Maryhurst Prep 05 and 06

Maryhurst Prep 05

One adventure I will never forget occurred on a “field trip” to the St. Louis Zoo in the late autumn of our senior year. We took several of the Chaminade High School buses to the Zoo and ran around like the wild animals we were, with several of the Brothers dutifully riding herd. Perhaps our favorite stop of the trip was the Big Cat House, where all the feline carnivores were kept. In those days before informed zoo design, the big cats were housed in relatively small cages that opened outside to only slightly larger outdoor enclosures. To our delight on that particularly chilly and rainy afternoon, all the animals were inside. We moved slowly from cage to cage, marveling at the incredible power and sad majesty of the caged animals. Even then I loved-hated zoos for keeping those beautiful animals in jail until they died. I still think it horrible, though now I see the necessity better than I did in 1960.

Just as a large group of us gathered around the leopard cage a crowd of loud, ill-mannered black youths about our ages, rushed noisily into the exhibit. They saw the black panther and rudely pushed us aside so they could stand alongside the rail in front of the panther’s cage. Several of them loudly proclaimed that since it was a “black” panther they had every right to be in front of us white people.

Naturally, since we had just arrived and had not much opportunity to observe the beautiful animal, we thought such reasoning was specious, to say the least. But, being the meek little Postulants we were, we gritted our collective teeth and said nothing, pretending to be good Christians who loved their neighbors, and reluctantly allowed ourselves to be shoved to the back of the crowd.

The panther choose that moment to pace nervously to the front of the cage. Which caused quite a vociferous commotion among the black kids, especially the young men. They started yelling and shouting at the animal and stretched their arms up toward the cage to prove their courage. No sooner had the panther reached the front of the cage than he stopped, pivoted, lifted his tail and sprayed the closest members of the crowd with a potent mixture of panther piss and male marking scent (including no small amount of semen), which had to be one of the most horrific odors on the face of God’s green Earth.

Instantly, the black kids screamed, put their hands up to ward off the vile smelling liquid and tried to run. But the press of the crowd behind them prevented any hope of escape. To their disgust many of them were covered by the horribly scented spray.

Would it be a surprise to admit that we Postulants, standing now gratefully in the back of the crowd, felt more than a little gleeful satisfaction at this “poetic” but terribly rank justice?

Maryhurst Prep 06

Herb B. and I were united by more than our love of explosive danger. We also shared a fascination for snakes and during the fall would hunt them on the undeveloped edge of Maryhurst property. We caught king snakes, black snakes, garter snakes, and observed but purposely did not try to catch at least one copperhead. Actually, we caught a small snake I identified as a copperhead. But Herb disagreed, claiming it was some harmless species. Since he was holding it carefully just behind the head I stuck a small stick into its mouth and viola. On the stick were two glistening drops of liquid. Venom, I told my friend. And he knew I was right. So, very carefully, we released the little critter and watched it slither into the underbrush.

Of the snakes we caught, everyone’s favorite was one particular salt-and-pepper king snake that Herb made a pet. He was able to tame the snake almost immediately and kept it with him throughout the day. The damned thing would crawl under Herb’s shirt and stick its head out the front to survey the action. Or would curl around Herb’s neck and lay its head in a tangle of hair over his forehead. Even to me, an avid snake lover, that was pretty bizarre shit.

I had been introduced to snakes many years before in the Boy Scouts. As a freshman at McBride High School. I had read about the scientific study of reptiles in Laura Wood’s remarkable biography of the famous herpetologist, Raymond Ditmars. So Herb and his antics didn’t bother me whatsoever. But, several of our fellow Postulants were not so blasé about the little crawling critters.

Allan S. for one expressed an intense dislike for snakes and always kept a considerable distance when we were exhibiting our newly captured specimens. Which, of course, made him a target. Herb and I devised a harmless practical joke, or so we thought, for Allan’s benefit. [Author’s Note: Allan was a natural butt of many of our school-boy pranks. An arrogant, supercilious, effeminate brown-noser, and ill-tempered to boot, he was disliked by the seniors I ran with and most of the other “regular” guys. As an indication of his lack of standing, once we discovered he detested one particular nick-name, from that point on that was all anyone ever called him.]

Herb and I caught a very small non-venomous snake of a now forgotten species and plotted on how best to rag our chosen victim. Allan was neat and organized to the point of driving people around him to distraction. Everything had to be in its proper place. And since all of his possessions in his desk were stored in small boxes we figured what’s where the snake belonged, inside the old cigar box in which he kept his pens and pencils. It was delvicious, wonderful combination of delicious and nasty.

Almost everyone in our junior/senior Study Hall was aware of the nature of our practical joke or, at the very least, that we were preparing to spring one on the unsuspecting but deserving, in our eyes, Allan. So, during the Evening Study Period after dinner we watched his every move. Of course, Murphy’s Law being what it is, Allan busied himself with a textbook for an hour, never even opening his desk drawer. To our collective dismay.

Eventually Allan realized he was the center of attention and began quietly asking boys sitting around him what in the world was going on and why everyone was watching him. When his immediate neighbors innocently denied knowledge of anything out of the ordinary he went back to studying, looking up every now and then to see if he could “catch” anyone at some suspicious activity or other.

A few minutes later he opened his desk, removed the box of pencils, and placed them on top his desk. All eyes in the room riveted on him. Some of the kids were unable to suppress their anticipatory laughter. He opened the lid without looking inside and began inquiring suspiciously as to why everyone was staring at him. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he must have spotted the snake emerging from the box, making a direct line for him. The sight of a snake wiggling across the desk from less than a foot away scared the living shit out of him.

Throwing his hands straight up in the air, he screamed like a girlie-man at the top of his lungs and keeled over backwards in a desperate attempt to get away from what Herb and I thought of as a cute little fellow, knocking both his desk and chair flying and landing flat on his back. Naturally, in that state of abject panic he lost what minimal motor skills he ordinarily possessed and was unable to scramble to his feet. He squirmed on the floor frantically kicking, screaming, and thrashing like the devil himself was after his sorry ass.

As can be imagined without much effort, the extraordinary uproar in the always silent Study Hall instantly brought the authorities. It didn’t take Bro Xav much more than a few seconds to come running from his office. He angrily clapped his hands and shouted for order and for someone to help Allan to his feet. Unfortunately, the poor snake did not survive the debacle. His little back must have been broken when the desk crashed to the floor and he died. Which was the real tragedy of the incident.

Of course Herb and I paid a heavy penalty for our “inconsiderate” actions but I cannot for the life of me recall the precise punishment we received. Yes, I know how cruel it was to subject Allan to such a heartless practical joke. But that’s the nature of teenage boys with time on their hands and no girls to impress. We had to apologize to Allen in front of all our classmates, that much I do recall. But try to imagine Allan flopping around the floor like a fish out of water. How could I ever forget that sight? Whatever the punishment, it was well worth it.

Coral Gables: Urban Solutions 01: — EATING FLORIDA

Introduction

            If anyone out there has been reading my Eating Florida segments, you have noted, up to this point, their environmental orientation. Since the topic is human agency and non-sustainable consumption of scarce land and water resources, the focus now shifts to urban planning and more sustainable cities as solutions to the problem. I’ll start with two locations in the Miami-Dade metro area and work my way around the State in a fashion that may seem haphazard but has an underlying logic (that may be apparent only to my twisted mind).

Coral Gables

            Every once in a great while, blogs like this one have an authentic champion, a person of character who takes the high road and refuses to wallow in the slime with the con men, greed-obsessed developers, and bend-over politicians. Our luck is that we had to wade through the likes of Hamilton Disston, Henry Flagler, Ed Ball, and Barron Gift Collier Senior to get to George Merrick. Let’s be clear about one thing. Merrick was a south Florida land developer, not an angel. He was a real person with a full set of human weaknesses. But he was possessed of such great personal integrity that he never stooped to raping the land or buyers. Not even when the Florida real estate market blew up in his face and he tossed the dice one more time as he stared into the hollow eyes of bankruptcy and lost everything.

