On a Sunday morning in the winter of 1968, I heard my next-door neighbor stirring on his back patio. Our houses were separated by a fence covered with a red flame vine in full bloom. The day was beautiful. The temperature in Miami was in the low 80s, the sky was South Florida blue, and I was comfortable in a chaise lounge under a 60-foot-tall strangler fig in full leaf, with a cigarette in one hand, a gin and tonic in the other. This wasn’t unusual for me.