It was sometime in April, after a November election, when I asked for an interview. The request was made to a local politician through her Instagram direct messages, and within minutes of my request, the newly-elected politician agreed and asked if I could meet at her office downtown. I was excited about the interview and writing a great story. That was my first mistake.

The reason for the interview request was this: she had recently beaten her opponent to represent a district that had long been a stronghold of the opposition party. She had no previous political experience and had run a relatively successful grassroots campaign during a contentious time when many citizens were angry with the status quo and with the current political environment.

And since The Neighborly Florida is a publication focused on telling Florida stories through a positive lens, I looked forward to meeting her and getting a behind-the-scenes view into what her campaign was like.

The day before the interview, I confirmed the appointment time with her secretary and made last minute additions to my list of questions. By all accounts, the interview would go swimmingly. Why would it not? The thought that it wouldn’t go well, quite honestly (and to my detriment) never entered my mind. Second mistake.

From the moment I entered her office the next day, something was off. Perhaps it was the fact that there was no greeting, no handshake or smile. Perhaps it was the way she turned her back on me immediately, grabbed a copy of the daily newspaper and slapped it on the table in front of me. Perhaps it was the snide glare as she stood across from me, motioning me to sit down. Whatever the reason, her animosity toward me was at first baffling, then downright intimidating.

I was clearly in over my head and ill-prepared for what started out as a very hostile meeting.

The interview proceeded in a way I had not planned for. I did ask to record our conversation (another mistake) to which she adamantly refused. I then attempted to take notes but the conversation took so many twists and turns making it difficult to write anything legible and meaningful to the ‘nice’ story I had still hoped to write.

At one point, I had to do some deep breathing. The whole thing was uncomfortable and intense.

But, after some time, her attitude toward me did soften a bit, especially after I mentioned a few common acquaintances. Even still, I knew the story would not be anything close to what I had originally planned for. And though my intentions were good, I did not properly plan for an interview like this and the consequences, for me, at least, was an hour of mostly unpleasantness.

And the worst part about it, is that it could’ve been a fantastic story about an underdog political candidate who came out victorious. That story, unfortunately, was never written.

In the years since that interview, I have spoken to several others who have had similar experiences with this politician. So I suppose there is a certain kind of comfort knowing that it wasn’t just me. She is an equal opportunity offender, which is most likely a character trait that existed long before her time in office.

Now, to be fair, not long after she was sworn in, a local news publication did run a few hit pieces on her, which may have contributed to a type of paranoia, suspicion and aggression toward members of the press (which by extension would be me).

But most any political candidate will agree: running for office (whether win or lose) takes very thick skin. There’s also a bit of charisma involved.

Think back to some of our most popular leaders in recent times (Kennedy, Reagan, Clinton, Obama). Whether you agree or disagree with their policies, you cannot deny their charismatic leadership approach; influencing and motivating others, persuasion, and maintaining composure during tough times. These types of leaders excel at adjusting to their audience, showing empathy, and building connections—even with those that may be their political foes such as members of a hostile press.

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Perhaps most important, however, in the development of our political leaders is their role as servants of the people. All people. Servant leaders, true servant leaders, put aside their egos and insecurities and work toward the best interest of the people they represent. Unfortunately our political system seems to attract the wrong people who are drawn to power for all the wrong reasons. This is an across the board problem with leaders from all parties displaying bad behavior and treating their constituents as either a means to an end or, worse, subhuman.

As voters, though, we are only given a few choices when it comes to electing leaders. Sometimes we have to vote for the jerk simply because of aligning economic and societal values. I believe this is what happened with the politician I interviewed. I agreed with her platform overall and I was tired of the status quo. But because her temperate was so awful that day of the interview, I won’t vote for her again. It was just that bad.

Maybe if more politicians would understand this, they’d find a way to tap into their newfound power while also tapping into their humanity and their role as servant leaders.

That’s the kind of story I was hoping to write. Maybe one day I will.

And soon, if not already, you’ll find data centers. They exist in urban areas, too, but with increasing AI demands and the rapid growth of the digital economy, these enormous and powerful facilities need more places to settle in. More land to use. More water to consume. Data centers, as it turns out, need much more than your data to operate. They need natural resources.

But you knew this already because data centers are dominating the national conversation.

As of March 2026, there are 4,011 data centers in the United States, more than any other country by a wide margin— UK (511), Germany (507), and France (344). Which is important, according to leading technocrats and politicians because, we have to beat China (368).

And let’s not be naive. Data centers have been in existence since the 1960s, according to DataCate. Surely you’ve known about them. No? Well maybe you started hearing more about these facilities about ten years ago when the massive, hyperscale data centers began construction. Or maybe you didn’t. But you did, most likely, learn about their growth on a massive scale throughout 2020 and the years proceeding. Unless you were preoccupied with your neighbors who wouldn’t mask their kids or keep six feet apart. The pandemic and all its nuances had a convenient knack for distraction and neighborly discord.

But that was years ago. And nothing brings a community together like the shared experience of Artificial Intelligence, which, by the way, is the driving force in new data center infrastructure. AI can write your novel for you. It can do your homework. It can replace research assistants, medical professionals, teachers, finance jobs, and so much more. ChatGPT and the others can even be a new best friend—your closest confidant. AI can write and play music, make movies or be the beautiful fashion models on screen or in print.

So, of course, we need Artificial Intelligence. And that’s why we need hyperscale data centers. You simply cannot have one without the other. At least that’s the messaging coming from our best and brightest in Silicon Valley and billionaire overlords. These are the people we can trust. These are the people who make the rules.

In my part of the country—Palm Beach County— the developers of Project Tango (a proposed 1.3 million square feet mega facility) are looking to bypass public comment and commissioner votes through an administrative hearing and a quick approval behind the scenes. The land has previously been approved for industrial zoning so there’s most likely no reason why this data center won’t go through.

It’ll get ugly, though. It already has. You see, the data center will be built next to a new elementary school and a relatively new neighborhood called Arden. Arden is a masterplanned community known as an Agrihood with a five-acre working farm right within its gates. Homes are built with environmental-friendly features and residents get to enjoy local produce and locally sourced goods at the Farm Store. By all accounts, Arden is the epitome of green living and doing things “the right way.”

The technocrats from 15 years ago would be so proud. The technocrats of today, however, arguably feel different. Or indifferent. Does it matter? Either way, data centers are happening all across the country, “from the lakes of Minnesota to the hills of Tennessee, across the plains of Texas from sea to shining sea.” So much so that even environmental activist Erin Brockovich is on the case. Who knows, maybe we’ll get a movie out of this one too.

But movie or no movie, the current storyline surrounding data centers is going through a new plot twist: everyday Americans living in these rural areas, including Arden residents, who show up at town halls or connect in online forums and voice concerns can now be labeled anti-tech extremists. In fact, law enforcement agencies are now actively monitoring data center protests and meetings, looking for threats against data centers—real or implied.

Now, don’t worry. You can still ask questions and share opinions, that’s what makes our country so great. But try not to probe too deeply or be too passionate. Don’t make waves or cause some sort of localized revolt that could spread into something much larger. Because we need data centers. We need Artificial Intelligence. If we don’t continue to expand, China could beat us and our country simply may not survive.

Dr. Rev. Gabriel Ghanoum, a local priest and the Spiritual Care Director at JFK Medical Center, was at work when a 100-year-old patient, without any known relatives, had died. What happened next would set him on a path to create a new ministry in Palm Beach County: He became her legal guardian and claimed her as his own.

“When there isn’t any family or friends to claim the ashes of the deceased, I claim them as my own family and see to it that they receive dignity and compassion in death,” he said.

That was nearly 15 years ago, and since then, Father Gabriel Ghanoum, along with the assistance of several volunteers, has claimed over 800 deceased individuals and given them a special burial at the Our Lady Queen of Peace Cemetery located in Royal Palm Beach.

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For many of us, especially in Western culture, the subject of dying or death is a difficult topic. But the idea of dying alone is something else entirely: it’s incomprehensible, driven in part by our limited understanding of the dying process in addition to an innate longing for human connection, even in our final moments, when transitioning from one stage to the next.

And yet, dying alone is the reality for some individuals. When this happens, local authorities try to find family members or next of kin to claim the body. When none are located or come forward, the state must step in to make any final decisions about the remains. Each state, including Florida, has its own laws when it comes to unclaimed bodies. Often, the policies and procedures for final disposition depends on available resources.

Aside from legal issues surrounding unclaimed individuals, there’s also the subject of spiritual matters related to the importance of a proper burial. While funeral rituals differ between religions and cultures, most groups around the world do honor loved ones with a ceremony or an end-of-life celebration.

But who will honor the unclaimed?

In Palm Beach County, Father Gabriel Ghanoum claims them all—not simply a few select individuals, but each and every one. “I sign for the cremation of everyone that is unclaimed in the county,” he said. “All of them.”

The process of claiming deceased persons in the region and giving them a dignified burial depends on several factors, including the availability of the chapel’s cemetery off Southern Boulevard. “The remains must be in the funeral home for at least six months before they can be sent to the cemetery, just in case someone comes to claim them,” he said. “And after the six months, the cemetery enters each individual into the system.”

This ministry project, known as No One Buried Alone, schedules a memorial service four times a year where cremated remains are interred in a special crypt, thanks to a partnership between the cemetery, the Diocese of Palm Beach and the Palm Beach County Division of Human Services.

During each burial ceremony, which is held at the entrance to Our Lady's chapel, the names of individuals are read out loud as Father Ghanoum bends down to kiss each black container where the ashes of all ages, races and religious affiliations—including children and miscarried and stillborn babies—await their final resting place. Many of the dead are elderly from local nursing homes or homeless indigent people.

At each container, Father Ghanoum pauses to say “I love you.” These three words and subsequent burial are meant as one last act of compassion for those who may have needed it the most.

There are many moving parts to the success of this program and the story behind it, most notably the collaboration of the cemetery and county. But there’s also a handful of volunteers and countless donors that help make these ceremonies happen. Each person that participates in the NOBA program becomes surrogate family members to those who have died alone.

As for the special ceremonies that take place several times per year, those in attendance have played a part, in some way, in the end of life story of the unclaimed deceased. And after each service comes to a close, attendees walk together with Father Ghanoum and the cremated remains to the Compassionate Crypt of St. Joseph of Arimathea, where the ashes are interred to their final resting place.

The internment finishes with the song “My Way” by Frank Sinatra.

Kevin Goulding, a long-time colleague of Father Ghanoum at JFK Medical Center and photographer at several NOBA ceremonies, considers these moments to be evidence of our shared humanity. “In a world that often forgets the forgotten, the No One Buried Alone project gives quiet dignity and a final act of love, respect, and prayer to those who had none in death,” he said. “ Father Gabriel is a true servant of compassion.”

To learn more about the No One Buried Alone program or to donate or become involved, please click here: No One Buried Alone.

The city of Newberry, an area of North Florida that borders between Archer, Jonesville and Gainesville, is home to a once prosperous farm and community center named Dudley Farm. It turns out that the farm, now designated as the Dudley Farm Historic Sate Park, has a long and at times turbulent history.

Last month, we visited Dudley Farm with very little background into its historical value or symbolism in this part of Florida. We understood it to be a working farm, with a few animals on site, that allowed for visitors. But, in reality, the farm is more than that—much more.

Located off Newberry Road, just west of Gainesville, the site sits secluded, surrounded by large oak trees, sabal palms, citrus and dogwood trees and cattle pastures, and currently spanning 325 acres (originally, the farm was 640 acres) previously operated by the Dudley family for three generations. It was sold to the state of Florida in 1986.

Though several structures on site have been restored, each remain in their overall original state. Nothing has been recreated; nothing has been removed. The main living house was rebuilt in 1881 by Dudley Jr.

But it was settlers Philip Benjamin Harvey Dudley Sr. and his wife, Mary, that started the original farm, along with 30 African American slaves.

For context, of the almost one-third of all Southern families who owned slaves, 88 percent owned fewer than 20, while approximately one percent of families owned more. Dudley Sr., therefore, quickly became a middle-class agrarian through his ownership of enslaved people who cleared land and grew cotton at the Newberry farm.

At the time, around 25 years leading up to the Civil War, most Florida slave owners were transplants from Kentucky, Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, and Georgia, searching for new and fertile land, settling in and around Tallahassee and included Gadsden, Leon, Jefferson, Madison, and Hamilton counties — then expanding into Alachua and Marion counties. This was known as “Middle Florida.”

Dudley Sr. and his wife moved from South Carolina to Newberry in 1852 and purchased the land that became Dudley Farm in 1859, just two years before the start of the Civil War.