The story started in 1898, when Dr. Solomon Merrick, a Congregational minister and a refugee from frigid Massachusetts winters, moved about as far south as he could. For the relatively modest sum of eleven hundred dollars he purchased a 160-acre tract of land just south of the mouth of the Miami River on Biscayne Bay and the newly minted city of Miami. The Reverend Dr. Merrick and his twelve-year old son, George, moved into a log-cabin that was already on the property. They immediately planted what had been fertile pine flatlands with a variety of fruits and vegetables to sell in nearby Miami. It wasn’t too long before the rest of the Merrick clan moved south to join them. They immediately began enlarging the log cabin by adding a frame structure and dressing the exterior in a local oolitic (fossil bearing) limestone quarried from a nearby site on their property. When it was completed in 1906 the house was christened, Coral Gables, after the local stone and its typically New England roof line. As Dr. Merrick’s crops thrived, he poured the profits into land, eventually acquiring more than 1,600 acres. Over the years George took over management of the property, almost doubling the size of the farm to 3,000 acres, which he then, in the throes of development fever, increased to over 10,000 acres.

George was the family visionary. He dreamed of creating on the farm a community unlike any other on earth. A City Beautiful. A city of quality that complimented and enhanced the natural environment not destroyed it. Alas, the fates were not destined to smile on poor George for long. His misfortune was becoming a Florida land developer in the awful boom and bust days of the early 1920s. When consummate liars, con artists, and conscienceless scoundrels constituted the far greater majority of Miami real estate “professionals.” Those were times when south Florida property went unsurveyed even though it may have been sold two or three times in a single day and as many as twenty or more times a week. Always escalating in price, of course. As if that kind of spiral would simply continue ad infinitum. Bubble, bubble, won’t you double? And who were the buyers? Typically they were untrained land speculators who had only the vaguest idea of where the land was located or whether it was high and dry or under four feet of water six months of the year. No exaggeration whatsoever. Today, you can’t imagine what a wild and frenzied situation it was unless you read the literature.

             In order for you, Gentle Readers, to understand the almost unimaginable chaos that constituted the south Florida real estate market of the time, it may be instructive to take a brief look at the life of one of the most successful speculators of that day, Richard J. Bolles. Among the first classic Swamp Swindlers, Bolles was the prototypical huckster and con artist. He started his financial career as a genuine investment genius, gaining a seat on the New York Stock Exchange at the unheard of age of twenty-three, where he promptly wheeled and dealed his way to a serious fortune. He then packed his bags and headed west. Where he added to his already impressive reputation by making additional millions. He bought a huge tract of mountainous land in Oregon and immediately subdivided it into 14,000 “farm-ranch” sites. Which sold like hot cakes sight unseen to ignorant but land-hungry Easterners, flatlanders all who possessed no real-world understanding of the phrase, mountainous and remote.

            Then, as now, many people thought that living out West would be filled with the romance of breathtakingly beautiful mountain vistas, blue skies, fresh air and easy living. Unfortunately, that landscape existed only in their imaginations. So, they waved their hard-earned cash in the air, bought Bolles’s properties site unseen, packed up, and headed west to the Land of Plenty. Wait until their first winter with 16 feet of snow on the ground and more on the way. And no means of getting to a town that was 30 brutal miles removed. Yeah. And then watch them beat feet back home, tails tucked under their whipped asses. With bitter curses against Bolles on their lips but few self recriminations about their own monumental stupidity. After all, the only way a con works is if a sucker falls for it.

When Bolles arrived in southern Florida in 1908, pumped fat with millions of additional dollars grifted from the pockets of gullible Easterners, the real estate market, supposedly regulated by State agencies (intentionally blind, deaf, and dumb and all too often in bed with the very people they were supposed to regulate), was ripe for exploitation. In the mad rush to make instant fortunes, a situation created by men like Hamilton Disston and Henry Flagler, State agencies simply made no attempt to organize or oversee or regulate the highly volatile real estate market. After all, the State of Florida profited from ever increasing land sales. So the regulators conveniently slipped into what amounted to a state of permanent catatonia. They were simply indifferent to fraud. No matter how blatant or how outrageous. Or were culpable by winking at the illegalities with both hands eagerly held out for their cash rewards.

As an aside, as late as 1969 the Florida Land Sales Board, supposedly the State agency responsible for regulating real estate companies, allowed developers to describe, in nationally published advertisements, seasonal flooding on land in the Big Cypress and the Everglades as “ponding.” Right. Ponding. Water that could be as much as eight feet deep or more. A canoe, anyone?

Bolles immediately recognized the situation for the potential bonanza it was. Without a second’s hesitation he dived in head first, buying 500,000 acres of Everglades land from the State Internal Improvement Fund for $1 million. He began by subdividing 180,000 acres, or 281 square miles, in Dade and Palm Beach Counties into 12,000 farms, the greater majority of which were ten acres in size. Only two of those 12,000 parcels contained as much as 640 acres. Remember, those parcels were supposed to be working farms, not building lots. Contracts were placed on the market and executed without the land ever being surveyed. Typically, buyers didn’t know the location, size, or condition of the land they bought. Indeed, ignorance was true bliss.

By 1911, fifty real estate agencies in Chicago alone were unloading Bolles’s ten-acre “farms” to the unsuspecting and gullible idiots who would frequently turn around that very same day and re-sell them to even less sophisticated and more foolish buyers at a nice profit. It started as a feeding frenzy and quickly escalated into a scandal of national proportions. In that classic Florida boom and bust real estate market, it proved difficult to count the ways people were flimflammed. Scams, ranging from ordinary to creative, ruled the day.

            Criminal fraud charges finally were brought against Bolles in 1913 by various states Attorneys General. It was a belated but well-intentioned effort to protect their citizens from the worst of his land swindles. Those original indictments were dismissed on legal technicalities and Bolles had the uncommon good sense to die (of natural causes) before additional criminal charges without defect could be brought against him. But his success firmly established the Florida genre that Hamilton Disston only hinted at. The land developer as con man supreme and environmental rapist extraordinaire. Unfortunately, it was those con artists and easy virtue salesmen who in the days of regulation by osmosis constituted by far the greater majority of those involved in south Florida real estate deals.

Although George Merrick became a real estate developer about ten years later, he was cut from a very different cloth than those of the Bolles ilk. In certain non-debatable ways Merrick represented the very best tradition in American planning, architecture, and urban development. Today, in the eyes of many urban design professionals, his adamant refusal to maximize profits by filling his development with the same tawdry junk that characterized Miami residential subdivisions of the day qualifies him as a genuine hero. Merrick’s sole focus was on building a self-contained world where everything was beautiful and enjoyable. A south Florida version of classical Mediterranean culture. Maximizing profits by building cheap houses was never part of his vision or plan. Which, considering the times and the wide open opportunity to loot and pillage the landscape and exploit the endless parade of suckers, constituted nearly unbelievable restraint and demonstrated enormous strength of character.

Unlike most of his greed-driven real estate contemporaries, George started with the image of the community he wanted to build in his mind. He then transferred that vision onto paper in the form of a Master Development Plan, a technique that was highly unusual for that day. His physical plan and architectural code included everything from street dimensions and building styles to exterior paint colors. George started with a framework of tightly gridded streets that contained a large free-form English garden, whose shape was not unlike that of any number of contemporary golf courses. Although he referred to the architectural inspiration of his first buildings as “Spanish,” the term Mediterranean Revival is actually the correct description.

 George’s dream was to create what he termed a “balanced” community in Coral Gables, not just a haven for the idle rich. People from every walk of life and income bracket were to be part of the new community. Even the most modest homes were completely thought out and as charmingly executed as the grandest. Oh yes, George was a first-class dreamer.

Merrick was also an Olympic-class man of action. Once he settled on the Mediterranean Revival theme, he immediately dispatched agents to Cuba to buy roof tiles from villages across the island to give his buildings an authentically weathered Iberian/Hispanic appearance. In the right south Florida urban setting, the Mediterranean tradition is both appropriate and versatile. In the wrong setting and the wrong hands it can be downright ugly and tasteless. Witness its use in many insipid contemporary subdivisions throughout the Southeast and Midwest, not to mention nasty places like Cape Coral. Luckily, in Coral Gables, the style took the high road established by Merrick and is even today is illustrated by its many timeless architectural gems.

