When I settled here from Connecticut, and first saw mesquites, I didn't like them all that much. But there are at least two varieties of mesquites here in Rio Rico, and I'm changing my mind.

There's the ordinary one with filmy, fern-like leaves of a pallid, rather ordinary green. It can reach almost forty feet tall under ideal growing conditions. The other mesquite has tiny leaves of a darker, more pleasing shade of green. It's actually more like a shrub and rarely reaches more than twelve feet tall. Its growing habit resembles the ubiquitous ocotillo here as it, too, splays finger-like branches out from a slim base, sort of like a corkscrew.

Both mesquite varieties, I've learned, yield ideal summer shade. Sun-seeking petunias bloom under both of them, although the petunias do become a bit leggy. I've seen thriving petunias here reach four-feet tall, which always astounds me.

And in Nogales--only fourteen miles south--I've also seen a huge, pink bougainvillaea blooming happily under the leafless shade of an ordinary mesquite in the middle of January. Meanwhile, my potted bougainvillaea limps through winter sequestered in my garage, facing a south window.

Inspired by Nogales's success, I once dared to keep a potted bougainvillaea in my courtyard throughout winter under the big mesquite there. But it died, still another reminder of the micro-climates here in Southern Arizona. Rio Rico is a bit colder than Nogales, I've learned.

Still, both varieties of mesquites produce fruit that nurtures both animals and humans. I know this, because In midsummer, I often pluck off the bright green, dangling seed pods and crunch them as I take morning walks with my dogs. They are juicy, and taste exactly like a Granny Smith apple. I've read historical accounts of Native Americans who suffered bloated tummies from overindulging on early summer mesquite fruit. So far, I've been able to refrain from overeating.

I've also leaned that the mesquite fruit matures through late summer and into autumn when they change into dusty, beige pods which then drop off the trees. That's when my neighbor Sally collected them. She ground them into flour and made muffins. And when she gave me a half dozen muffins, I told her--candidly--I didn't much like them. They seemed excessively sweet. But we're very good friends. She smiled, and told me she also finds some of the chile-seasoned meals I often shared with her were a bit too hot.

But Sally, like me, obviously admires the mesquites. We've talked about an insect God's designed to prune them. This bug, which neither of us has ever seen, chomps a neat circle around the bark of mesquite branches that kills the tips. (But only randomly and only about 3-feet from the tips.) When a big wind arises, the tips fall off, which stimulates more growth in the spring. Amazing!

Mesquites are legend here in Southern Arizona. They are not native, and cattlemen used to go nuts as mesquites invaded fragile grasslands. So, back in the 40's, they, with the co-operation of the United States Department of Agriculture, used everything they could find to kill the mesquites. They soaked the soil with exotic herbicides and contaminated motor oil.

But by next spring, they'd find dozens of new mesquite sprouts popping up around the trees they sought to kill. It seems that mesquites have a network of roots that snake out forty feet from the tree and as far down as 60 feet into the earth. The cattlemen were also astonished to learn that their placid cattle were the villains. Cattle devour mesquite beans, and when they pass through their digestive tracts, sprouting was enhanced fifty percent. The real reason my neighborhood is now covered with mesquites is from the free-ranging cattle who deposit their seeds in a handy packet of fertilizer. Amusing, huh?

I suspect that mesquites are tough survivors, sort of like the indomitable cockroach. Which, so far, I‘ve never seen here.

I'll take the mesquites over roaches anytime. They've become a very pretty tree, even though they're not native. Like me.