Florida was a fractured state when it came to the Civil War and institution of slavery. When members of the state legislator, most of whom were powerful Middle Florida planters and slaveholders, voted to secede from the Union, a large number of Floridians to the East and to the West pledged loyalty to the United States, resulting in Union military disruptions along the coastal counties. According to Florida Humanities, this is where men, women and children escaped to when seeking freedom in Florida.

Given Dudley Sr.’s history, ideology and position as a slaveowner, he joined the Confederate Army as a captain of the Alachua Rangers 7th Regiment, leaving the farmhouse and land behind. However, Middle Florida, which included the Dudley Farm, was protected from Union forces due to geographically separated war zones. As a result, the Dudley family and their property remained unscathed.

After a few years, and when the war had ended, Dudley Sr. returned to the farm and the humans he enslaved (as well as others enslaved in Middle Florida) were now free men, women and children.

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Post Civil War in the South included triumphs and many significant challenges for African Americans and the farms they once lived and worked on, including the Dudley farm, where Dudley Sr. and his son turned to grazing cattle, while also raising cotton and other crops with hired help. Payment often came in the form of "furnish" which consisted of pork and sugarcane.

In time, however, and despite changes to daily operations and federal law, Dudley Farm became a focal point for the larger Archer region and a type of community center for cattlemen, townsfolk, and other merchants in the area over the course of 100 plus years. This includes through the Great Depression, changes in agricultural norms and mechanization in addition to the deaths of managing family members such as Dudley Sr., Dudley Jr. (Ben), Fannie (Ben’s wife) and their three sons.

The last Dudley to remain on the farm was Miss Myrtle Dudley, where she lived until her death in 1996 at the age of 94. Carrying out the wishes of her mother, she kept the farm intact by donating 24 acres to the park service in 1983, then sold the remaining 232 acres to the state. In January of 2021, Dudley Farm Historic State Park was designated as a National Historic Landmark.

According to the Florida State Parks website, interviews were recorded providing details about daily life on the farm and changes over time. I was able to locate one interview online between Myrtle Dudley and Lisa Heard, conducted February 25, 1992. At 60 pages long, the interview is quite extensive, though at times meandering, giving historians and writers a better and more intimate view about what happened on the farm and what happened to some of the slaves who were freed from captivity. It’s a lot to unpack. If you’d like to read it, here is the link.

After first visiting the site and later searching for more information through articles and library databases, Dudley Farm Historic State Park seems to be a physical manifestation of deep-rooted memories. In other words, there are stories untold that’ll most likely stay that way, locked away with those now deceased.

Yet, Miss Myrtle did attempt to tell her side of the story in the recorded interview. One topic that often came up was that of the Newberry Six. Her story, told through the lens of time and emotional recollections, does line up with other versions. She does, however, hint at ongoing hostile relations with the local Black community, many of whom were previous slaves in the area. This likely played a role in the escalation of events on Friday, Aug. 18, 1916.

After reports of a hog stealing ring were made to Newberry law enforcement, Deputy Sheriff George Wynne, younger brother of Fannie Wynne Dudley, visited the home of Jim Dennis, one of the suspect in the case, at 2 AM. Another suspect, Boisey Long, was in the home at the time, and shot Sheriff George, killing him soon after. Both Dennis and Long were black men.

In response to the sheriff’s death, Miss Myrtle recalls in her interview how a mob of townsfolk were in ‘such a tantrum’ and that ‘they did not look natural.’ Then came the lynchings. It was reported that Jim Dennis was shot to death by the angry mob, and his siblings Mary Dennis and Bert Dennis, family friends Andrew McHenry and the Reverend Josh J. Baskins, and Jim’s sister-in-law, Stella Young—all found to be innocent after the fact—were hung from one large oak tree near Newberry’s town center.

While some writers speculate that members of the Dudley family participated in the lynchings to avenge the death of their beloved Uncle George, there is no definitive proof. But there is an indisputable connection between the Dudley Family and the Newberry Six discovered through Myrtle Dudley’s interview.

And so my visit to Dudley Farm Historic State Park was, by all admission, mystifying. The site itself was pleasant; beautiful old Florida flora and historic structures in their authentic form. Flowers bloomed, butterflies danced through the farmhouse garden, cows grazed on green pastures. But there was a stillness there, as though time itself had abruptly stopped and intrinsic memories deep within the land and buildings lived on. It’s not an easy feeling to describe.

If I had to sum up Dudley Farm knowing what I know now, I’d describe it as a blend of eerie and paradoxical. To what extent should the historical relevance focus on the Dudley estate as a long-standing working farm and community center versus a place where enslavement and oppression took place?

Perhaps a better balance will be achieved, but that’s not for me to decide.

In no way am I attempting to oversell Epic Universe, the newest theme park by Universal Orlando located just four miles from their flagship destinations of City Walk, Volcano Bay, Islands of Adventure, and Universal Studios. In no way am I telling you to go (now) or risk missing out on all the fun. That’s for you to decide.

Theme parks aren’t for everyone, after all.

But I am telling you, emphatically, that Epic Universe deserves all the accolades it is receiving — and more. I say this as an average theme park attendee. I will take my kids to theme parks, attend special events, purchase the occasional park merchandise, but I am not a theme park enthusiast. I am, however, a creativity enthusiast and when you find creative genius, you share creative genius.

Epic Universe is creative genius.

And yet, as it has been noted throughout history, creative genius can be a bit messy, slightly cluttered, chaotic, perhaps, and that’s okay. Neat and tidy perfection will only get you so far, and besides that, it’s boring.

There’s nothing boring or mundane about Epic. The park is part of a 750-acre development that features five themed areas named Celestial Park, Dark Universe, How to Train Your Dragon – Isle of Berk, Super Nintendo World, and The Wizarding World of Harry Potter – Ministry of Magic. Construction began in 2019 but was abruptly halted—like many other good things in our world— due to the pandemic.

It was described by CEO and chairman, Tom Williams, as "the most immersive and innovative theme park" the company had ever created, adding 14,000 new jobs and untold tourism dollars, further elevating Universal’s brand and leader in the amusement park market.

The rides at theme parks are obviously a focal point for success and park attendees can be incredibly critical when it comes to ride details and nuances. Are they exciting? Are they slow or fast? What kind of emotional or physical response does each ride elicit? Are they worth the wait? How long are the lines? Is there a virtual line queue (there is, sorry). And because of admission price, etc, attendees have every right to be critical. If a day at the park is going to be expensive, it better be a great day, and most of all, worth it.

Epic created 11 new rides, and though I’m not going to describe each in detail, most of them, are indeed worth it. From personal experience and preference, the Stardust Racers was the best ride of the park and the best ride I’ve been on—ever. This is a dueling roller coaster that will go down in the history books and undoubtedly rank as one of the best within and beyond the park. From what I hear though, it’s better to ride at night when dueling vehicles appear as comets shooting across the night sky above Celestial Park. This ride is, in my opinion, worth a two hour wait, if it comes to that. I do not say that lightly. Two hours is a long time.

Another noteworthy ride, or shall I say immersive experience, is Monsters Unchained: The Frankenstein Experiment inside Dark Universe. Part of what makes this ride so interesting is that you are essentially walking through a technologically innovative queue, almost like a haunted house, entering into a story of good vs. evil, with larger-than-life size audio-animatronics, classic horror characters, flying vampires, and even the Phantom of the Opera, playing the organ and all. It’s a decadent, over-the-top type of ride, part chaotic, pure genius.

And then there’s the Harry Potter and the Battle of the Ministry ride inside the The Wizarding World of Harry Potter – Ministry of Magic. No, I did not experience this ride, and no, I’m not sad about it. Harry Potter was never my thing, and as of right now, the ride is virtual queue line only (also not my thing).

From what I hear, it’s spectacular. But if it remains a virtual queue ride, there’ll likely be a flood of complaints from people who never got the chance to ride, despite staring into their phone all day long, searching for an open spot. On the one hand, standing in line for three plus hours is highly unpleasant but you know what to expect. Virtual queue lines, on the other hand, promise nothing but constant phone checking. Maybe you’ll get in. Maybe you won’t.

But even though I’m not a Harry Potter die hard, The Wizarding World of Harry Potter – Ministry of Magic was my favorite world inside Epic. It’s basically Paris, just older (set in 1920s) and cleaner. There are cobblestone streets, original and imaginative architecture, street carts, flower stands, back alleyways, shortcuts, bistros, cafes, musicians, and more. Plenty to eat and drink—the adults will love it. The young ones, not so much. In fact, while leisurely passing through the area, there weren’t many children in the crowds.

So where did all the children go? Most likely, one of two worlds: How to Train Your Dragon – Isle of Berk or Super Nintendo World. Both areas have several rides and other kid-friendly things to do. Both areas are designed with littler ones in mind. But, despite your age, Super Nintendo World will blow your mind (or your sense of reality) when walking inside. It’s unreal, really. From colors, patterns, music, characters—every last detail is exactly like the video game. It’s the world I was most impressed with in terms of design and the world I spent the least amount of time in. My senses (and the crowds) went into overload.

Lastly, we have How to Train Your Dragon – Isle of Berk. Despite dragons and vikings galore, the park is a bit tamer with room to move and explore, a few rides, a roller coaster, and even a large climbing playground (Vikings Training Camp) for littler kids to be kids and for parents to sit.

The world is 15.5 acres with over 30 dragons of 17 different species coming in and out of view. It’s not only spacious but it captures the overall feeling of the films, How To Train Your Dragon. And again, the details. From hand carved rocks to soaring architecture and recreated mountains, nothing has been forgotten here and most certainly not the beloved characters Hiccup, Toothless, Gobber, and Astrid, all of whom can be found roaming the world.

Final Thoughts

While leaving the park later that evening, I thought of the movie Jurassic World. In the movie, Claire Dearing, the director of the park was boasting about the invention of a new dinosaur, Indominus Rex, as a way to keep the park attendees happy and satisfied (because dinosaurs weren’t enough, it seemed). The new dinosaur breed was bigger, stronger, faster… better. It’s a metaphor for many humans today and their never-ending quest for something different, something new.

Although dinosaurs are no where to be found at Epic Universe (there are dragons!) this theme park is new and it is better. It’s completely immersive, innovative and monumentally designed.

Some people will still complain. Some will want more.

More is coming, believe it or not. Epic is in its infancy and the beginning has just begun.

Long before I decided to adopt a highway from the Florida Department of Transportation, the sight of littered roadsides spurred a sense of angst and hopelessness, and rightly so. Trash on the ground is a stark reminder of our human failings, a visible expression of carelessness and destructive habits.

But all those angsty emotions were fleeting: once the litter was out of sight, it was out of mind— and easier to ignore. It also wasn’t my problem. It’s not like the litter was mine. But in 2017, when I first began my journey into nature photography, seeking out beauty in the natural world came with a caveat: the inability to look away.

It’s a global problem

The world has a complicated relationship with trash and many countries struggle to keep their cities and neighborhoods clean. There are global hotspots — most notably in places associated with socioeconomic factors and location — where littering habits affect both land and bodies of water. The Philippines, for example, has 5 of the top 10 hotspots for plastic food wrappers, whereas Jamaica has 3 of the top 10 hotspots for plastic bottles. Cigarette butts were more common in Southern Europe and North Africa.

Many, if not most, of the littering hotspots were associated with bays, seas and lakes such as the Mediterranean Sea, the Bay of Bengal, the South China and Philippine seas, the Gulf of Mexico, the Caribbean Sea, Lake Malawi and the Great Lakes of North America.

Here in the United States, and despite the country’s wealth, laws and ordinances, litter remains an environmental issue. According to a study released in 2021 by the organization Keep America Beautiful, nearly 50 billion pieces of litter were found along U.S. roadways and waterways, equaling 152 items for each U.S. resident. The good news, believe it or not, was that these numbers were actually down 54 percent since the 2009 litter study.

In Florida, many of our state parks, beaches, and attractions are kept relatively clean due to public and private cleanup efforts. But roadside trash, more often on busier streets and highways and high density areas, is worrisome, especially when it lingers.

Losing touch with nature

Though the pleasures of modern life appear to vastly outweigh any downsides, studies repeatedly prove that we feel more connection and find deeper meaning within the natural world. And yet, statistics show a steady shift in how people spend their time and what they care about. Digital tools and technology now appear to dominate every aspect of life — from work, leisure and socializing.

Further complicating matters is the emergence of Artificial Intelligence. It’s important to note that AI research organizations and experts are touting the ability for AI to ‘save the natural world’ in a number of different ways including decoding animal language, identifying changes in ecosystems and better understanding biodiversity. And perhaps this is all true and incredible breakthroughs await.