• The Douglas Entrance city gate, known as La Puerta del Sol, with its 40-foot curved archway across Douglas Road. But while you’re in the vicinity don’t forget to check out the gracious Granada Street Entrance.
• The Colonnade Building, the most dominant structure on the Miracle Mile, Coral Gables’ main shopping area, was built in 1925 as the headquarters of the Merrick Corporation. It’s a wonderful building with a large central rotunda, arcades, a central fountain and a lavishly ornamented Baroque front entrance; now home to the Florida National Bank and connected to the Omni Colonnade Hotel, which I can tell you from personal experience is a very pleasant place to stay.
• The original Seville Hotel, at 162 Alcazar Avenue, is today the intimate and ever so delightful Hotel Place St. Michel, with its 28 exquisitely furnished, high-ceiling rooms, which are surprisingly affordable; the Hotel is a must-do if you’re in the area and are in need of elegant accommodations.
• Don’t forget the ever-lovely Biltmore Hotel whose 315 foot tower was inspired by the Giralda Bell Tower of the famous Cathedral in Seville, Spain. The hotel grounds originally featured canals complete with gondolas and extensive gardens.
• Right across the street from the Biltmore Hotel is the absolutely marvelous Congregational Church, an architectural jewel with its prominent and stunning Baroque belfry, barrel tile roofs and rectangular masonry. Located at 3010 DeSoto Boulevard, inside await other treasures and visual delights: 16^th Century furnishings, chandeliers and beautifully carved pews.
• DeSoto Plaza and Fountain, Coral Gables’ loveliest traffic circle, was designed by Denman Fink in the early 1920s. It features a columnar fountain surrounded by a footed basin collecting the water flowing from four sculpted faces.
• How could anyone visit Coral Gables and not take in the beauty of the incomparable Venetian Pool, arguably the loveliest swimming facility in America, if not the world. The Pool, designed by Denman Fink, is artfully concealed behind pastel tinted, stucco walls and features a free-form lagoon, fed by underground artesian springs. If you can believe it, the Pool’s 80,000 gallons were formerly drained and refilled each evening to ensure a cool, refreshing swim. You’ll love the coral caves, Venetian lampposts, fountains and waterfalls, the Mediterranean village atmosphere and palm trees. In a word: incredible.

Coral Gables’ public buildings, commercial structures, houses, and hotels built in the Mediterranean Revival style are today as fresh and innovative interpretations of the architectural repertoire of the Mediterranean as they were nearly 80 years ago. The secret is they were freely but authentically adapted to meet the needs of the American way of life and were never mere surface decoration or frills that could be dispensed with at will as economic measures dictated.

To convert his dream into urban reality, Merrick knew he needed men with vision and ability who thought along the same lines. So he went out and lured them into the fold. Phineas Paist, architect, Frank Button, landscape architect, and Denman Fink, the artist who converted a useless, empty quarry (where the stone for the Merrick family house had been dug decades previously) into a natural lagoon arranged in a spectacularly beautiful Venetian setting. Even though he had never traveled outside the U.S., George was not only a stickler for authentic details of the Mediterranean-type design but also for all the other architectural styles he incorporated into “village” clusters and individual buildings.

• Florida Cracker
• French, including Normandy, French City, and French Country village styles
• Italian
• American Colonial
• Dutch South African
• Thai-Chinese

That obsession for authenticity cost Merrick a real bundle, $10 million alone for the Biltmore Hotel and a $3 million annual budget for advertising his development. Never one to be blinded by the bright lights and glitz of materialism or to ignore legitimate culture, Merrick donated 160 acres and $5 million for the establishment of the University of Miami. Of whose excellent School of Architecture I count myself an admirer.

It was the joke of Miami developers that Merrick never saw a tree he didn’t like. He planted thousands of trees and shrubs along the drainage ditches he converted into canals at roadside’s edge, in boulevard medians, around public buildings, and in the numerous parks. Everywhere in Coral Gables it turned out. And his brand of landscape “madness” worked. Almost instantly after opening his land office Merrick sold $150 million in lots. For the overwhelming majority of real estate developers that was the moment to pack the bags, take the money and run like hell. Not George. He immediately turned around and re-invested $100 million in his development, digging 40 miles of canals in which gondolas languidly played, planting more trees, and building a block of apartments that lined the grand entrance off the Tamiami Trail just west of the Miami city limits. And to prove his initial success wasn’t a fluke, in 1924, a relatively flat year for southern Florida real estate sales, George sold more than $12 million in lots. He was right after all, quality pays huge dividends.

Today’s visitors to Coral Gables will find the city filled with many delightful and distinctive places. One you shouldn’t miss is Country Club Prado, a real Latin-style thoroughfare with Mediterranean-inspired buildings featuring those above-mentioned red tile roofs imported from Cuba, adjacent residential neighborhoods of white stucco houses with elegant gardens and gracious patios, borders of towering palms and a delightful park running down the median planted with tropical ornamentals and classical statuary. All built 40 years before the principal migration of Cubans in the 1960s. As proved by Country Club Prado, Merrick’s insistence on high quality construction in Coral Gables ensured that his 1920s-era buildings are about the only ones in Miami that continue to improve with age and exude life and vitality.

On September 18 and 19, 1926, the Miami metropolitan area was subjected to a terrible test. A hurricane featuring hellaciously powerful winds tore across Miami Beach and Miami and roared inland, killing almost 400 people, causing over $76 million in property damage, and flattening the downtown area. After the onslaught, the cities of Miami and Miami Beach looked like war zones, with many buildings suffering such severe structural damage they had to be demolished. Cheaply constructed homes on the mainland were particularly hard hit. Several new subdivisions were completely wiped out, leaving only bare foundation slabs littered with debris. But Coral Gables passed that test with flying colors. George Merrick’s insistence on quality construction resulted in the least property damage recorded in the metropolitan area and no loss of life.

Merrick’s unusual combination of vision and well-developed aesthetic sensibilities allowed him to create what many objective observers believe to be the most attractive urban environment in Florida. Unfortunately for history, he wasn’t possessed of pockets deep enough to ride out economic disaster. One after the other, the financial bust of 1926 and then the savage punch delivered by the Great Depression KOed south Florida and directly resulted in Merrick’s downfall, eventual bankruptcy, and loss of control over the future of Coral Gables. Despite some of the later projects being developed according to his plans, many were not and it shows today.

Although George was determined to build a balanced community, in large measure he did not succeed. Today, most of the current residents are white, upwardly mobile, or in the already-made-it-big class. However, tucked away in the sea of moneyed, white swells is at least one pocket of diversity, the MacFarlane Homestead Historical District, an African-American community of historic homes. The majority of the houses are relatively modest examples of the Masonry Vernacular style, with about 30 structures of interest to historians, architects, and house-type academics. The most important structure is St. Mary’s First Missionary Baptist Church, built in 1926. Sad to say, in violation of the spirit of George Merrick, over the past several decades the City of Coral Gables has not distinguished itself in the way it has systematically neglected that neighborhood and the needs of its residents.

Implications

For readers interested in hard reality, here’s the bottom line. Coral Gables is far from perfect. It tries too hard to ever achieve that elusive goal. The City is way too smug in its self-congratulatory superiority and is way too pricey to achieve that spontaneity of spirit that marks truly engaging and distinctive urban neighborhoods. Plus, it’s not nearly as densely built as it should be, has strictly limited mixed use and precious little diversity, and is basically a very attractive suburb. But . . . even today, with George Merrick’s vision of his “City Beautiful” sadly incomplete, Coral Gables can still lay claim to the title, “The most beautiful Garden City in the world.”

Coral Gables teaches us a great many lessons but only if we are open to learn. Although planned communities may work much better than unplanned ones, not all plans or planners have equal value. Simply because a professional urban planner drew up a plan for a traditional subdivision doesn’t mean that you will be spared the pains of poor design. Planners, even the brightest and most creative, seldom have the latitude to do what they may know is right in terms of residential densities, street orientation, mixed uses, diversity, etc. After all, they answer to the people who control the land and the development. That reality is also true for planners who work for public agencies, because typically their hands have been tied by developers who have made substantial financial contribution to the local politicians’ campaign funds and thus are able to set what should be public policy. In part, Coral Gables provides a fortuitous and atypical example of how sound urban planning can work to benefit the future of south Florida since the land’s owner and developer was the one with the brilliant concept and who pushed it through to (partial) completion.

But what the old-style urban development of George Merrick and Coral Gables lacked — mixed uses, high densities, and diversity — has been addressed, at least in part, by today’s New Urbanist communities and even in nearby Miami Beach. Next, I’ll take a critical look at Miami Beach and several highly visible examples of New Urbanism.

The message I’m stretching for is that competent urban planning and design can create communities where land is used efficiently, auto transportation demand is minimized, and pedestrian-friendly spaces are the rule rather than the exception. In south and central Florida, regions facing enormous population pressure in an environment with scarce and sensitive land-water resources, that’s a message that can’t be ignored or discounted.

Bus Rider

Alone on the bus

tired yet not intimidated

he sat among uncaring strangers

a living relic of eighty

lines of life etched on his face.

