With many families living in mobile homes or poorly constructed residences, safe shelter was needed. Some 1,400 people moved into the Turner Agri-Civic Center, a large arena complex where stage shows and agricultural events were held. Charley brought winds of 145 mph or more to Charlotte. Those winds were about 110 mph when they struck DeSoto.

Inside the Turner arena—yes, named for the same family that owns most of DeSoto and donated the land for the center—a noise began to become audible. A banging noise. Soon, light could be seen at the top of the east wall. The roof was lifting, dropping. The winds were ripping it off.

Officials ordered everyone to the west side of the building, where they huddled in darkened hallways and bathrooms and closets as the east wall collapsed. As winds died, they were herded into school buses and taken across the street to DeSoto High School. Miraculously, no one was injured or killed in the arena.

Elsewhere, two county residents had died in the hurricane, and almost every home and business had damage. Residents put in claims for damage, and those claims actually topped 100 percent of the houses, since some addresses had more than one family.

The Federal Emergency Management Agency began setting up mobile homes and, at the peak of the crisis, had about 1,400 DeSoto families in temporary trailers. That's more than one-tenth the families in the county. Two large FEMA parks were opened. Like other parks, these became cesspools of crime. Relationships dissolved. Drugs ruled. Each was a concentration camp for victims.

The citrus industry took a terrible blow from Charley. About half the green fruit on trees was ripped off by winds. Some trees were toppled. Irrigation systems burst from the grove soil. Bee hives were scattered. Branches lay fractured. But the worst enemy was unseen. Citrus canker, borne on Charley's winds, swept into Charlotte County for the first time in the current epidemic and spread widely in DeSoto County.

Soon, new canker discoveries were being made in all parts of the county.

The state brought in bulldozers to uproot the trees and drag them into large piles where they were burned. The fragrant funeral pyres dotted the horizon in all directions. Scenic acres of orange groves became barren fields overnight. Money to pay growers for the rampant destruction was not forthcoming.

A second citrus disease, even worse than canker, was found last year in two South Florida locations. Within months, Sarasota had a tree with greening and DeSoto had two discoveries. There is no cure. And greening kills infected trees.

When growers gather for lunch at Brenda Lee's in downtown Arcadia, where the walls are signed by visitors and people can buy "I signed the wall at Brenda Lee's" T-shirts and caps, the conversation is not about yields or profits, but about tree health.

"I saw some funny leaves today," one grower will say. "I'm hoping it's not what I think it is."

Everyone eats at Brenda Lee's, you know. It's not unusual to see the county agricultural agent, the school superintendent, some ministers or a county commissioner or two eating there. You order and pay at a counter and then the food is prepared, your name is shouted out, you raise your hand, and someone brings it to you.

Brenda Lee's front window was blown out by Charley, but the faithful came through a back door in the alley to have lunch the next day. The cooks showed up for work.

Nowadays, canker and greening are still concerns for growers, but development pressures have joined the list. Some groves would be worth more sprouting houses than growing grapefruit. And the kind of money changing hands now is certainly tempting. Even the most poorly located land can bring $25,000 to $30,000 an acre.

On all major highways in DeSoto, you can see "For Sale" signs fronting productive orange groves.
We're the next big thing, after all. The signs promise that. Buy me, they beckon. I'll never be cheaper.

DeSoto did enjoy a brief real estate boom after Charley, but the bubble burst a year later. During that post-Charley year, housing became overpriced and new construction halted. Existing homes commanded high sale or rental prices. The inflationary boom couldn't —and didn't—last. Prices haven't settled back to match increases in salaries yet, but buyers rule now.

Still, Cowtown don't come cheap. Today's reality is that your dream of owning five acres, a pond and a horse in the country will probably cost you $200,000—and the dwelling will be a mobile home. A real house (not a big one, either) on paved roads with five fenced acres is more like $500,000. A bargain for east coasters, we're told.

Get it now because that kind of rural tranquility is only temporary. We're destined for sprawling subdivisions and jam-packed highways. It's coming within the next decade, we're assured. Growth will move up from Babcock Ranch and over from Port Charlotte.

We are, we're told, positively and without question, the next big thing.

Can you believe that? Makes me wish I owned some rundown riverfront property.