But the AI process involves building algorithms and transferring aspects of the human brain into a machine. It is the increasing of automation, relying more and more on computer sophistication and leading to a lack of human engagement and understanding. A quick history lesson or a dystopian novel can provide a few useful clues as to where this could all lead.

So what does this have to do with litter? That all depends on whether our digital habits and reliance on computers can lead to a better connection with nature. I’m not so sure it can. Because it’s difficult to care for something without a strong connection to it, everyone knows that.

Dirty hands, clean conscious

It all started with a cardboard box. A large and very dirty cardboard box sitting roadside for weeks. On one side of the box, an endless stream of traffic traveling north on State Rd. 441. On the other side, a canal where wading birds, iguanas, butterflies, dragonflies, and other animals lingered underneath sunshine and blue Florida skies.

But it wasn’t about the box, really. The box was a symbol — an eyesore —and the start of a four year journey revolving around trash. Because each time I passed this section of road on the way home, the soggy, muddied, loathsome cardboard box started speaking to my subconscious, growing louder with each passing day.

Why won’t anyone get that big ugly box and trash off the side of the road? I asked this repeatedly, even posting a comment about it in the neighborhood app, Nextdoor.

The individual who responded did provide a few helpful clues but also reinforced a collective attitude about litter: don’t worry, someone else will do it. It’s a common mindset and expectation here in the states and why wouldn’t it be? We pay taxes (quite high in some places) so that the government will take care of things like roads, bridges, damns, waterways, sewer, and yes, litter cleanup. But it became evident with each passing day, that the government wasn’t coming to get the litter, at least not anytime soon.

I contacted the Florida Department of Transportation a few days after that exchange, expressing interest in a cleaner section of State Rd. 441, and promptly adopted the two mile stretch on both sides of the street (four miles total). It didn’t take much to make it happen. A little grit; a lot of frustration. And now the road was mine.

***

For four years, that roadside was my baby and I fought to keep it clean. Thankfully I had help: my husband, Patrick, fellow neighbors and several friends attended cleanups when they could. I won’t bore you with the details of what we found — mostly bottles and wrappers, but sometimes weird things too like a bag of urine, dead animals, hospital gowns, and drug paraphernalia. It’s all part of the deal: litter is gross but someone has to clean it up.

I’d like to think it scored me points with the birds, the flowers, the butterflies. I’d like to think that those hours cleaning outdoors solidified my connection to nature. I’d like to think that my small efforts made a big difference. And here’s what I do know: the instant gratification of seeing littered nature turn clean and green again was off the charts.

You should try it sometime: Adopt a road (alone or with a team) and change the trajectory of your small corner of the universe.

It’s indeed a good day when you happen upon a Roseate Spoonbill, with their stunning pink plumage, searching for food in the shallow wetlands of Florida. Just ask any nature photographer. Spotting a spoonbill is a dazzling sight to behold, particularly because it’s becoming more rare to find them in these southern parts of the Sunshine State. Fluctuating water levels, habitat loss and overdevelopment are driving this trend.

In Wellington, Florida, for example, and areas of Loxahatchee and Royal Palm Beach, the dizzying push for commercial and residential development has left many residents in the area both stumped and frustrated. And yet, there are those (mostly developers and elected leaders) that believe more shopping plazas, more restaurants, and more apartment complexes are what will make this region great. But with so much building happening all at once, and so little green space left, what are the implications for wildlife and human population density? And do these developers and elected leaders have a vision—a long term vision—for the area other than concrete structures?

These are just some of the questions raised by the sudden onslaught of development. There’s no one better to answer them than a local Roseate Spoonbill. As luck would have it, I met a spoonbill on a recent afternoon, wading ever so diligently, inside a small pond near the Wellington Library.

What follows is a condensed version of our conversation and a few photographs of this beautiful pink bird.

Lara Chapman: Could you please describe your desired habitat and current environment?

Roseate Spoonbill: Of course. My preferred habitat areas include coastal and wetland areas anywhere in South America, coastal areas of Central America, the Caribbean, and along the Gulf of Mexico**. I love to nest in mixed colonies within mangrove islands or even in the Florida Everglades. Occasionally, you’ll find me in manmade canals or smaller ponds searching for crayfish, shrimp, crabs, and small fish. In fact, the pink you see in my feathers comes from what I eat, similar to flamingos.

I need water, that much is obvious. But I need specific bodies of water that are shallow and low-lying. This is so I can forage for food and probe along the bottom of muddy water, feeling for fish, amphibians, and others to eat. I have quite the beak, if you hadn’t noticed. Almost prehistoric looking. But when the water levels are just right, my wide, flat bill can snap up more prey in each scoop than birds with pointed bills can.

As for my current environment, well, it’s nothing to boast about. At least not anymore. It is loud with cars and horns and work trucks with great big metal cranes attached. The roads are severely congested and there seems to be a motor vehicle accident every hour and what humans call a “hit and run” once or more per week.

A few years ago, this area of the world seemed to experience some sort of overnight exponential growth. I’m not quite sure what happened as I am just a bird. But it was something to behold, indeed. Human beings coming from all over, some wearing masks, then dumping their masks on the side of the road or even where I fish. It was absolutely dreadful. I’m glad that is over.

Lara Chapman: Could you tell us more about the congestion? What kind of impact is that having on you and others you may know?

Roseate Spoonbill: Sure. This part of Florida, what humans call the ‘Western Communities’ of Palm Beach County is nearly as far west as you can go until you find yourself in the Everglades. According to stories passed down from my avian ancestors, humans tried to drain the Everglades in a completely unnatural and bizarre attempt to build more agricultural areas. They, of course, learned the hard way that this cannot be achieved, but in the process, greatly damaged the grasslands and the wetlands. There was absolutely no long term vision and everyone paid a steep price.

Fortunately, human efforts to restore the Everglades have been surprisingly successful, to which many birds like myself and other native animals are grateful. But human beings continue to build on nearly every square inch of solid land they can find, which includes this region. Just look around for a moment. By examining the geographical variations in population distribution, density, and growth, human beings here seem to be exceeding the capacity of the environment, most particularly when it comes to available shelter, or what human beings call “homes.”

As far as the impacts on me, well, I’ll probably just end up leaving like many other birds I know. You don’t see too many of us anymore, do you? Great Blue Herons, egrets, wood storks—wading birds like myself— we’ll just move on to better foraging environments with more space. So that’s the tradeoff: more shelter, eating places and shopping stores for the humans but less natural spaces and less birds.

Lara Chapman: Thank you for all the insight, I do appreciate it. You mentioned something about ‘long term vision’ and I wanted to know if you could expand more on that?

Roseate Spoonbill: Ah, yes, long term vision. A novel concept, don’t you think. But humans, time and again, seem to overestimate what they will achieve, when in fact, no one can possibly predict the future. And the vision here, in this part of the world, is to build out and then build up. Rarely is it ever to preserve, conserve or align with the natural world. As a bird, it’s quite unfathomable. But, alas, I would be foolish to claim moral superiority on the matter.

Human beings need shelter. You need places to eat and get food and you need places to shop. That is how you live. Though I do find it quite odd that you will build one big concrete structure, then desert that concrete structure, so that you can build another concrete structure—right across the street from each other. It is odd, even you humans must admit that.

Lara Chapman: Yes, indeed, you make an excellent point. Thank you for your time.

Roseate Spoonbill: Thank you!

**As of January 24, 2025, the Gulf of Mexico is now the Gulf of America.

With peak winds estimated at 140 miles per hour and a funnel width of 300 yards, a tornado started ravaging areas in Wellington, Florida last Wednesday and soon made its way through Loxahatchee Groves, The Acreage then up to Palm Beach Gardens. From approximately 4:51 PM to 5:21 PM, the tornado traveled 21 miles, causing structural and catastrophic damage to homes, barns, vehicles, and commercial buildings. A Publix grocery store in Avenir, a newer community in Palm Beach Gardens that saw over 300 homes damaged, now has a deep hole in the middle of the building. This particular tornado was responsible for seven injuries, though no human fatalities. One horse reportedly died.

Then, an outbreak of tornadoes on the Treasure Coast. One tornado stayed on the ground for 13 miles, crossing two counties with EF2 and EF3 damage. Before exiting St. Lucie County and entering Indian River County, the tornado tore apart the Spanish Lakes Country Club Village, causing six fatalities and immeasurable destruction.

By the time it was over, rescue workers rushed to various locations, pushing through thick and dangerous debris, only to find the type of catastrophic damage never before seen in many of these neighborhoods. Some victims were trapped under rubble or inside vehicles. Many roads were impassable.

Those in the path of the tornadoes described it as a freight train or like a bomb going off. Roofs were gone. Windows blown out. Barns completely flattened. Cars flipped. Heavy metals twisted and snapped in half like brittle sticks. Glass everywhere. At one home, a large construction dumpster landed on top of the roof.

And there was an unmistakable randomness to it all. One street of homes in Wellington was particularly hit hard while another street nearby lay untouched. Then an unlucky home left without a roof or windows while next door neighbors on either side hadn’t a scratch. Several barns were flattened while another across the road appeared in good shape. A few homes still had Halloween decorations up, skeletons and ghosts nailed to trees. But just feet away, pine trees and live oaks were yanked from the roots, thrown like twigs across canals and backyard swimming pools.

Yet, certain areas experienced consistent and distressing damage where entire neighborhoods were affected. The magnitude of destruction in equestrian subdivision Rustic Ranches, for example, cannot be overstated. Many residents lost roofs, some lost barns and horse arenas. Some saw their paddocks destroyed. Some lost everything. Most everyone lost something.

While hurricanes will often generate tornadoes, the consensus from many Floridians up and down the east coast is that last Wednesday was an anomaly. Palm Beach County Sheriff and lifelong resident of the county, Ric Bradshaw, told WPTV that, in all his years in the area, nothing like this has happened before.

According to the National Weather Service, tornadoes produced by tropical cyclones are relatively weak and short-lived. Weak as in EF0 or EF1. But several of the tornadoes that touched down during Milton were EF3, and by most accounts, they were not short-lived.

The last hurricane to produce a tornado outbreak was Hurricane Ivan in 2004, with 120 reported over a period of three days across several states. While areas of Florida did experience some damage, it’s nothing like the widespread tornadic destruction that occurred during Hurricane Milton.

This, of course, happened on the tail of Hurricane Helene, another catastrophic storm that caused severe damage throughout the Gulf Coast of Florida, Georgia and North Carolina. Needless to say, Floridians are storm-weary and anxious about what lies ahead. Some will rebuild. Some will not. Some will leave the state all together.

There is a hopeful chapter in this ongoing story: members of the community are coming together to help those who lost so much. Volunteer efforts started almost immediately after the tornados hit and will continue for the unforeseeable future. Local governments and churches are also spearheading cleanup initiatives and providing relief.

To be sure, and at the end of this story, it’s the part about neighbors helping neighbors and strangers helping strangers that will hopefully be remembered the most.

And if you feel compelled, you can help too.

It’s also complicated.

Florida citrus — oranges, grapefruit, lemons, and tangerines — is the cornerstone of the state’s agriculture industry. And even though these fruits are not native to the Sunshine State (we can thank the ancient Indian subcontinent for that), they have proliferated upon arrival sometime in the early 1500s.

But it wasn’t until after the Civil War when commercial production began, due in part to newly constructed railroads that allowed citrus growers to move products across the country.

So far, even through devastating freezes, fly infestations, disease, and extreme weather events, the citrus growing industry in Florida has flourished into a multi-billion dollar production. To be sure, Florida is the second-largest producer of citrus in the world and the largest producer of 100% orange juice in the United States.

But Florida citrus has taken a beating as of late by way of hurricanes, urban sprawl and an incurable contagion.

In 1998, a small winged, sucking insect about the size of a flax seed or chili flake appeared in Florida and began its slow but steady pillage of citrus trees across the state. By feeding on leaves, the Asian citrus psyllid spreads a toxic bacteria (Candidatus Liberibacter asiaticus) that blocks the flow of nutrients from the roots to the branches, breeding infection in both older and young trees, although younger trees are more susceptible.

Just like any highly transmittable disease, the infection spreads from host to host, and in this case, tree to tree or even to neighboring groves. Once infected, the bacteria will starve and strip the tree of sugar and minerals, turning green leaves yellow and preventing the ripening of fruit.

The tree will die within five years—and the fruit along with it. There is no cure, only the culling of inventory; the chopping and removal of trees, the pulling of stumps and roots.

Citrus greening disease, also known as huanglongbing or yellow dragon disease, has been spreading rampant in Florida groves, causing serious damage to the crop and to the state’s industry.