In a world of London-Fogged attachéd robots

he was individuality and character

a figure of strength

power diminished not forgotten.

I loved him from across the aisle

but touched him not

for I too am a robot.

Maryhurst Prep 04

By the time Herb and I hit senior year we had effectively forgotten our promises to Bro. Fred to sin no more with respect to all things chemical. While walking in the woods one day we stumbled across an old lead pipe about a foot long and two inches in diameter. One look and we both knew that pipe was destined for BIG things. On the spot Herb and I decided it was time to make a real bomb. A pipe bomb like the ones used by spies and terrorists. Boy spies of Maryhurst Prep. How could we resist such a romantic image? No way, especially since a major part of our brains wasn’t functional.

In an old Encyclopedia Britannica upstairs in the Brothers’ Library (which was off-limits to most Postulants except for several voracious readers like me and that exception was only made because we read so much we had exhausted the student library downstairs) I found a fairly simple formula for black powder and copied it exactly. I carefully set aside sufficient quantities of carbon, sulfur, potassium nitrate (or saltpeter as we loved to call it), and aluminum powder in the Chem Lab. [Author’s Note: I can’t remember why we included the aluminum. Perhaps it was because I had read it was used as an ingredient in WWII incendiary bombs.]

At that time, as a big-shot senior, my housekeeping assignment was as the Morning Work Supervisor. As such I was responsible for all morning cleaning assignments and ensuring they were performed by my fellow postulants in a proper and timely manner. In that capacity I also had access to the famous Chem Lab key. Actually, Herb and I seldom had to use the key as we usually snuck into the Lab via one of the back windows he would unlock after his afternoon Physics class. It didn’t take us more than a day to assemble, measure, and mix the ingredients. Which we then hid in the Chemistry storage room because it was always locked and was cool and damp since the room was almost entirely underground, like an old-fashioned potato cellar.

Devising a reliable fuse was a challenge I solved by measuring how fast a strip of magnesium tape burned in the Lab. We then appropriated a foot long piece of the tape, hammered one end of the empty pipe until it was completely closed and beat the other end until only a narrow opening remained. Then we very carefully added small amounts of black powder, tamping it down slowly and super cautiously with a glass rod. [Author’s Note: We thought we were being very safety conscious. Later, Bro. Fred passed around the Chemistry class a clipping from a Chicago newspaper that related how two 16-year-old boys were killed doing precisely the same idiotic stunt. The big difference was they had used a metal rod to tamp the powder. Although we weren’t quite that stupid it was a very, very close call.] We inserted the magnesium tape and then crimped the end shut with a huge industrial-looking vise we found in the repair shop in the basement furnace-mechanical room.

That next Friday, in the dark of the night, we used a shovel purloined from the farm shed to bury the pipe in a shallow hole in the middle of an abandoned dirt lane near the edge of Maryhurst property about fifty yards from South Kirkwood Road, leaving only the tip of the fuse exposed. The next day, Saturday, we waited until the time was right and the two of us went our separate ways, only to meet at the bomb site a few minutes later. Herb lit a cigarette he had purloined from a pack Bro. Leo Slay (our cook and a great one at that) had dropped while playing a ping-pong game and I inserted it into the closed end of a book of matches. When the cigarette burned down the red-hot ember would light the matches, which in turn would flame across the matchbook, igniting the magnesium fuse attached to the other end. Or so it worked in the Lab when we tested it. We also knew from two different tests that it would take the cigarette at least 25 minutes to burn down into the match book and the tape would burn for another minute.

After burying the pipe, but leaving the tip and fuse exposed, we scurried off in different directions, ultimately heading for the basketball court from which we could monitor the dirt road from a distance. And hopefully warn away anyone walking along it. Actually, no one ever used that lane since it was blocked off at Kirkwood Road and where it formerly connected with an internal drive on Maryhurst property. It was overgrown with weeds and never used. We thought it extremely unlikely anyone would be there on a Saturday during afternoon recreation period.

Naturally, as soon as we arrived at the court we were drawn into a hot basketball game with several boys that Fr. Dorsey, the Chaplin, was casually refereeing from the sidelines. Need I say that we totally forgot the bomb in the heat of the game. And I mean truly forgot it and also forgot to watch the dirt lane for innocent pedestrians. Approximately 30 minutes later a terrific explosion rent the air. Everyone in the vicinity of the basketball court dropped to the ground, including Herb and I. Dust and small hunks of dirt and gravel showered around us. A large black cloud immediately mushroomed over the pine trees, drawing everyone’s attention.

Seconds later an excited crowd of boys and Brothers ran to see what had happened. Fr. Dorsey, hampered by his flowing cassock, wasn’t as fast as the rest of us and kept yelling for us to be careful.

“Slow down,” he called. “Don’t touch anything until I get there.”

When we reached the dirt track all we did was stand around and gape at the hole in the ground. It was at least two-three feet deep and about six feet wide. It had effectively wiped out the old road. Herb and I were astounded. We wanted to jump up and down and congratulate each other but we couldn’t make a move.

Bro. Xav arrived a few minutes later and we instantly came under the heaviest suspicion imaginable. But, of all things, Fr. Dorsey provided us with a fabulously unbreakable alibi. He and about eight of our fellow Postulants told Bro. Xav that Herb and I had been playing basketball with them for almost an hour before the explosion, from the beginning of the rec period. We couldn’t possibly be involved. With wide-eyed innocence Herb and I instantly confirmed that assessment and Bro. Xav had no choice but to accept it. Naturally, he didn’t believe one word. Not for a minute.

Two days later, and about a month earlier than normal, the new morning work assignments were posted by Bro. Xav. I was demoted from my previous job as Morning Work Supervisor (the top-dog slot and the choicest plum imaginable) to lowly cleaner of the main first floor toilet. With six urinals, two huge hand-washing troughs with four spigots each and six crappers. Groan. It was such a big assignment two boys were always assigned to clean it every morning. Not this time. That bad boy was mine and mine alone. Without doubt it was a tough job to finish and not be late for 8:00 class. Especially with all those brass fittings that had to sparkle like new. But I did it. Every morning for the rest of the year.

Even today the housework I do seems pretty easy compared to cleaning that damned toilet. My wife, Sandy, cannot believe how fast and efficiently I clean toilet bowls. I always tell her with a smile that my early religious training is finally ass-erting itself.

Later Herb and I talked about our total stupidity and irresponsibility in making the pipe bomb. Yeah, too little too late. Even as idiot teenagers we, belatedly of course, recognized how that stunt could have badly injured or killed innocent passersby, almost certainly someone we knew. Even though the old track where we planted the bomb was never used and was blocked off at both ends with piles of rubble, who’s to say that on that particular day someone wouldn’t have happened to stroll along the path to see where it led or watch the birds or whatever. And walk straight into the explosion. I had a few sleepless nights and a bad case of the guilts and I’m certain Herb did as well.

Today, as an adult, I marvel at the sheer idiocy of that senseless act and am tremendously thankful no one was injured. It could have been a terrible disaster that changed who knows how many lives. We got off extraordinarily lightly.

St. Louis Post-Dispatch; Bad Writing Festival

Author’s Note: I submitted the following material for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch’s Bad Writing Festival decades ago (early 1990s). Not surprisingly the subject matter was judged unacceptable for inclusion in the paper. But that wasn't why I wrote or submitted it. I saved the piece because the little story made me laugh and every few years I re-read it for pure enjoyment. Someone at the Post-Dispatch sent the submission back with the following handwritten comment: “Very funny. We all enjoyed it. Too bad we can’t print it in a family newspaper.”

The first line of the story was provided by the newspaper; all contestants had to complete that storyline in 500 words or less in a style that epitomized bad writing.

First Line: “What Ned Richardson saw, however, was something very, very different.”

Lyncean Ned’s runner’s heart, so marvelously conditioned its resting rate was an incredibly decent forty beats per minute, thudded in a chest suddenly gone numb for, for a moment terrible indeed, he could have sworn the massive limestone statue of St. Louis, King of France, after whom the dynamic but conservative city was named, had shifted in his seat and focused his stony gaze on Ned’s Amherst singlet, which, being one hundred percent polyester, was extremely easy to launder in cold, warm, or hot water. At the apex of Art Hill’s uppermost prominence the rather heroic carved statue of good St. Louis stood, majestically mounting his beloved steed, strong and trusty blade extended, ready to impale impious infidels as he guarded the less than attractive overview of the City’s choked highways and crime-ridden byways for a centenary past.

