a piece of paper which he placed on the passenger side seat. Then he took out the gun he purchased from under the seat and shot himself in the mouth.

When they found him hours later, the police read the note, “God forgive me, but I cannot leave my home, and I cannot let my children find me.”

A single, carved wooden cross dangled from the rearview mirror, swaying so slightly in the November breeze.

Amy Abbott | Contributor

Thirty-plus years ago, Amy McVay Abbott was a print journalist. Lured by earning more than minimum wage and moving out of her parent’s house, she forged a new path in healthcare sales and marketing. Now retired, Abbott is again doing what she loves, writing about family, art, travel, religion, and the Big Questions. She writes for three Scripps-Howard publications in southwest Indiana, and blogs at http://poetryfan.blogspot.com.

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• Open Salon