Like many progressive diseases, the damage took years—decades even—to come into fruition. And, now, the true extent of the deterioration can be found in the details, the fine print listed on cartons, showing where exactly the ‘Florida’ orange juice is coming from.

Made in Florida with Mexican and Brazilian oranges

For decades, the label on Florida’s Natural read, "100% premium Florida orange juice.” But about two years ago, this iconic orange juice brand made the decision to distribute a new ‘from concentrate’ blend, featuring oranges from Mexico and Brazil, while also vowing to “use as many Florida oranges as possible based on what Mother Nature delivers.”

To be expected, the company received backlash from Florida orange juice diehards and connoisseurs. Others hardly noticed the difference.

Six months after the brand changed its blend, Chief Operating Officer of Florida’s Natural, Chris Groom, said there was significant growth in OJ, grapefruit and drink sales. Likewise, Chairman Frank M. Hunt III, claimed positive input from consumers and taste panels.

But, now, two years later, how many consumers notice or care to notice the change? And an even bigger question: Are Floridians even remotely aware of the dire conditions within citrus groves across the state?

I admit I’m not as knowledgeable about the subject as I should be. In truth, there is orange juice fully stacked on the shelves at my local grocery store. There are bags of oranges and grapefruits and lemons lining the aisles.

And what about the fresh, cold orange juice at the Florida Welcome Center? When I called the Florida Welcome Center near Jacksonville, a cheerful woman answered the phone. And when I asked if the orange juice they served came from Florida oranges, she didn’t hesitate. “Of course,” she said. “We use Florida’s Natural.”

I thanked her for her time, ended the call and double checked the label. She was partially correct, I suppose, in a larger sense. But in terms of just how many Florida oranges were used in the blend, there’s no way to know.

Modified for success

There’s very little doubt that the process of genetic engineering creates suspicion in the minds of health-conscious consumers. Some people claim that GMOs are harmful to the environment. Others say selective breeding alters the DNA of the host plant, and the resulting foreign genes cause health problems like allergies and even cancer. And yet, advocates claim GMOs just might save humanity, or at the very least, orange juice.

Recently, Florida citrus growers have joined the GMO movement by exploring genetic engineering to fight citrus greening in the state, seeking out new ways to slow the spread of the bacterium and save the industry.

As of August of this year, a Maryland based BioAg Climate Technology Company, Silvec Biologics, announced a first-of-its-kind RNA vector delivery product to combat the disease. Unlike GMO technology, RNA products deliver traits into plants without modifying their genomes. According to a recent press release, “a single application has been demonstrated in field trials to provide long-term reduction in yield declines caused by the citrus greening bacteria.”

Another company, Massachusetts-based Invaio, recently created a ‘Citrus Health’ solution that suppresses bacteria in an infected tree, using a small port about the size of a phone charger, so the solution can stream directly into the tree’s vascular system. Rather than using an extensive insecticide spraying method that can lead to the destruction of groves, Invaio opted for a ‘precision infusion’ approach using bactericides, or agrobacteria, which is “a microbe that originated in soil but has been turned into a plant engineering tool,” according to geneticist James Thomson in a release.

Smaller brands still got it

For those of you seeking 100% juice from Florida-grown oranges, you still have options. Fort Pierce-based Natalie's and Indian River Select continue to distribute 100% Florida-grown orange juice.

Other brands, who seem to be more niche in their approach, have turned beloved Florida citrus into novelties like wine, cakes, cocktails mixes, cookies, and more.

In fact, the Honeybell Orange Lover's Cake was the origin story for this article. On a very hot afternoon in June, I ordered this cake from Al’s Family Farms, a small but thriving family owned citrus grove located one mile off I95 in Fort Pierce. A few days later it came delivered to my front door step in a cold, round tin cake can. I can’t even say for certain why I ordered the cake. But I believe I was craving something sweet, something citrusy …. something moist. And, of course, it had to be something from Florida.

Al’s Family Farms is not the first to pair flour and oranges, though it may be the most delightful. It certainly is moist. It was so good, and I highly recommend this cake to any friends, family or readers.

Did I know I would like the cake? I had no idea. It was a lucky discovery and I’ll be ordering again soon.

After the cake and after a few afternoons of brainstorming ideas for this story, I decided to search for a Florida citrus wine to try. These wines are typically sweet and not what I would normally choose, but this is a story about Florida citrus, and oranges specifically, so it had to be made with pure, 100% fresh-squeezed Florida orange juice.

An internet search found a company named Florida Orange Groves Winery selling several wines that matched my criteria, but especially the Orange Sunshine flavor. So I ordered this wine for its symbolic value, with no idea how it would taste and if I would like it.

According to its website, it takes about nine pounds of fruit to create enough juice for just one bottle of Orange Sunshine wine, using a special process of fermentation, aging and bottling. Most of the wines are enjoyed best when chilled and can pair well with fruit or cheese and crackers. They also have lower alcohol content than traditional grape wines which may appeal to more health-conscious wine drinkers.

Without giving too much away about my wine tasting experience, I wholeheartedly recommend at least trying a Florida citrus wine. The taste is unique and worth exploring and you are supporting local citrus growers and a state-wide industry that needs all the help it can get.

Last month, as we traveled through the middle of Florida along State Road 70, heading west toward Treasure Island, there was undeveloped land as far as the eye could see, spanning a lush green horizon that included pastures, forests, cattle land, citrus groves, horse ranches, and wetlands near the northern shore of Lake Okeechobee.

Nestled amongst the landscape, and seemingly lost in time, were a few Old Florida towns such as Myakka City, Arcadia, Lake Placid, and a ghost town called Pine Level. These are places that are, for the most part, untouched by Florida’s population boom. But not completely.

Within the border of Indiantown, a small village located on the north bank of the St. Lucie Canal, a commercial and residential project by the name of Terra Lago, an 806-acre community with a town center, an assisted-living facility and more than 2,000 single-family homes, townhomes and apartments, is currently underway.

In Manatee County, on the western side of State Road 70, is Lakewood Ranch, the 33,000 acre (and growing) masterplanned community first developed 30 years ago atop empty cow pastures. According to LWR Communities LLC, the development is about halfway complete, meaning aggressive growth is underway in the eastern part of the county where undeveloped agriculture land will be paved over to make way for more homes, more commercial buildouts and more infrastructure. In order to achieve this ambitious plan, as is often the case, zoning changes must be agreed upon.

For the hundreds of thousands of people moving to Florida every year, this is good news. More development and homes available will make it easier to live, work and play in the Sunshine State, while more tax revenue is good for local governments. But for conservation groups, wildlife organizations and concerned residents, rapid and far-reaching commercial and residential development is problematic for the state and its resources including the state’s wetlands and water quality. It’s also creating an issue with Florida’s fresh vegetable crops, but that’s another story for another day.

But even so, and in despite of dire warnings from state agriculture experts and environmentalists, the urban sprawl will continue to encroach rural ‘Old” Florida, contributing to the degradation of land, water and habitat quality, negatively impacting the environment for both humans and wildlife, which includes, of course, the wading bird population.

According to Alex Freeze, Corridor Collaboration Teams Facilitator with the Florida Wildlife Corridor Foundation, urban development is projected to overtake 5 million acres of green space (about the size of New Jersey) by 2070 to accommodate Florida’s population boom, which is growing by an average of 1,000 people per day — equal to one million new residents added to the state every three years.

“The development sprawl built to accommodate this population explosion often creates fragmented patches of habitat, separating wildlife populations by roads, parking lots, and poorly designed neighborhoods,” she said in an email.

Encroachment and migration

In real estate terminology, encroachment is when a property owner violates the property rights of his neighbor by building on the neighbor's land or property intentionally or otherwise. But the term also applies to human activity threatening and overtaking protected areas and natural habitats such as preserves, wetlands, grasslands, forests, and so on, negatively impacting the local biodiversity in a given region.

In Florida, rapid population growth and overdevelopment are two of the driving forces behind these threats, along with encroachment from invasive species and sea level rise. And while similar challenges are happening all over the world, Florida has been particularly hit hard in recent years due to the ‘great migration’ during and after the Covid-19 Pandemic.

As out-of-state transplants have flocked to the sunshine state in recent years, many of the biggest developers and homebuilders have taken notice, as have local governments in need of more tax revenue. Consequently, developmental firms have been purchasing massive amounts of cheap land (often not zoned for residential or commercial building) and then, when the time is right, dangling enormous incentives in front of cash-strapped local governments. The end result is often hundreds or even thousands of acres of undeveloped land, rezoned and ready for building.

While a short term financial stimulus may seem appealing to county, city and village decision makers, uncertain liabilities may lie ahead especially as urban sprawl continues to shrink rural lands and wetlands where wildlife need adequate space, protection and resources.

According to Freeze, wildlife populations such as panthers and birds are facing critical challenges in their historic habitats. “Development pressure in critical habitats can result in fragmentation and loss of access to vital resources,” she said. “When suitable habitat is lost in one area, wildlife could be forced to seek less desirable habitat patches.”

This is a scenario wading birds in the state know all too well. As mentioned in part one of this series, wading birds in the past attempted (albeit unsuccessfully) to move their colonies further in the Everglades to evade plume hunters and the hazardous environments created by man at the time. Though plume hunting is a thing of the past, hazardous environments and habitat destruction are not.

Take the wood stork, for example. These unusual looking birds with a pebbly bald head and little black eyes, nearly disappeared in the 1970s, and according to John Ogden from The Audubon Society, wood storks were on a pathway to extinction by the end of the twentieth century due to agriculture expansion, development and drainage projects throughout South Florida, and specifically, in the Everglades. As a result, wood storks were officially listed as endangered under the Endangered Species Act as well as protected as a Threatened Species by the Federal Endangered Species Act and as a Federally-designated Threatened species by Florida’s Endangered and Threatened Species Rule. 

Like other wading birds, wood storks rely on the sufficient conditions of wetlands, including freshwater and estuarine marshes, with water levels playing a critical role as they breed. If unexpected water fluctuations occur and tactile foraging techniques are thwarted, wading birds will leave in the hopes of finding a better habitat. “Florida's wading birds rely on water levels to support their target prey populations,” explained Freeze. “Loss of habitat and changes to water quality and quantity are both major threats that have resulted in degradation or total loss of nesting and foraging areas for wading birds.”

What will happen to Wild Florida?

According to a 2021 report by the South Florida Water Management District, approximately 43,000 wading bird nests were initiated that year, indicating an above average nesting season, with three bird species (Great Egret, White Ibis and Wood Stork) meeting their targets. In recent years, the SFWMD has gone to great lengths to restore the Everglades and South Florida's hydrology, moving more water to the right places at the right time and reducing harmful discharges from Lake Okeechobee.

But that was nearly four years ago and much has happened to the state since then. In scenarios playing out all over Florida, developers have set their sights on building on and through rural areas including those in close proximity to wetlands. In Wellington, for example, a controversial development by Wellington Lifestyle Partners has been met with intense pushback by residents, local conservationists and a group called Keep Wellington Green due to expressed concerns for wetland preservation and wildlife.

In Martin County, developer Ken Bakst submitted an application to amend the previous zoning restrictions in order to build 175 homes, two golf courses, cottages and more on a cattle ranch. In Brevard County, residents started an online petition to slow down the growth after a developer requested a zoning change in order to build apartments or condominiums. In Marian County, groups such as Save Our Rural Areas and Horse Farm Forever are fighting to save rural lands and farms from developer overreach.

These are just a few examples of what is occurring, a microcosm of Florida’s battle to protect the land, water and wildlife. For organizations such as the Florida Wildlife Corridor Foundation, there have been some success stories.

In June of 2021, the Florida Wildlife Corridor Act was signed into law, formally recognizing the existence of the Florida wildlife corridor, a dynamic stretch of over 190 thousand acres of land that includes forests, swamps, fields, pastures, timberlands, and more. The act also works to safeguard agricultural lands and natural areas from development and to ensure clean water and air.

This is the kind of work that helps to secure a brighter, more sustainable future for Florida’s native flora and fauna, including wading birds. And the Florida Wildlife Corridor Foundation is not alone in their efforts. Everyday citizens in addition to conservation groups are getting louder, and hopefully more persuasive as green space increasingly disappears.

Indeed, the future of Florida is in the crosshairs of overdevelopment with no real end in sight. This will affect where the wading birds live. This will affect where we all live.

I have an interesting piece of Florida history to share with you; let’s see if you’ve heard about this before.