Ned, blinking to clear his vision blurred by running into the cusp of the blowing wind, stared uncertainly at the limestone statue, trying to reassure himself. But to his scarcely containable shock the intrepid runner realized the calcareous horse was in actual fact stomping his massive Percheron feet, quivering his veined muscles, preparing for action. Ned’s eyes bugged out in naked fear and more than a little concern at the terrifying and incomprehensible sight of St. Louis twisting angrily in his saddle, pointing the long sword at him, shouting with a beguilingly piquant French accent, “Stop the drugged runner! Stop him! Let fire, Argent.”

With that ominous and portentous command, the enormous stallion, snorting tendrils of flame through fuliginous nostrils, wheeled around, tail arched dramatically over his rump, and shat fleur-de-lis shaped turds that arched gracefully through the air and smashed with astonishing and unpardonable accuracy into Ned’s chest. Hands clawing with frantic revulsion at the noisome brown ordure spreading across his torso, Ned tripped, sprawling in the street. The runners dogging his heels fell over him in a tangle of elbows, assholes, and most uncharitable curses. Leaping from the angry pile, Ned, with boundless and uncontrollable horror, saw that pious St. Louis, bloodthirsty sword flashing in the pitiless morning sun, and the monstrous steed were barreling straight at him, intent on bloody mayhem. Or worse.

“Run!” Ned screeched in panic uncontainable. “St. Louis is coming! St. Louis is coming!” With serene abandon he fled down the steep hill as the horseman from Hell’s nethermost region closed the gap until at the very bottom, while frantically looking over his shoulder, Ned headlong into a parked mini-van crashed.

Later, as the bored paramedics, having seen it all before, loaded the unconscious runner’s still form into the ambulance, the taller one said to his shorter but blond assistant, “Want to bet this guy’s high as a kite?”

At that exactly precise moment, Ned sat up, mumbling, “Honest, Mother, I’ll never eat those magic mushrooms again. No matter how bad I want to win a marathon.”

Grabbing the paramedic’s uniform with desperate calm he demanded, “Hey, buddy. Ever see a stone horse shit fleur-de-lis turds?”

Coal

Coal               Metamorphic product of more or less distinctly stratified plant remains that readily burns owing to a high percentage of carbon compounds. Coal is a solid, brittle, combustible carbonaceous rock formed by partial to complete decomposition of vegetation in situ; that statement is known with considerable certainty since at numerous locations throughout the world carbonized roots found in coal beds extend from the coal seam into underlying sedimentary strata, usually shale. Coal varies in color from dark brown to black; it is not fusible without decomposition and is very insoluble. As organic materials accumulate in bogs and other wet environments of deposition, partial decay of the vegetation uses up much of the oxygen. When the area of deposition is buried by mud and silt, oxygen is sealed out. Continued burial compresses the organic material, driving out water and other volatiles. Though that process, the original peat is transformed into brown and black coal as the carbon content increases.

The two principal methods of classifying coal are by type and rank. Since more people are familiar with coal ranking (for example anthracite), I’ll start with the least well-known system. Geologists classify coal according to organic debris, called macerals, from which the coal is formed. Macerals are identified microscopically to determine individual components and the way they combined to form the coal. The purpose of classifying coal by type is to determine the chemical composition of major deposits, including sulfur and ash content, which then must be matched to the most suitable end uses. Author’s Note: In 1904, Marie Charlotte Stopes earned a PhD in the field palaeobotany at the University of Munich and a D.Sc. degree from University College London, becoming the youngest person in Britain to have done so. In the mid-1910s she worked on a system of coal petrology that has become standard in the geosciences and coined the term maceral as a unit of coal composition, describing it as the equivalent of the inorganic materials composing rock masses called minerals. Even more interesting is that Stopes was a militant feminist, a pioneer in the emerging field of birth control, a supporter of the eugenics movement, and founder of the Marie Stopes International global partnership that focused on sexual and reproductive health. In 1921, Stopes opened the UK's first family planning clinic. She eventually stopped working as a scientist to concentrate on women’s rights. Who says geoscientists aren’t a fascinating lot?

But most people are familiar with the other way to classify coal, which is by the degree of coalification (increase in organic carbon content) attained by a given coal owing to burial and metamorphism. From the highest rank to the lowest, coal is classified as anthracite, bituminous, sub-bituminous, and lignite. Those ranks reflect progressive states of metamorphism that have an important bearing on the coal’s physical and chemical properties. Low rank coals, such as lignite and sub-bituminous, have typically softer, friable materials with a dull, earthy appearance. They are characterized by low carbon content and high moisture levels, which translate into low energy output. Higher rank coals are typically harder and stronger and often have a black vitreous luster. Increasing rank is accompanied by a rise in carbon and energy content and a decrease in moisture.

Anthracite has the highest fixed carbon content, between 86 and 98 percent, and a heat value of nearly 15,000 BTUs-per-pound. It is the most highly metamorphosed form of coal and exhibits black, hard, and glassy characteristics. Anthracite is the highest coal rank but is rare in the U.S., supplying a small part of the U.S. coal market. It is most frequently associated with home heating. As a result of the metamorphic process, anthracite contains molecules that are unburnable. Therefore, although its carbon content exceeds that of all other types of coal, its BTU values may be slightly lower than the highest grade bituminous coals. Real World Examples: Approximately seven billion tons of U.S. anthracite reserves are largely located in northeastern Pennsylvania, but those deposits are relatively high in sulfur and will have limited demand until technology makes them more attractive. Anthracite reserves in Poland are estimated at 45.4 billion tons. With current annual production of over 102 million tons (in 2000), the three major coalfields will easily meet that country’s demand for almost 500 years, which is twice as long as the world’s average. One mine in the Lublin Upland, Bogdanka, is the most modern and profitable mine in the country, producing 4.25 million tons of coal in 2000. Author’s Note: The word anthracite is probably derived from Greek anthrakitis, a kind of coal, or from another Greek word, anthrak, charcoal.

Bituminous coal is formed by an intermediate degree of metamorphism and contains 15 to 20 percent volatiles, a carbon content ranging from 45 to 86 percent carbon, and heat values from 10,500 to 15,500 BTUs-per-pound. It is the most common grade of coal in the United States and is used primarily to generate electricity and as coke in steel manufacturing. Bituminous coal predominates in the Eastern and Mid-Continent coal fields where West Virginia and Kentucky are the largest producers. But much of those deposits have high sulfur content, making their widespread use problematic until more cost-efficient removal technologies are available. Canada is also a major coal producing and consuming nation, producing about 70 million tons annually from reserves estimated at nine billion tons, of which more than 50 percent is bituminous. The main coal producing regions are in Alberta, British Columbia, and Saskatchewan in the order of importance.

Sub-Bituminous coal ranks below bituminous with 35 to 45 percent carbon content and a heat value between 8,300 and 13,000 BTUs-per-pound. Reserves are located mainly in a half-dozen Western states and Alaska. Although its heat value is lower than other types, this coal generally has a lower sulfur content, which makes it attractive for use because it is cleaner burning. By far the largest producer of sub-bituminous coal is Wyoming, which produces more coal of any rank than the next two major coal states together (West Virginia and Kentucky).

Lignite, also known as brown coal, is geologically young coal that has the lowest carbon content, about 25 to 35 percent, and a heat value ranging between 4,000 and 8,300 BTUs-per-pound. Mainly used for electric power generation, most lignite in the U.S. is mined in Texas but large deposits are found in Montana, North Dakota, and some Gulf Coast states.

Real World Problems: Historically, coal mining has been associated with various medical problems — see below, Coal: Challenges for the Near Future — not to mention such related historical issues as mine safety and the formation of labor unions. Two very serious diseases that have been closely associated with coal mining until several decades ago are black lung disease (properly known as pneumoconiosis) and silicosis. Pneumoconiosis, a lung condition caused by the inhalation of dust, is characterized by formation of scarring (medically known as nodular fibrotic changes) in lung tissues. Many mineral substances can cause pneumoconiosis, including those that contain asbestos, coal, silica, talc, and various metallic ores. Black lung disease, known as coal miners’ pneumoconiosis, is caused by long exposure to coal dust. Since coal dust that enters the lungs can neither be destroyed or removed by the body, it remains, causing inflammation and fibrosis and turning the lung tissues black, whence its name. The most usual symptom is shortness of breath; the disease can also lead to chronic pulmonary obstructive disease (COPD), emphysema, and heart failure. It once was a common affliction of coal miners and others who worked with coal and was especially severe in those workers also exposed to the long term effects of tobacco smoking. Silicosis is a lung disease that typically affects miners of coal and other minerals caused by inhaling silicon dioxide or crystalline silica dust without adequate masks or breathing apparatus. Acute silicosis is lung inflammation caused by intense exposure to silica over several months. Chronic silicosis, in contrast, is when lung scarring, nodules, and inflammation develop as a result of decades of exposure to silica dusts, gradually causing the lung cells to digest themselves. The different kinds of silicosis are dependent on the type of dust (such as from working decorative stone, chert and flint, or mining igneous and metamorphic rocks containing silica). The disease occurs mainly in people who work in sandblasting, mining, quarrying, grinding, and in foundries.

Both pneumoconiosis and silicosis are less common today than 50 years ago owing to Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) regulations that require protective equipment for miners and mine safety programs. That said, although stringent occupational reforms have largely eliminated silicosis in Europe, the National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health (NIOSH) estimates that approximately one million U.S. workers remain at risk to silicosis, 100,000 of whom are at high risk. Of that number, adverse health effects are anticipated to develop in 59,000 workers. Other medical problems associated with the combustion of coal in electrical power generating and other industrial plants are discussed below in Coal: Challenges for the Near Future. Fun Stuff: Don’t be fooled by the phantasmagoric term, pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, or variants thereof; they are merely hoaxes created by scoundrels desperate to beat their competition in word games.

Coal: Challenges for the Near Future[1]             As of the late-2000s, coal supplies more than half the energy needed to run American lights, computers, blow dryers, garage door openers, MRI and X-ray machines, air conditioners, and nearly everything modern society uses that is powered by electricity. Coal consumption is doubling as a result of many factors, including the rapidly rising costs of oil and natural gas, our eagerness to develop a homegrown energy source to compete with and hopefully replace at least part of the OPEC oil we have grown to hate, and the currently fossil fuel-friendly mood that has come to dominate Washington politicians. Because the federal government has chosen not to encourage, incentivize, or develop large-scale alternative energy sources, coal has jumped into first place as the primary fuel for at least the first half of the 21^st Century for generating electricity. In the past decade, coal corporations, commodity markets, investor-owned utilities, an army of lobbyists, and elected representatives at state and national levels (their hands greedily held out for munificent campaign contributions) have interacted to produce a national climate infused with false patriotism that tilts the playing field toward increased mining and coal-fired electrical power plants.

And what is wrong with that, people might ask. The big drawback is that coal-fired power plants are one of the largest manmade sources of carbon dioxide, nitrogen oxide, sulfur dioxide, mercury, particulates, and other gases responsible for global warming. A directly related and critical problem is that alternative energy sources are not expected to contribute significantly to U.S. energy needs in the near or mid-term future, which leaves coal in a league by itself.

As of mid-2006, executives from the largest coal producers and consumer groups have been locked in a struggle to determine the future of coal mining and electrical power production in the U.S. Those players include the chief executive of Peabody Energy, the largest private-sector coal producer in the world (in 2005, Peabody sold 240 million tons of coal), and the CEO of American Electric Power, the nation’s largest coal consumer and biggest producer of heat-trapping carbon dioxide emissions. The two men are pushing the coal-consuming, electrical generating industry along divergent paths that have drastically different outcomes for the environment and for public health. Peabody Energy is not only actively promoting the rising demand for coal but also backs industry-supported organizations that are working to prevent government regulations that require mandatory reductions in emissions of the so-called greenhouse gases. Peabody is also pushing for the construction of new conventional coal-fired electrical plants that would not be equipped with modern technology, known as the integrated gasification combined cycle (IGCC), which would make the future reduction of carbon dioxide and other pollutants easier. It should come as no surprise that the Center for Responsive Politics, which according to its web site is a “non-partisan, non-profit research group based in Washington, D.C. that tracks money in politics and its effect on elections and public policy,” identifies the coal industry lobby as one of the largest contributors to federal political candidates and parties, donating almost $31 million in the 2008 elections with the far greater majority going to Republicans. There’s a shock.

On the other hand, American Electric Power is leading what is still a minor charge within the energy industry to embrace the new IGCC technology. Under the direction of CEO Michael G. Morris, AEP plans to build at least two 600-megawatt plants in Ohio and West Virginia at an estimated cost of as much as $1.3 billion each. The upside is that, according to the USGS, using similar technology AEP’s existing coal-fired power generating plant at Brilliant, Ohio, has cut sulfur dioxide emissions by 90 percent, nitrogen oxides by 50 percent, and carbon dioxide by 15 percent. Naturally, the rub is that conventional power generating plants cost less and take less time to build than those employing the IGCC technology, which is certainly why companies not interested in reducing pollutants advocate them.

Now that coal is favorably priced with regard to oil and natural gas, Peabody has entered the power-plant business, setting out to build two of the largest in the world, the 1,600-megawatt Prairie State Energy Campus in southern Illinois (near the small town of Lively Grove), using six million tons of coal annually produced from one of its adjacent underground mines and the 1,500-megawatt Thoroughbred Energy Campus in western Kentucky (Muhlenburg County), which would also use local coal for its power source. Not surprisingly, given its public record of political campaign contributions, Peabody does not regard government regulation of near-term caps on carbon emissions as a significant threat, despite coal-fired power plants being the U.S.’s largest source of greenhouse gas emissions, which are the primary contributor to global warming.

According to estimates provided by the not so coal-friendly Royal Dutch Shell, a typical 500-megawatt coal-fired electrical generating plant that supplies sufficient power to run approximately 500,000 homes produces as much pollution annually as about 750,000 cars. If you multiply those emissions by three, you get a quick and dirty estimate of how much pollution a 1,500 megawatt plant would produce. Additional air pollution (sulfur dioxide, nitrogen oxide, carbon dioxide, mercury, selenium, and particulates) from even the cleanest conventional coal-burning power plants translates into reduced lung function, lost work time, more visits to the doctor’s office and emergency rooms, and more hospitalizations for asthma, chronic bronchitis, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, emphysema, and cardiovascular disease, which translates into higher health insurance premiums for those who are insured and higher taxes for everyone to cover the health costs of the uninsured. And that assessment doesn’t include the nearly 24,000 early deaths from people at risk from breathing air polluted by coal-fired plants.

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[1] Be warned: this definition is an extended Author’s Rant.

The Magical Fakahatchee Strand

For all those interested in books and movies, here’s a head’s up. The Fakahatchee Strand is the subject of a wonderful read by Susan Orleans, The Orchid Thief. That best-selling non-fiction work, which tells the true story of a fanatical orchid collector named John Laroche and his plan to poach the Fakahatchee’s rare plants, was made into the first-class movie, Adaptation, starring Nicholas Cage, Meryl Streep, and Chris Cooper. My advice is to read the book first, then see the movie. Both are worthy of your time and both will give you a feel for the mysterious attraction of the Fakahatchee Strand.

The word strand used above indicates a type of forested swamp found only in southwest Florida. From the air, because of their geographically elongated and finger-like natures, these forest environments may appear to be typical river swamps. But they are situated on long, narrow and nearly level depressions in limestone or even in the relatively unconsolidated sandy surfaces rather than associated with stream channels incised into bedrock or alluvial sediments by means of mechanical erosion.

The topography of south Florida is exceedingly flat therefore natural surface water flows in the strands are so reduced in physical characteristics that they are difficult to measure, especially during low-water periods. Owing to their reduced flow characteristics, the locals usually call those watercourses sloughs, though that term is far from accurate since it conjures up images of abandoned or former stream channels along the Mississippi or other rivers in areas of low-relief that are unrelated to the wetlands of south Florida. During periods of high water infiltration, water in the strand or slough simply spreads out laterally into adjacent wetlands rather than flowing downstream at an increased rate, as would be found in a more typical stream channel.

The origin of strands is imperfectly understood but chemical attack of the limestone via weak carbonic and humic acids in the water is probably the main weathering agent. Once small depressions or joints in the limestone are exposed they fill with organic debris, leaf litter, twigs, animal carcasses, etc., that decompose and produce additional organic acids that continue to attack and dissolve the limestone, deepening the original depression and in the process eventually forming peat. The next step is for baldcypress seedlings to find a comfortable spot in the humus and put out roots that press into and then break up the small limestone fissures through powerful mechanical action, accelerating the deepening of the rock depressions. Naturally, peat accumulation continues, ever so slowly elevating parts of the area above the local water level. If fire does not sweep through and destroy that tiny upland, larger trees, including hardwoods such as swamp laurel, pop ash, and red maple, will colonize the area and eventually replace the baldcypress. Given enough time, that is.