Prior to the Florida land boom in the 1920s, the state remained an agricultural and rural hub. Suburbia and busy city sprawls were virtually nonexistent and resources from both land and water remained vast and largely unvarnished. But sometime around the late 1800s, Florida became a favored destination for tourists to enjoy its natural beauty and climate.

Around the same time, Florida also became a popular place for potential investors looking to capitalize on new and rapidly growing industries such as sponge harvesting and phosphate mining. As a result, flourishing economic conditions spurred the state’s transportation and hospitality industry into overdrive. With railroads, city and county roads, hotels, and small towns on the horizon, and as newcomers to the state began their inevitable journey through coastlines, swamps, grassy waters, and forests, Florida was on the cusp of ingenuity, innovation, and unfortunately, doomed for exploitation.

The Everglades, one of the world’s largest subtropical wetlands, once covered more than 2 million acres across South Florida. The swampy region was (and still is) home to reptiles, fish, panthers, hundreds of bird species, and much more. But attempts to drain the Everglades for agriculture and development would prove moderately successful, and around the turn of the 20th Century, Florida’s wild landscape began to shift.

And all the while, as industrialists and state legislators appealed for a drained and dryer Florida, another threat loomed in the wetlands. This time, it was the plume hunters.

The high cost of a feather

Most any fashionable and high society woman in the late 1800s wore a hat. These hats were adorned with feathers of all shapes, sizes and colors ranging from shades of pinks, blues, blacks, browns, and of course, the most vibrant of whites. The Great Blue Heron, Roseate Spoonbill and flamingos were all hunted for their plumes. But because colored feathers faded over time, it was the brilliant white feathers that many women wanted. White ibis, Cattle Egrets, Snowy Egrets, and Great Egrets all fetched a high price in the plume trade. In some cases, the white feathers of egrets, and specifically Snowy Egrets, were worth more than diamonds or gold.

Plume hunters and gunners in Florida were a notoriously rough, albeit ignorant, bunch. According to Death in the Everglades: The Murder of Guy Bradley, they were a mix of settlers and hunters from the southern part of the state and up and down the Gulf Coast. Many were poor and arguably unaware of the environmental impacts of killing birds in such large numbers. They were, quite simply, getting their ‘cut of the action.’ But the big players, or rather, the plume tycoons were often out of state and wealthy business owners, such as Mr. J.H. Batty, who owned a highly profitable taxidermy business out of New York City.

Estimates place the number of wading birds killed during that time at approximately five million. Island sanctuaries, rookeries, and parts of the Everglades —where egrets, ibis, spoonbills, and herons once nested peacefully — lay completely gutted. Entire bird families were wiped out, all at once, shot to death and scalped, with a bloody mess of bodies left behind. A devastating sight, to be sure. But for ten dollars per plume, the death and destruction was worth it in the eyes of hunters and the fashion industrialists who led the way.

In the year 1900, the Florida Audubon Society was created and the state’s first bird protection act was passed in 1901. Killing birds in Florida for the sale of their plumes was now a criminal offense, though enforcement proved challenging in Florida’s wet and wild landscape. A former plume hunter, Mr. Guy M. Bradley, had been hired by the Audubon campaign as a game warden to monitor the coast of South Florida, and over time, his work paid off: wading bird populations increased. But on July 8, 1905, Bradley was murdered by a gang of plume hunters who just couldn’t give up the hunt.

Since then, several state laws and federal efforts have put the plume hunting business to rest. Many of the wading birds continued to rebound, thanks in part to the efforts of national and state conservationists who worked to end the trade, advocating for new laws and protections. And, yet, wading birds in Florida are living with a different type of threat, and one that is equally as devastating: habitat destruction.

The rich, life-giving resources of Florida begin in the wetlands. For wading birds, this is where they breed, live and nest—finding solace on rookeries and hunting fish, amphibians, reptiles, and crustaceans in which to feed themselves and their young. By appearances alone, these low-lying, marshy areas seem hearty and robust; able to thwart deterioration from major weather events or even drought. But Florida’s wetlands, including, but not limited to, the Everglades, are hardly invincible—and drainage attempts have proven just how fragile the environment can be.

Coordinated efforts to drain Florida’s wetlands extend back to the turn of the 20th Century. And there’s a reason for that: a steep population increase and the desire for ‘new’ and dryer land. As mentioned previously, the sunshine state experienced rapid growth as real estate, railroads and highways expanded up and down the west and east coast and throughout low-lying areas in Central Florida. But flooding remained an issue, which is why the Army Corps built a large dyke around Lake Okeechobee in addition to pump stations, levees and over 1,000 miles of canals in and around Florida’s wetlands.

So even as bird populations rebounded after the plume trade, wetland drainage projects caused wading bird numbers to fall dramatically—once again. The need for dryer land and space for suburban sprawls, commercial real estate, agriculture, and even ecotourism was worth the environmental costs, for a little while, at least.

Coming soon! Please be on the lookout for Part 2 of this two-part series about Florida’s wading birds which will expand more on habitat destruction and overdevelopment.

Late one afternoon this past January, the Carnival Man stood inside his booth on the midway of the South Florida Fairgrounds. Behind him were six basketball hoops, rows of color-coded stuffed bears, and sports-themed basketballs stacked high on each opposing side. He wore dark sunglasses and a bright blue shirt with a lanyard draped across his neck, holding an ID badge and a cross that dangled below.

The Carnival Man, who looked to be in his mid-60s, was slightly hunched over and expressionless, but seemed enthusiastic enough when calling out to the prospective players before him. “It’s five dollars, cash only, for two chances to score,” he hollered to onlookers on the walkway. “Make one basket, get a prize.”

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It’s a line he’s uttered countless times before to families with young children, rowdy teenagers, couples on a date, or random singletons at the fair. In fact, just outside and beyond the Carnival Man’s domain, other workers stood in their booths, surrounded by similar stuff animals and colorful prizes, calling out in the same way, searching for someone — anyone — to take the bait and play a game.

If these sights and sounds seem familiar to you, then perhaps, at some point you’ve been to the fair. Not just the South Florida Fair, but any other county or state fair throughout Florida or even the United States.

Fun fairs, or carnivals, have been traveling the country since the late 1800s — freak shows and all. But it wasn’t until 1912 when the South Florida Fair first opened its colorful and crowd-pleasing attractions to people of all ages and backgrounds. With each new year, the fair brings promises of adventure, carnival food, fast rides, shows, livestock displays, and a hearty dose of nostalgia.

There’s even a good chance that you’ve met or seen Carnival Man before, like I had. It was exactly one year ago, plus or minus a day or two, in this very same booth, that my husband won a red and black Tampa Bay Buccaneers basketball. Carnival Man nodded when I shared my memory. “Yup, that was me,” he said. “I’ve been working this fair for years.”

The memory was more than Carnival Man, too. It was the food stands: gyros, chicken pitas, corn dogs, fresh baked pizza, caramel apples, curly fries, nachos, fried Oreos, and more. It was the smell of deep-fried and full of flavor desserts, smoked meats and firewood. It was the flags, waving with the afternoon wind, enticing visitors to eat their way through the fair. Each smell, each flavor unlocked a memory bank of flashbacks to last year’s fair and the fairs before that. And while recollections may vary, it’s safe to assume that the scent of fair foods elicit positive thoughts and memories, perhaps from childhood or good times with friends and family.

Nostalgia plays a primary role in the enduring legacy and success of the fair. Though there are occasionally new rides or shows or experiences, the fairgrounds and attractions and even the carnival workers appear to be the same, and at the very least, evoke a familiar and comforting emotional response.

On the midway that afternoon, I noticed very few fairgoers who were staring down into their phones. Instead, I saw several couples walk hand-in-hand, friend groups laughing loudly and eating treats, kids running past kids, moms pushing strollers and dads who carried young ones on their shoulders. Everyone looked engaged. There was joy. There was togetherness. There was a spirit of adventure.

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Among the more adventuresome attractions at the fairgrounds, the big slides, miniature roller coasters, oversized ferris wheels, towering swings, gravity trains, spin rides, and rides that go upside down — the true heartbeat of the fair — twisted, swung and flung riders from the ground to the sky, and back again.

And, then, there were the animals. Baby llamas, goats, calves, ponies, and even a baby camel lounged in a miniature, heavily-shaded petting space, where South Floridians could experience, even if just for a moment, the sights, sounds and feel of farm life. Real animals soft to the touch, to feed and to connect with. It’s not something that happens too often as modern day agriculture is far removed from urban and suburban societies. And, yet, here it was — the storybook version of the farm — at the fair. Just like last year and the years before that.

In the past two to three decades, rapid technological innovation has undoubtedly disrupted human-to-human interaction. We all know this to be true. And likewise, we all know it can’t be stopped. So when places like the fair produce human moments such as togetherness, adventure, warmth and affection, we should consider it a victory for society. So, yes, let’s go back to the fair. Let’s go back again and again.

From Florida’s East Coast, traveling west on State Road 64, past Lake Okeechobee and through the quiet towns of LaBelle and Clewiston, we steadily make our way to a seven-mile-long barrier island located off the Gulf Coast.

After a short drive up I-75 and through the City of Bradenton, we finally arrive on Anna Maria Island with about an hour left till sunset. First impressions, and once we cross the AMI Bridge, is that the island is a mix of old fashioned and classic— pleasant, charming, and for the moment, free of crowds.

It’s also an easy-going kind of place. Time-worn, but quaint, shopping plazas line the roadside along with low-lying and stilted homes. Golf carts of all sizes and colors are noticeable, whether parked or driving on main or side streets. There is nothing overly commercialized here— no high-rise buildings or billboards; no chain restaurants. Even the Circle K looks like a picturesque island cottage.

Our lodging for the next two nights, the Waterline Villas & Marina, a boutique hotel with condo-style suites, sits on a quiet corner, overlooking the marina where sailboats and pontoon boats sit idle and pelicans rest in trees and mangroves nearby. Just beyond the marina is the bay, boasting expansive water views, a very beautiful sight and one in which we are immensely grateful for. But the real magic comes when we head over to the beach for the sunset.

With a smooth horizon straight ahead and a pristine shoreline below, the beach has a harmonious feeling to it all — responsive, even-tempered, accepting. At our feet, a soft, powdery sand, made up of white quartz crystals, is pure and free of coarse seaweed or broken shells. Whereas closer to the water, the sand is flat and hard and chilled and occasional footprints line the ground.

We find ourselves in the company of others, few and far between, who, like us, are taking in the last of the light, the laid-back waves, and the openness of the ocean. This is, in fact, the shoreline of Holmes Beach, a city district located in the heart of Anna Maria Island, with Bradenton Beach on the southern tip and the City of Anna Maria to the north.

A brief history shows this part of the island was first homesteaded in 1896 with a post office to follow a few years later. Soon a developer by the name of Jack Holmes set his sights on the area and eventually built a 600 acre community, as he chopped down and maneuvered through Sabal palmettos, banana and coconut trees, mangroves, sea grape, pine trees, and more — a dense jungle brimming with wildlife like snakes, panthers, birds, and wildcats — now a developed (some may say overdeveloped) and renowned tourist hub.

Even further back, and prior to European arrival in the 1500s, Native Americans inhabited parts around the island in addition to locations up and down the Gulf Coast and Florida peninsula.

Good views and vibes along the way

The next day, we rent a golf cart and explore the seven mile long island from Bayfront Park Beach and the Bridge Street Pier to the Bay View Plaza and sightseeing along the way. It feels like utopia, in a sense, where social cohesion and an immense feeling of safety create an undercurrent of harmony and good vibes— whether real or perceived. You won’t find the decadent mega resorts, pretentious restaurants or the masquerade of wealth and class distinction on Anna Maria Island. In fact, it is more like a hodgepodge of communities, all coexisting as one, where expensive homes with Gulf views mingle among miniature cottages, and trailer parks nestle between three-story vacation homes.

That is the beauty of this low-key island: though tourists initially come for sightseeing and attractions, they arguably return for the vibes. Which is not to say the sights, sounds and fun things to do aren’t enough to keep people coming back. But it does indicate that the spirit of Anna Maria Island adds a great deal to the appeal. Take the Rod and Reel Pier, for example, a super casual spot for fishing and a bite to eat. Other than the views and good food (like many other seaside restaurants) this modest eatery continues to be a major destination on the island since its inception in 1947, proving that the essence of a place often matters the most.

To fully live up to its hype, however, the island needs to be a safe haven for native Florida species, such as plant life and birds. And for the most part, it does deliver, despite the island’s prevalence of concrete infrastructure (all part of the previous and recent building booms). On our day journey, we do manage to see several brown pelicans, egrets, gull birds, sanderlings, white ibis, and herons.

Mangroves, which are essential to Florida’s coastal areas, are another common sight around the island. These salt-tolerant shrubs and trees support nearby marine ecosystems and protect the land from extreme weather events. They also provide life-sustaining resources and habitat to birds, reptiles and amphibians. Mangroves are protected by Florida law, and any attempts to remove or destroy the plant will result in an investigation and possible fines.

The highlight of our trip involved not only the sights and sounds of the island, but also its character. We simply took it all in: the natural marvels like crystal sand and incredible sunsets were but one of many layers that make this island so unforgettable.

It was a reminder of all the good things about Florida on one tiny stretch of land. Long live Anna Maria Island and every bit of good vibes it delivers.

In the late evening hours of November 16, 2023, and after several long nights of meetings inside the Wellington Village Hall, three council members as well as the mayor and vice-mayor, addressed the public and voted on a recent proposal to modify the Equestrian Preserve Area (EPA) boundary, removing 96.17 acres within the Equestrian Village and White Birch Farms.

Up until that point, no one knew for certain which way the vote would ultimately go. In fact, and in nights prior, the Council listened — quite earnestly, it seemed — to passionate testimony by Wellington residents and equestrians.

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Inside the crowded room, many attendees wore bright red shirts that read “Vote No” as they spoke to the five elected members, detailing why a proposal to remove land could not go through, citing previous zoning agreements, density, safety issues, environmental impacts, and more. Arguments centered on not only emotional appeals, but logic and genuine concern that Wellington would change — indefinitely — into something it was never intended to be.

On one side of the room, the applicant, Wellington Lifestyle Partners (WLP), and a small minority of people in favor of the proposal, argued that Wellington must grow —and grow big — or risk becoming obsolete, perhaps even losing it’s status to places like the World Equestrian Center in Ocala.

Ocala, a rural but growing city in North Central Florida, was mentioned several times during the meetings. But even as comparisons were made between the two, Ocala and the Village of Wellington are vastly different places. And, yet, the narrative persisted. In fact, according to both supporters and opponents of the new development proposal, if the Village Council voted in favor or against, Ocala could possibly become the new hub for international equestrian sport.

In a Wall Street Journal article dated back to March of this year, Wellington developer and entrepreneur, Mark Bellissimo of WLP, cited competition from Ocala in order to gather community support for greater expansion throughout the EPA.

On the flip side, local equestrians and those opposed to new development, made similar claims about Ocala, but for entirely different reasons. According to Lauren Brody, Wellington equestrian and realtor, she believes the local horse community will slowly disappear if the plans move forward. “People will start to move to Ocala or Palm City and commute to the show,” she explained. “We don't want to live or show in a multi-year construction zone. We don't want more traffic and we do not want dressage and hunter/jumper together.”

Ms. Brody, who was in attendance all three nights of the Village Council meetings, in addition to several Council meetings earlier in the year, has long been a vocal opponent to new development in the preserve area. Her greatest fear, she explained, is the precedent set and risk for more overdevelopment. “This is just the beginning,” she said. “If the council lets land out of the EPA, developers are coming for the rest.”

So when the Council members began their closing statements and subsequent vote, Ms. Brody, as well as the majority in the room that night, was not only devastated and confused, she was in shock.

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Councilman Michael Drahos, who is not seeking reelection, spoke first. For 24 minutes, and before voting yes on the proposal, he voiced his justification using several arguments, one of which was centered on the thousands of residents he represents. “I do represent 60,000 people,” he said to the room. “There’s a demographic that I don’t think was well represented in this process, it’s the one, quite frankly, that got me elected— the young professional of Wellington.”

“In my experience in dealing with those folks,” he continued, “they don’t agree with a lot of you.”

Yet, despite this revelation, the views heard not only at the meetings but through petitions and online posts have been overwhelmingly opposed to Mr. Bellissimo’s plan. And while it’s true that many residents do not have the time or ability to attend in-person local government meetings, as Mr. Drahos claimed, anyone can and is encouraged to email public comments directly to council members regarding developmental proposals. Of the public comments emailed and read during the meetings, only a small fraction voiced support for the applicant.

Mayor Anne Gerwig, who will be termed out in spring, is running as a Republican for State Representative District 93. She also voted to approve the proposal, citing in her closing comments past successful developments and the need for new sports complexes. “It hasn’t been easy for me,” she told the room. “It would be easy for me to say ‘no’ just so I could get the crowds to say ‘oh she’s great’ but I’ve never operated that way. I’ve always done what I thought was right.”

Ironically, however, Vice-Mayor Michael J. Napoleone, who is currently running for Mayor of Wellington, was the sole council member to vote against the proposal, pointing out concerns from constituents and lack of specifics provided by the applicant regarding capital as well as the state of the application itself. His vote came in direct contradiction to Mayor Gerwig.

Meanwhile, council members Tanya Siskind and John T. McGovern, also voted to approve the controversial proposal.

“Horses Not Houses”

It’s a catch-phrase commonly seen and heard from residents in Wellington, but there’s a significant — albeit historical meaning — behind those words.

Not long after the Village of Wellington was incorporated on December 31, 1995, Ken Adams, Wellington pioneer and former Palm Beach County Commissioner and equestrian, worked with the Florida Legislature, the Wellington Council and village residents to set aside space within Wellington for equestrians and their horses — totaling 9,000 acres of woodlands, pastures, lakes and waterways, show grounds, bridle paths, polo fields, and low-density housing.

Low-density housing and limited commercial space is, perhaps, key to keeping the EPA green, open and hospitable to horses. Ken Adams believed that to be true and so did Wellington residents and previous Village Councils. Several years ago, in fact, there was a proposal to change zoning regulations in the EPA (Mr. Bellissimo wanted to build a luxury hotel) and that proposal was soundly defeated.) And during the March 2016 election, residents voted to ban hotels, condos and apartments in the preserve entirely.

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The dispute in Wellington is, at its core, about overdevelopment and removing land from the Equestrian Preserve Area. But it’s also rooted in mistrust. Depending on who you talk to in the local community, Mr. Bellissimo is either celebrated for his entrepreneurial achievements within Wellington including purchasing and operating the Winter Equestrian Festival or he is scorned for being a greedy developer, hellbent on doing what he wants — and where he wants — despite resident opposition and previous land zoning agreements. His latest proposal — The Wellington North and The Wellington South — is arguably the most ambitious yet to go before the Council.

Mr. Bellissimo, one of the biggest property owners in Wellington, has been on record over the years detailing his plans for expansion in the region. So these new developments playing out should be of no surprise to those paying attention. What has been surprising, to be sure, is the Council’s support for the proposal and the sudden shift to reshape the Village of Wellington.

For residents like Ms. Brody, the vote wasn’t just surprising, it was a betrayal of trust. “I met with all of them and not one said they planned to do whatever they wanted and not take the viewpoint of the constituents into account,” she said.

“And to sit through three nights of the Equestrian Preserve Committee and then three nights of PZAB and to hear all the interested parties and important groups speak against the applications, only to watch the Council go rogue and vote for it,” she continued. “Nothing makes sense.”

Developing Wellington

For much of the last two decades, the Village Council found ways to partner with developers while also working with the public toward conservation of green spaces and better preservation of the land. In 2018, Councilman Michael Drahos told members of the community that he would not support a Broward County developers plan to build 200 homes on a former golf course north of Forest Hill Boulevard if residents did not approve of it.

“I advised them,” Drahos said to residents about the developer, 13th Floor, “I would not support it absent of overwhelming support from you all.”

In a 2022 Around Wellington article, Councilman John McGovern boasted about voting to expand the Equestrian Preserve Area as well as supporting venues that rely on it. “The Equestrian Preserve is uniquely Wellington and we should continue to protect it,” he told the publication.

Recently, however, several large-scale projects in Wellington have been completed or are in the works, including a $38 million athletic training complex, Wellington Bay, The Quaye at Wellington, and the long-awaited Lotis Wellington I and II, a mixed-use venture with apartments, senior independent living units, and an assisted living community. Not to mention, the upcoming sale and commercial development of K-Park, a 66 acre plot of land owned by the Village of Wellington.

Without a doubt, developers will keep coming and they’ll come for every inch they can get. But not all development is bad, especially as communities grow and change. The need for housing and new schools, for example, are critical in Wellington and South Florida in general. And the concept of ‘redevelopment’ or reimagining older structures — although disrupting —does remain favorable with the public since it allows both progress and preservation to occur simultaneously. In this case, however, that is not what’s happening.

What is happening is that the Village of Wellington is transitioning — quite rapidly, one might say — from a quiet bedroom community with a vibrant horse industry into something faster-paced and more commercially driven.

With regards to the equestrian preserve, and as luxury housing, golf clubs and retail projects appear to advance, Mr. Drahos believes the Village Council is doing everyone — and specifically equestrians — a favor. “I believe that it’s the Council’s job to save the equestrian industry from its own self-destruction,” he told residents at the November meeting.

Community members will have another chance to address these comments and more during the January meeting at Village Hall. Public comments regarding The Wellington North and The Wellington South proposal can also be made here.

One painting shows a seaside port town, otherwise known as the Villefranche-sur-Mer, where a row of colorful homes and sailboats stretch across the canvas in vibrant pink, yellow, and orange hues. Nearby hangs two masks, in a mosaic, intended to be worn by Costa Rican natives when the Spanish invaded centuries ago. Other artworks are images of animals and nature painted or sketched on canvases, including minis, as well as on paper. And several photographs in the form of acrylic and metal hang, in a glossy shimmer, on the white, concrete wall.

No, this is not simply an art exhibition looking at various scenes in nature or artist inspirations. It’s a fundraiser for Arts For Smiles, a Palm Beach County nonprofit dedicated to enriching the lives of children through the arts, especially those in need both financially or in illness. It’s a cheerful, soulful, laidback of an exhibition, designed through an open call process, meant to benefit both Arts for Smiles and the local artists who show their work.

It’s the kind of exhibition that attracts friends and family and die-hard art lovers from within the community. It’s also the kind of exhibition that takes a tremendous amount of planning, months in advance, attracting local artists to submit creations that encompass all things joy. The show is called ‘The Joy of Art’ after all.

Along with creating the two-day event, the mission of Arts for Smiles is also a theme interwoven into the show itself. Arts For Smiles officially started in the early days of 2020, becoming a full nonprofit in December of 2021. Although the organization experienced setbacks due to the pandemic and Covid precautions, the last few years have been busy for Carolina King, founder of Arts for Smiles.

The organization’s core mission is to promote healing through the arts to those who need it most. Though the focus is primarily on children, Arts For Smiles also works to promote the arts in adult populations. This includes their inaugural art exhibition, The Joy of Art, appealing to both new and seasoned artists within Palm Beach County, some of whom that do not exhibit their work on a regular basis, if at all.

In order to create the show, Arts for Smiles was granted access to a complex of funky industrial buildings off Georgia Avenue, ingeniously called The Peach, an art collective with several structures on site. Over the years, this quaint but lively section of West Palm Beach has morphed into a notable art and entertainment destination, boasting an impressive lineup of galleries, popup shows, music performances, and barbecue. Look for multi-discipline artist, Craig Mcinnis, a powerhouse in the local arts community, who also has walkable studio space on site.

Among the handful of artists exhibiting in the popup exhibition, Ann Fichera, deserves a special mention. This was not only her first time applying to a show, she also won first place for the People’s Choice award during Saturday’s reception. Her watercolor paintings come to life in a way that brings a sense of joy and delight. “Ann is an incredibly sweet and talented person,” says Carolina King. “I’m so happy that our exhibition was her first show and I’m sure there will be many more in her future.”

Another artist, Charles Moses, the second place winner, showcased several oil paintings including the image of Villefranche-sur-Mer in addition to a portrait of Ruth Bader Ginsburg. His paintings strike a delicate balance between realism and abstract interpretation, using colors and shapes and light to bring each painting to life.

When it comes to nurturing a local arts scene, having a community of supporters is just as important as the artists themselves. Establishing a personal connection becomes the building block between collectors, artists, organizations, and galleries—all critical components in the fueling of local arts. In turn, the art scene transcends its local communities and culture into something that benefits everyone—everywhere—from the tiniest corner of the neighborhood block to the big cities and decadent art shows. To be sure, most every emerging and seasoned artist started in the local arts.

The Cultural Council for Palm Beach County, for example, has been immenesly successful in the promotion of creatives, with well established events throughout the year, showcasing both amateur and professional artists, in addition to providing economic benefits, local tourism, new jobs, and new opportunities. Out further west, the Wellington Art Society also encourages and promotes the local art scene with year-round exhibitions and shows.