As a result of the unequal weathering of the limestone base rock in the developing strand, the micro-topography can vary considerably, providing numerous niche environments that support a very diverse mixture of trees, shrubs, vines, and epiphytes. Consequently, ecosystems found in strands can range from relatively dry hammocks to standing water “sloughs” that appear to the casual observer to be ordinary riverine swamps. But their diversity takes them far from the realm of anything that can be classed as ordinary.

The overwhelming majority of strands in Florida are in the Big Cypress. Today, the largest include Corkscrew Swamp, the forty-mile long Okaloaoochee Slough, Kissimmee Billy Strand, Deep Lake Strand, Roberts Lake Strand, and Gum Slough. The latter two are found within the borders of Everglades National Park, just south of U.S. Route 41. In the recent past, those forests were but a few of the great strands that now are but faded memories on USGS topo maps. Picayune. Sweetwater. Camp Keais. Gator Hook. East Hinson. Gannett. Big Goddens. Skillet. Georges. New River. All were cleared of their old-growth timber and altered, perhaps forever, as the wonderfully complex ecosystems they once were. Timbering practices were so methodical that the really large strand baldcypress were girdled a year before harvesting and left to dry prior to being cut down and hauled out the tram roads to the railroads and then the lumber mills.

Considering that all baldcypress eight inches in diameter and 30 feet high were up for grabs, it’s a near miracle that any survive today. What do survive are the prominent landscape scars that mar the Fakahatchee Strand’s former pristine beauty. Miles and miles of raised roadbeds were constructed for the tramways, actually miniature railroads, that were used to gain access to and remove the logged baldcypress. The one poignant note is that grid of roads remains and provides the most convenient access to the farthest reaches of the Strand.

The removal of virgin-growth baldcypress was far from the last of man’s insults to the Fakahatchee. The history of the Fakahatchee’s problem didn't stop when the last cypress log was dragged out in the mid-1950s. To get to the heart of the story, we have to travel 60 miles north and west to Ft. Myers and find out how the Big Cypress, of which the Fakahatchee is but a small part, was assaulted in the name of profit.

It was the mid-1950s when Jack and Leonard Rosen, two high-pressure hair conditioner (for balding men) salesmen from Baltimore, came to Ft. Myers and decided to take advantage of the sub-tropical climate and sell real estate with a vengeance. In 1957 they set up the General American Land Corporation, purchased something in the ballpark of 115 square miles of land just outside Ft. Myers, a location then known as Redfish Point, and subdivided it into thousands of small lots.

The brothers immediately kicked off a national marketing campaign that resulted in the sale of nearly all of their 350,000 residential building sites. The greater majority of the lots were purchased by unsophisticated blue-collar workers looking to retire to a life of leisure in sunny Florida. That was the start of the community of Cape Coral, which eventually included more than 400 miles of nasty smelling finger canals. Waterfront property, naturally, commands a higher value than land locked property. So, every mile of canal that could be dug was. To hell with such trivial matters as proper gradients and hydrologic flushing. When the water in the canals fermented into a witch's brew and stank to high heaven, the Rosens would be long gone. In the conspicuous absence of State regulatory agencies that were interested in protecting either the environment or the less than sophisticated buyers, the principle of caveat emptor (Latin for: let the buyer beware) ruled the day.

After that huge financial success, the Rosen brothers turned their greedy eyes southward and saw not environmentally sensitive wetlands but more opportunities to make big bucks. With their profits from Cape Coral they acquired about 115,000 acres east of Naples at the western edge of the Big Cypress Swamp. The property included wetlands that abutted and drained the Fakahatchee Strand. With a flair for overstatement that seems to infect every Florida real estate entrepreneur, they named their new development Golden Gate Estates.

Originally, when the Rosens’ company, Gulf American Corporation (the word Land had been dropped in the first years of operation), set out to develop the Southern Golden Gate Estates (SGGE) in the early 1960s, no effective State or Federal laws established or enforced drainage standards or regulated wetland development. Naturally, the State wasn't interested since developers were the largest contributors to most political campaigns, therefore creating effective State laws regulating the real estate industry was definitely not on the list of things to do, at least not for anyone in Tallahassee. And the State's counties were so desperate for development, meaning tax base, they positioned themselves in front of the developers, bent over as far as they couldm, dropped their pants, and assumed the position of submission. So, with no governmental controls in sight and none on the horizon, Gulf American built a grid of shell-lime rock roads 300 miles in extent and dredged 50 or so miles of canals to drain the swamps and wetlands, much of which were normally under several feet of water for many months at a time. The resulting canal system reached as far north as Lake Trafford, tied into the Golden Gate drainage system to the northwest, and emptied into the Faka Union Bay in the south.

For several years GAC seemed very successful, selling thousands of unimproved lots in the SGGE to unsophisticated and unsuspecting buyers from around the world (Author’s Note: Leonard and Jack realized from their Cape Coral experience that the development of real communities cost much more than simply selling lots so intentionally installed no permanent roads, sewers, water mains, street lights, or other community amenities in SGGE). Their sales tactics included almost every type of classic high-pressure and underhanded technique, offering "free" trips to Florida, free steak dinners, or free movies. Prospective buyers of SGGE lots throughout the world (at the end GAC had 123,000 customers from 60 countries) were treated to the classic bait and switch sales tactics by being shown photographs of Cape Coral, with paved streets, schools, churches, water and sewer, etc., none of which would ever be part of SGGE. The brothers were so successful early in the 1960s that Gulf American began its next development project, Remuda Ranch Grants in south Florida. Only problem was that the land they wanted to sell, about 80,000 acres, was 80 percent underwater throughout much of the year. Hey, no problem. Sell fast and get out fast was the Rosens’ modus operandi.

So, inquisitive Readers might wonder, how did the Rosens pull off those outrageous land scams? It wasn't because they operated in the dark since they were a publicly traded corporation and their actions were overseen by the Florida Installment Land Sales Board (FILSB), a State regulatory agency. Perceptive Readers who guessed they did it by applying tons of political grease wouldn't be wrong. Remember, we talking live-and-let-live Florida.

When Haydon Burns, the mayor of Jacksonville and Leonard Rosen's best friend, became governor of Florida in 1964, he appointed two Gulf American officials to the FILSB, one of which was none other than Leonard Rosen himself. Later, Burns appointed two other people to the Board who did business with Gulf American. In effect, the FILSB was controlled by one of the very land development companies it was supposed to regulate. As anyone with a functioning brain can imagine, official complaints filed with the FILSB against Gulf American hit a concrete wall and disintegrated.

But the shit hit the fan in 1966 when the first Republican in 95 years was elected Governor, dealing a severe blow to the Rosens' influence in Tallahassee. Claude R. Kirk Jr. soon realized that the extensive media coverage spotlighting Gulf American's shameful record of land fraud, unethical, and blatantly illegal sales tactics gave him the perfect opportunity to send a message to the real estate community at large and to the Rosens in particular (who had made the unforgivable mistake of publicly supporting his Democratic opponent). Acting in concert with the Legislature, Kirk eliminated the FILSB in 1967 and replaced it with the Florida Land Sales Board, a seven-member body where only a minority of members could be active developers.

Subsequent events would surprise no one familiar with politics in the Sunshine State. Leonard Rosen, certainly understanding the nature of the precipice on which he was standing, threatened to blackmail the chairman of the State Development Commission with certain scandalous information unless the State cancelled an investigation into Gulf American's sales practices. Recognizing a golden political opportunity when he saw it, Governor Kirk called a news conference in October 1967 and almost gleefully announced the blackmail attempt, excoriating it "an example of the extent to which this company had gone to subvert the process of government in Florida." Needless to say, the investigation went forward and Leonard Rosen crawled back into his hole. Gulf American surprised nearly everyone by pleading guilty to five counts of misleading sales techniques that included:

• Changing lot locations on deeds purchased by customers without their consent or knowledge
• Intentional misrepresentations of material facts by sales agents
• Failure to notify the Land Sales Board when replatting subdivisions (and thereby changing the sizes, shapes, number, and locations of sold lots)

Although the convictions were minor, they spelled the downfall of the Rosens and their Gulf American Corporation. Not long after that the bloom faded from the rose and financial times grew hard. In the midst of fresh State investigations into land sales fraud and the threat of new indictments, the newly created state Land Sales Board flexed its political muscles and refused to accept subdivision applications from Gulf American. The handwriting was on the wall for everyone to read.