And, yet, more opportunity for local artists is always needed—and appreciated. Which is why ‘The Joy of Art’ exhibition came at just the right time and for all the right reasons: creative collaboration in the spirit of community togetherness.

Basking in blood-red lights and heavy fog, the South Florida Fairgrounds in West Palm Beach, Florida transforms in October to a place where hair-raising thrills and horrors rule the roost Thursday through Saturday nights, with haunted houses, carnival rides, scare zones, live entertainment, and roaming characters in detailed, ghoulish makeup.

This is Fright Nights, a local tradition since 2002, attracting people of all ages from across the region, promising horror and haunted house fans a heart-thumping experience. Behind the scenes, however, are countless organizers and volunteers, dedicated to making each Fright Nights better than the last—no easy feat given that the horror genre, in general, keeps growing and thriving, with fans seeking more shock value and disturbing content (if it doesn’t impale or shred, it’s dead). But even the most ardent thrill and terror seekers need a break from the gore-fest sometimes.

“Let’s go to the arcade”

It’s Friday night at Fright Nights and swaths of young adults and teenagers prowl the fair grounds, stopping for food and rides on the carnival midway before heading into this year’s haunted houses—Jed’s Chop Shop, Dead of Winter: Chapter 2, Hockley House, and Cutting Edge. Just before the scare zone entrance, an arcade, guarded by two very large skeletons, sits to the left of the haunted attractions, almost like a safe house, a refuge from the homicidal sights and sounds outside.

It’s early still, only an hour or so after opening, yet small groups of people roam the game room, tokens in hand, searching for the next claw machine to play. A few patrons carry plastic bags filled with prizes earned like plush teddy bears, avocado toast pillows and Sponge Bob Square Pants dolls. A young boy and his father play the Jurassic Park video game, while two teenage girls nearby scream and laugh as the claw machine grabs, drags, then drops a coveted plush, yellow duck inside.

The arcade, by all accounts, appears pristine. Over 80 different games line the walls and interior space, each lit up by florescent greens, pinks, blues, and purples, equipped with enchanting toys inside. Their cartoon eyes and smiles are facing out, through the glass, seemingly in search of a passerby or two or three to throw in a few tokens, or more.

In the corner of the room, at the cashier’s counter, where green dollars purchase gold tokens, one of the owners of E&T Amusements, Eli Weeks, works the computer in between answering customer questions and maybe even a few complaints. Weeks, calm and cool and clearly in his element, takes a set of keys and heads to a nearby machine for a maintenance check.

Weeks, along with his girlfriend and co-owner, Taylor Agnello, aren’t exactly your typical entrepreneurs. They’re teens—fresh out of high school and full of good-natured ambition. But this isn’t their first time as operators, on the contrary, both are highly experienced in the claw machine arcade business.

After a few years of operating candy machines in various locations throughout South Florida, Weeks and Agnello opened an entertainment and amusement company two years ago, when they were both just 16 years old.

Initially, the couple began placing claw machines inside a dozen or so different businesses. These are permanent locations. But, more recently, Weeks and Agnello figured that they could start temporary arcades, placing machines onsite, within seasonal events such as Fright Nights in the fall and the South Florida Fair in winter. This is their second year working both events.

The work is not easy, or always predictable. The pair have been documenting their entrepreneurial journey—the highs and lows— through a variety of social media channels like TikTok and Youtube, accumulating hundreds of thousands of followers, sharing inside tips, and showing the effort that goes into each and every arcade location. Videos posted to their Youtube channel reveal countless hours and manpower devoted to not only their arcade business but growing and developing as young entrepreneurs—a concept which resonates highly with their fan base.

One idea both Weeks and Agnello do not find enticing is working for someone else, or in other words, being told what to do. But for anyone involved in running a business—young or old—having a solid support system in place can make the difference between success or defeat. That’s when the role of family members comes into play. With parents and grandparents on call and often onsite at the arcades, lending a helping hand or offering advice, the couple continue to see growing success and profit margins.

But their success is also somewhat defined by their location: Florida. According to a recent study published by researchers at The Digital Project Manager, Florida is the most entrepreneurial state in the nation, with an impressive 13,238 small businesses per 100,000 residents. The study also found that Florida leads the nation in the creation of new businesses and startups, with more than 2.6 million formed over the last four years.

This includes E&T Amusements, and they’re just getting started.

In the near future, beyond temporary arcades, the pair are looking to open more permanent locations throughout South Florida, focusing on “Japanese style” arcade games (crane, cyclone and pachislot style machines) which have higher quality prizes, and conveniently, a fast-growing fan base within the United States.

But for now, you can find Weeks and Agnello, along with their claw machines, at Fright Nights. Come for the thrills, leave with prizes.

Saturday afternoons in Palm Beach County during the month of September are a mix of beach, parks, dining, sports, or lazy time on the couch. The weather is still hot, at times unbearably so, but late afternoons this time of year typically bring about soft coastal winds and a warm sunshine glow—an admired but often overlooked part of the day—the prelude, or buildup, to showstopper sunsets and rising luminous moons.

It’s also a transitionary time. The wild birds become active again. People and cars and boats come and go. Some businesses shut down while others open up. Restaurants and cafes start seating early dinner guests— wine bottles pop open; appetizers are served.

On this particular Saturday afternoon, we decide to use our Palm Beach Zoo annual pass, arriving around 4 PM with about an hour left until close. Located at Dreher Park in West Palm Beach, the 23-acre zoo is a non-profit zoological organization that cares for, and houses, hundreds of animals, many of whom are endangered, and provides community outreach and wildlife saving conservation within South Florida and beyond. Its mission is ‘to inspire people to act on behalf of wildlife and the natural world.’

Despite its surroundings (Dreher Park sits among a few worn-out looking areas) the Palm Beach Zoo is a local treasure. Exhibits and animals include the Florida Wetlands with otters, owls, flamingos, eagles, and a Florida panther. Next is Asia with animals like the black howler monkey, hornbills and the Malaysia Tiger. Tropics of the Americas includes Chilean flamingos, swans, anteaters, and a jaguar. And lastly, The Islands showcases sloths, lorikeets, macaws, lemurs, and koalas. Let’s not forget seasonal events such as Zoo Lights, Pumpkinpalooza and more.

This is our first time visiting the zoo so late in the day. The normally jam-packed parking lot is cleared out and crowds are nearly nonexistent. A few stragglers still mill about and one child sits idle in the water play fountains. Further in the zoo, some families remain, walking leisurely from exhibit to exhibit, languishing outside in a both natural and artificial world.

But it’s near closing time and things are quiet.

A few animals can’t — or won’t — be seen. They are, quite simply, done for the day. Some are tucked inside private animal quarters with food, water and other comforts. Others have retreated to hiding places within their enclosures, safe from human eyes and any remaining shrieking children. People can be a bit much sometimes.

While on the path within Florida Wetlands, the eagle’s nest is empty. Where two very large and relatively active eagles once perched together, both are gone this afternoon. Actually, one of the eagles passed away last year but the one who still lives is not out either. We leave the empty nest and walk deeper into the zoo.

After a few turns on the walkway, we find the alligator exhibit, empty, with the exception of the alligators (of course) and a chatty volunteer who is more than ready to talk all things reptile. We stop and listen, ask a few questions, take a good, long look at the floating alligators, then head to the tiger enclosure.

A young tiger is pacing the fence, back and forth, in a rhythm, or some sort of pattern, waiting for something. Food? It’s not clear. A small crowd of people, late after-nooners like us, stop and stare for a bit, then move on. The tiger doesn’t seem to care who comes and goes.

We make it back to the play fountain area before leaving. Our toddler wants to splash around for a few minutes so we let him. It’s a beautiful afternoon, still, and the sun is warm so the water sprinkles are welcome. A few more kids join us in the fountains, running, dodging water, then jumping into it. Parents watch from benches nearby and a couple of people even manage to buy slushies before the cart shuts for the day.

The zoo is minutes from closing but no one seems to want to leave. It is safe here and there is laughter along with the sound of water hitting the concrete. The breeze is soft. But, sadly, it is time to go.

We load into the car, start the engine, and make our way home, taking the back way this time, driving on Summit Blvd. The traffic slows down a bit and we notice several police cars and a large white van along the roadside. A long stretcher can be seen and a few men are in diving gear. They also look like police officers. We spot what we think is a body covered in a white sheet.

“It was such a fun afternoon, though,” I say to my husband. We both agree that late afternoons at the zoo are a great time to visit, to escape the crazy of the world.

The next morning we did hear that it was a body the police had pulled out. No foul play suspected.

Florida, like every other place inhabited under the sun, is a land in which many names exist. Names of people who were born, who lived, who died. Names of places that have come and gone or still remain. Names of prominence and names of obscurity. Some names are silly like, Two Egg, a small unincorporated community in Jackson County; or a place called Dogtown in Gadsden, County. Other names are overly descriptive such as Rattlesnake Bend and Fluffy Landing, two places that exist on a map, and if each name implies what it says, then Florida really is the land of extremes.

Many places in Florida are named after people. Napoleon Bonaparte Broward, named after the infamous military and political leader in France, was Florida’s governor from 1905 to 1909. Despite controversy surrounding the Everglades drainage project and the fact that he was an avowed segregationist, he somehow managed to have an entire county named in his honor. Whereas Osceola County was named after the Seminole Tribe leader, Osceola, which also means “Black Drink Cry.” And the list goes on.

Florida, originally named La Florida or La Pascua Florida, got its name from Spanish explorer Juan Ponce de León upon arrival in 1513. Some historians believe he chose the name in honor of Easter Sunday, often called La Pascua de las Flores, or the festival of flowers. While others credit the lush vegetation and flowers as the reason for its name.

But this isn’t a story about Florida places named after famous, or even infamous, people. This is a story about a person who took on a new name, perhaps even an amplified identity, with origins in a south-central Florida city. Unfortunately, it ended in tragedy.

Just northwest of Palm Beach County and south of Orlando is a city called Sebring, located in Highlands County. Like many places in these parts of Florida, warm sunshine and low cost of living attract retires and those, perhaps, who seek out a quiet and peaceful life. According to locals, Sebring isn’t all that fun for younger people but a few “hidden gems” exist. The mall is reportedly empty, the bowling alley burned down, and Walmart is the de facto shopping district. Sebring is laid back, but lacking in excitement. The city is average, as one local explains.

But within the city’s perimeter, a race track, Sebring International Raceway, established in 1950, and North America‘s oldest permanent road racing facility. Since 1952, this 3.74-mile racing circuit has hosted the legendary 12-hour endurance classic and was the site of the first ever FIA World Championship Sports Car Race in 1953. Fast cars and fast times, drivers and spectators alike gathered in droves for racing events at the Sebring International Raceway. Even Formula 1, the highest class of international racing for open-wheel single-seater formula racing cars, arrived in Sebring in 1959. Unfortunately, the racing series didn't stay long and left the following year.

As most of us who follow sports and celebrity culture know, these are two worlds often intertwined. If it be speed or danger or the thrill of competition, celebrity and Hollywood types are frequently pictured alongside sports stars and in attendance at major sporting events. The same could be said for the Sebring International Raceway. Well known people such as Jim Morrison, James Garner and Steve Jobs attended the 12-hour race and entertainers Steve McQueen, Paul Newman, Jackie Cooper, Gene Hackman, Lorenzo Lamas, James Brolin and David Carradine have driven in the race.

Now, there are many fans who take motorsport very, very seriously — whether it be the cars, the drivers, the raceways, or the events — racing enthusiasts love just about everything having to do with cars and racing. Racing fans are loyal — some even obsessed — and the inspiration runs deep.

Sebring…

Sometime in the late 1950s, after fighting in the Korean War, a young man by the name of Thomas Kummer moved to Los Angelas, graduated from beauty school, and opened a hair salon for men on Fairfax Avenue. The hours were long and money troubles repeatedly began to mount. But it was the dawn of the 60s, the beginning of a new era with revolutionary ideas and cultural movements. In a way, it was also a period of personal and professional revolution for Kummer — adopting a new and innovative approach to men’s hair — emerging as a game changer through exciting styling techniques and a price tag to match. He also took on a new name, and arguably, a chance to make it big in Hollywood and beyond.

According to reports, this is when it all started to shift: Kummer was dating a Hollywood actress, Barbara Luna, who brought in a famous friend for a haircut. Enamored with the shampoo, cut and style, he handed the young stylist a $100 bill. Soon word spread and Kummer was introduced to celebrities like Frank Sinatra. He was charging clients $50 for his services, when other barbers charged, at most, $2. But Kummer needed a new name, Luna reportedly told him, a name with more glamour and greater energy.

It would have to be Sebring, which brings us to the Florida connection. Kummer’s fascination with cars, and by extension, the raceway in Florida, or rather the name of the raceway, inspired his new name, legally changing it to Jay Sebring, and, soon after, this man and his new name became the mogul behind Jay Sebring Salon franchises. His client list included Warren Beatty, Steve McQueen, Sammy Davis Jr., Kirk Douglas, Jim Morrison, and others.

If you happened to watch the movie, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, you would’ve seen Sebring (played by the actor Emile Hirsch) on screen, often accompanying his good friend and ex-girlfriend Sharon Tate. In the movie, it ends with Sebring’s character striking up a conversation, ending the film on a high note, and a“what might’ve been” scenario. But the real story is different. Much different.

He was murdered August 9, 1969, trying to protect his friend, Sharon, from members of the Manson Family.

His famous last name and legacy in the men’s hair industry remains.

Author’s Notes: This was a much shorter story than what I typically write, but I thought it interesting as well as the connection to a small city in Florida. I also wasn’t interested in focusing on the Manson part of the story. I’d love to hear your comments. Did you know about Jay Sebring and the reason behind the name change? I didn’t. Not until recently.

Join me, and together, we’ll climb. One step up, then 50 more, till we reach the top, and look down on the ground below where water, land, marsh, and trees remain largely undisturbed. The scene is expansive — a bird’s eye view of nature — as we stand layer upon layer of sand and shell, constructed by ancient humans thousands of years ago. We are, in fact, on top of a temple mound within the Crystal River Archaeological State Park.

The story goes like this: Sometime around 2,500 years ago, the people who inhabited the Crystal River region decided to build. With resources readily available such as sand, shells, rock, animal bone fragments, and perhaps even stone tools, temple and midden mounds steadily rose higher and served distinct functions within the tribal community.

The largest mound, Mound A, was built approximately 1,400 years ago, in a location that is said to align with the sun and stars during specific times of the year. Though massive as it may be, Mound A is reportedly a fraction of its original size and scope. Like many recurrent themes in modern history, when these parts were first discovered by new settlers to Florida in the 19th and 20th centuries, attempts to reconstruct the sacred and abandoned land unfortunately succeeded. Or, rather, partially succeeded, as the previous owner of the mound site removed the ramp and half of the east side, drastically reducing its magnitude. Despite the desecration, most of Mound A and remaining mounds have been preserved.

Mound A, of course, is just one of six mounds located at the site. There is Temple Mound H, the second largest of the mounds, followed by midden mounds, J and K, and burial mounds, C and F. The complex also contains a plaza area designated for large gatherings and ceremonial purposes

So that’s the story. A bunch of people lived here a long time ago and built things. Except, there’s always more to the story. Much more. And, yet, what do we know exactly about this area? For starters, it is estimated that ancient people have used the site for about 2,500 years prior to European arrival. It is estimated that 7,500 people visited the site annually. And it is estimated that 1,500 ancients were buried within the complex, which underscores Crystal River Archaeological State Park as not only a gathering of souls, it’s a land of living memories.

In search of way back when

On a recent trip to the North Florida area, and in search for signs and symbols of an ancient civilization, my family and I decided to head out west, driving along State Road 121, toward US 19, then south to our exit, W State Park Street. The journey was peaceful; passing through undeveloped and untamed land, flush with large trees and plants — pine, oak, palm, and more — that lined the roadside between bright green meadows and pastures. The further we ventured west, the older and more animated the land appeared to be — raw, unvarnished, pure.

We first learned of Indian mounds at Crystal River Archaeological State Park a few months ago. An admission I’m not particularly proud of being that I spent my adolescence 30 minutes south of the mounds in Hernando County, home of Weeki Wachee Springs State Park and Buccaneer Bay, where live mermaid shows and a charming waterpark accurately represent Old Florida and “the way things were.” And yet, these attractions are in no way old, not by a long shot.

But the mounds and artifacts found at the Crystal River complex are old, extremely old. Take, for instance, a few arrowheads found at the site, dating back to around 9,000 BC when Paleo-Indians inhabited the region, followed by later cultures, through the Fort Walton period.

But even with archeological digs and fragmented artifacts, the mound complex and its previous inhabitants remain a mystery. And the truth of the matter is that it takes more than academic research to understand who these people were and what made this specific location so sacred. Since the area was abandoned years before European arrival (another perplexing question) there are no written records or even oral stories passed down from one generation to the next. But someone, or rather, something knows what happened on Temple Mounds A and H, or inside the plaza, and around the complex. They know who was buried here and they know who buried them. Indeed, there is a record kept — a memory locked away — and the answers to our questions are waiting to be discovered. If only we could speak the language.

Lost in translation

Walking through the grounds that day in July, we found several sloping hills, covered in smooth green grass, and large oak trees with hanging moss next to Sabal palms. The mounds were distinct from the smaller hills — fuller, more rounded, taller — part of the land itself, and yet peculiar, unnatural even; they were manmade, after all. We followed the paved foot path to Temple Mound A, climbed to the top, and took in the view. The air was still humid, but different, thinner, and enjoyable, despite the summer heat. We stood on the platform and stared at the land and river below. It was just us in that moment: No other tourists were on site, nor visitors walking the trail. It was only the four of us, surrounded by an infinite number of living souls — souls weaved within the earth itself: grass, trees, rocks, water, and weeds. And they’ve been watching the entire time.

According to Native American teachings and traditions, the earth is alive, not simply in a physical sense, but spiritually, with a soul, or souls, that exist alongside our human selves. Thus, no heartbeat is necessary for a living creature to exist. It’s called animism; a belief in which many tribes consider the universe and everything within to be living organisms, or beings, with an inhabiting spirit that transcends modern limitations of what it means to be alive. In other words, Mother Nature has eyes and ears; she can tell us stories and connect us with our past. Her memory runs deep, and yet, we often fail to notice.

As we strolled through the mound complex, never straying from the designated foot path, to the midden and burial mounds, and pushing further in to Temple Mound H, the stifling summer humidity kicked in and the crickets chirped louder as temperatures continued to rise. We had crossed the grounds, stopping occasionally to read the signs, and now we were unquestionably on sacred land. As we stood there talking, the sun grew brighter, and from the trees and the grass and marshy puddles nearby, the bugs came, slow at first, then quick, without mercy. Large horseflies, mosquitos and mystery bugs we couldn’t see, came for our arms, our legs, hands, throats, neck. They buzzed in our ears and around our head. It was an onslaught.

The bugs chased us back, past the mounds and through the plaza. Our once leisurely stroll turned into a fast walk, then a jog, then a sprint. We made it back to the museum, sweating and panting and cursing the bugs. It looked as though we had lost a battle, red marks on our skin from bites and self-inflicted hand slaps. It looked as though we didn’t belong, as if we were the unwelcome guests, rejected, turned away. And, so, we left.

We left that day because we were hot and getting bit. But mostly because we were getting bit. In hindsight, though, and we failed to notice at the time, but the bugs didn’t start biting until we stopped at the burial mounds. The hungry bloodsucking horseflies, mosquitoes, and mystery bugs didn’t bother us on our initial walk through the plaza or at Temple Mound A. Surely, that was a coincidence. Right?

Our day visiting the sacred land was cut short. Had the bugs not been so bad, we would’ve stayed longer; we would’ve seen more. For when we left, and though we did learn a few things about the area, the land and everything that happened there, long before explorers washed up on Florida’s coastline, remained a mystery. There is an answer, but it involves a greater level of understanding. If only we could speak the language.

IF you’re searching for a nearly perfect insect on planet earth, look no further than the bee. There are approximately 25,000 species of bees spanning the globe, from the African continent to the Americas and nearly every other land mass between. They are superior pollinators — collecting pollen and nectar for food and subsequently cross-pollinating one plant to the other — on and on — contributing to the fertilization process, when fruits and seeds are formed and matured. According to estimates, bees are responsible for nearly 35 percent of the food we eat.

In Florida alone, there are 300 native species of bees, including species of honeybees, a very busy and furry little insect that visits 50 to 100 flowers on any given garden trip under the sun. Often you’ll find one buried in a bud or a few others buzzing nearby. Honeybees usually go about their important business, docile and unassuming, but sometimes the bees will sting a passerby, puncturing through the skin of a human, and losing their stinger in the process. It’s actually quite a tragic and gruesome death for the bee, a self-mutilation, if you can imagine, as the abdomen is ruptured, leaving a gaping hole, and half of the bee is gone with the stinger.

Bee stings, more than anything, are a mere annoyance to most humans. But there are times when a single sting, including one from an Africanized Honeybee, can send a person into anaphylactic shock and cause death. And, there are times when bees swarm. Though swarms seldom harm humans, serious injury or even deaths can and do occur if unlucky persons were to cross their path. It’s rare. But it does happen.

The Swarm

On one particular Florida afternoon, in the middle of the week, November 19, 2019, the bees arrived. It was trash day and oversized garbage bins and recyclables blocked parts of the street, proof that garbagemen had been there — were still there — grappling with, and emptying the bins, then tossing them anywhere other than their original spot.

One trash can a bit further down hadn’t budged, still filled to the brim with plastics, papers, rotten food, and old mail. Directly below it, two recycle bins, one yellow and one blue, overturned along with a syrup bottle, an empty tub of protein powder, a can of tuna, and a few cans of cat food. The bees were there; flying and bouncing from one carton to the next. Some flew higher in the air, then buzzed back down to the bins where more bees occupied the space, claiming new and savory territory, lumped together in a feeding-frenzy swarm.

It is said that bees swarm as a form of survival. When a colony becomes overcrowded, it will subdivide, splitting in two, and some bees will leave, looking for more resources and another place to live. In the late summer and fall months, for instance, when rainfall begins to subside and flowers wither in the heat, a trash can or recycle bin can make an appetizing alternative, a goldmine of leftover treats, sweeter than nectar, and free for the taking, but certainly, not without risk.

But for these particular Florida bees, the risk was worth the sweet stuff; the sweet, drippy, honey-like syrup oozing from a tipped over jug. It had drizzled in the recycling bins, on top the tuna and cat food cans and somehow smeared on an empty gallon of milk. It was everywhere. And so were the bees. A few hundred or so.

As it turns out, garbage men have the fifth most dangerous job in America. The work isn’t easy and injuries, even fatalities, occur for all sorts of reasons. Broken glass, a passing car, hazardous waste, flying squirrels, and raccoons — sometimes bad things happen to good garbagemen. Bad things that can and should be prevented with a few simple protocols like securing items in heavy trash bags or washing out food containers and keeping cartons or bottles covered. It’ll keep out the critters. And the bees — which garbagemen avoided that November afternoon.

And it also turns out that bee removal experts are in high demand. So much so that services requested and services rendered can have a lag time of up to 24 hours, or more, and calls made by those encountering a bee swarm may often go unanswered. And then there’s the bill, $500 or so, if an expert can get there in time, of course, which they couldn’t.

And time was a factor on this particular Florida afternoon. School would be out soon; children would walk home and pass through the street, near the untouched trash can, overturned recycle bins, the syrup bottle, and bees. Hundreds of bees.

Tough Choices

Dish soap. Large, black plastic bags. A water hose. Goggles. Gloves. White rain coat with a white hood. Blue bandana. I already had a pair of jeans on and boots that covered my ankles. Except for the bridge of my nose, not one square inch of skin was exposed, not one single stinger would puncture my flesh. And not one passerby would recognize me, to be sure, since I looked a bit like a bee keeper — a champion and protector of bees. The irony was striking.

Down the drive, a few yards from my front door, the bees were still buzzing, like a mad mob — a hive mind — a collective consciousness, operating as a unifying force, hovering over the cartons, remnants of food and syrup. Delicious, delectable syrup.

When making the choice to conquer a bee swarm, one must have the upper hand — to be in position of advantage, power and control. All of these elements, along with an element of surprise, are needed to achieve the desired outcome. The bees would be unlikely to stay, especially when the rush of water floods in, if the syrupy source is wiped clean and if they believe the food is gone. All things considered, however, the swarm may be reluctant to leave. But the bees had to go, one way or another.

I would like to tell you that the bees flew away — tired of the soapy water — to find a new source of food and plenty of flowers and nectar to feed a colony. I would like to tell you that most of the bees lived. But as the water continued to rush inside the bins, frothy and bubbling over, the bees and their stingers began to drown.

Later, after containers were shoved into large black plastic bags, the yellow bus pulled through, and children walked their normal routes, stepping over cracks in the sidewalk, hurrying home after a long day at school. Soapy water still flowed in the gutters nearby. But they never saw the bees. They never saw the swarm.