In July 1968, Leonard Rosen resigned from the Gulf American Board of Directors. About a week later the company announced it was merging with the GAC Corporation, a holding company of the General Acceptance Corporation, a Pennsylvania mortgage lender, for more than $200 million in stock. Naturally, the Rosens remained on board as paid consultants. When the merger was completed the following year, the Rosens were given GAC stock worth about $58 million. Since their original 1957 investment in Gulf American was $125,000, it wasn't a bad rate-of-return.

But snakes remain snakes even when their ownership changes. The sales tactics instituted by the Rosens continued under GAC management, resulting in numerous consumer allegations of fraud. But the Land Sales Board was looking for any excuse to come down on unethical development firms (especially those whose executives had foolishly supported the losing Democratic gubernatorial candidate) and began enforcing regulations with a vengeance. Barely six years later GAC bit the bullet and turned belly up. It was Chapter 11 time. The rats deserted the sinking ship in 1975 as the company filed for bankruptcy protection, leaving nearly 700,000 acres of largely unimproved swampland in the incapable hands of the 17,000 dumb as dirt landowners scattered across so many countries it was hard to keep track of them. It was Florida land speculation at its very worst. Conscienceless developers, an originally moribund State real estate enforcement arm, and non-existent State or County regulatory bodies serious about protecting the environment had combined to ensure that a savage blow was dealt to the Big Cypress.

As a result of the Rosens' and later GAC's lack of environmental stewardship, development efforts in the Southern Golden Gate Estates dramatically altered the natural landscape of the western Big Cypress. The construction of the system of drainage canals lowered the water table by four feet or more, turning what was once a healthy cypress wetland into a distressed and weakened environment that became an easy target for waves of exotic and nuisance plants and one fire after another.

And once you think you've heard it all, something even uglier pops up. For nearly a decade, the State had been working with the Federal government to acquire land south of Interstate 75 as part of the Everglades (and Big Cypress) Restoration effort. Since the late 1990s, the State purchased about 52,000 acres of land that was part of the Rosens' infamous Southern Golden Gate Estates. In mid-2003, the actions of greedy speculators and faulty Collier County land acquisition procedures led the State to indefinitely postpone a key land buy in the SGGE after learning that speculators had positioned themselves to profit handsomely from State Everglades restoration efforts.

The problem is fairly simple if you follow the process step by step. Since Southern Golden Gate Estates had never developed as planned, most property owners owed tons of back taxes. Owners in the SGGE typically failed to pay taxes for the simple reason that the assessments were more than the property was worth, especially since the "subdivision" had no paved roads and no utilities, meaning no water, no sewers, no gas, and no electricity. Consequently, Collier County periodically seized land for non-payment and put it up for auction, where the State bought it, basically for the back taxes that were owed. In the mid-2000s, speculators outbid the State for the auctioned properties because State law restricts State agencies from bidding higher than 125 percent of the appraised value. The speculators then submitted applications to the County to subdivide the land into numerous building lots, thus dramatically raising its supposed market value.

After the land was subdivided, the properties were then offered by speculators to the State for a considerably higher amount than was paid at auction. If the State balked and refused to pay the exorbitant price, its only option was to file an eminent domain condemnation or leave the lots in private ownership, which would defeat their objective of preserving the area from development. That process ultimately had the potential of costing the State a great deal more money than it had anticipated. Because it would be forced to file a lawsuit on each recorded lot or buy each lot separately. That's what you call a scam of the boldest sort.

Faka Union Bay, an estuary in the Ten Thousand Islands National Aquatic Preserve in southwest Florida, is today fed by the GAC canal system that has been draining a 16,000 square mile area of the western Big Cypress into the estuary since its construction more than 30 years ago. Current average annual flow into the Bay is approximately 100 times the volume of water it had received prior to construction of the canal system. That influx of fresh water dramatically dried down the Fakahatchee and also depressed the salinity of Faka-Union Bay, thus severely damaging the estuarine ecosystem.

The combination of those twin negative effects is the main reason the State and Federal governments are trying to plug the canals and restore the surface drainage to as close to a pre-development condition as is possible. And believe me that is not an easy task, no matter what environmental activists say. Not in Florida, where every cracker or peckerwood who owns a piece of land expects it to be his personal bank account. At this point Readers should remember the Land-is-Money Quadruplets: Hamilton Disston, Henry Flagler, Ed Ball, and Barron Gift Collier Senior. They set the stage for today's avaricious expectations.

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With the above materials as background, the largest, most biologically diverse, and easily most fascinating mixed swamp forest in the Big Cypress and perhaps in all Florida, is the Fakahatchee Strand. The Strand runs in a north to south direction from just north of I-75 to the Tamiami Trail/U.S. 41. Many biologists claim that the Fakahatchee is absolutely unrivaled in its numerous unusual and rare plants and animals and its otherworldly beauty. Nowhere in the United States, with the exception of Puerto Rico, can visitors find anything like the rain forests of the tropics.

Fakahatchee, a Miccosukee word meaning forked river, is a 100,000-acre, elongated strip of mixed swamp forest of cypress and hardwoods. It constitutes the Big Cypress's heart and soul. At twenty-five miles long and seven miles wide it is easily the largest such strand forest in the United States. Its stand of native Florida royal palm is the largest in the country and forms the world's only royal palm-baldcypress forest association.

Sad to say, the magnificent baldcypress are long gone, having been logged out in the late 1940s and early 1950s. But, miracle of miracles, despite the mindless destruction wrought by the timber companies and the terrible fires that swept through it in the fifties, sixties, and seventies, the Fakahatchee remains a captivating and wonderfully wild place. It is far and away one of the premier wetlands in the United States. Existing species include baldcypress, pond cypress, red maple, oak, willow, pop ash, swamp laurel oak, strangler fig, gumbo-limbo and numerous other swamp hardwoods, cabbage and royal palms, and at least 39 species of native orchids, some of which are found nowhere else in the world. Remember Susan Orleans and The Orchid Thief?

For anyone with even the slightest interest in natural history, the Fakahatchee is a magical place, literally bursting with wonders that bestow on it one of the highest densities of rare plants in Florida. The sheer biological splendor found in its permanent interior lagoons and ponds have stunned even professional botanists who have studied the Fakahatchee. Nearly 500 species of plants have been recorded there, many of which are rare or endangered. Where the forest canopy opens up over good-sized lagoons, the trees above are so filled with bromeliads that the branches are almost totally hidden from view by enormous pincushions of wild-pine. It's a remarkable and unforgettable sight, one few other than dedicated biologists or nature photographers have seen. But it's there if you but possess the desire and the determination. Remember, desire alone is never sufficient. Determination rules in all things and beats unapplied intelligence hands down. It's no coincidence that 'C' students run this and every other country in the world. In my humble opinion, when the chips are down shear determination to succeed almost always kicks the shit out of raw intelligence. Key phrase: almost always.

Speaking of rare and endangered species in the Fakahatchee, road kills of the seldom seen Florida panther are concentrated along two adjacent highways, Interstate 75 (the section running east-west between Golden Gate and Weston) and State Route 29. Both of those locations are immediately adjacent to the Strand and the Florida Panther National Wildlife Refuge, which actually includes the northern part of the Fakahatchee. The greater majority of panther kills in Florida occurs where highways cross sizable swamps. The conclusion is painfully obvious. Panthers are well adapted to wetland conditions and poorly adapted to modern transportation arteries. Faced with the very real threat of extinction, in a sense it's too bad we can't keep these gorgeous creatures confined to places where they will be safe. But as wild animals they recognize no boundaries, not even those of state or Federal highways.

In the 1980s, a large tract of private property just north of the Strand was scheduled for development into rural housing tracts to accommodate the almost insatiable demand in Collier County for residential units (remember that Collier County was one of the fastest growing areas in the nation). The developer's plans were rendered moot when the Federal government established the 30,000-acre Florida Panther National Wildlife Refuge in an effort to protect both wildlife and habitat.

Public access to the Fakahatchee Strand Preserve State Park couldn't be easier, even for the geographically challenged. From Naples simply take the Tamiami Trail/U.S. Route 41 south and east to the intersection of Florida Route 29. Turn north on Route 29 and go just a few miles to a narrow, largely unpaved road, Janes Memorial Drive, which winds through the southern section of the Strand.

Casual visitors can relax in the air-conditioned comfort of their cars and be content to make the circuit and return to civilization without breaking into a sweat. But once there, my strongest advice is to park and at least take a short walk into the Strand along one of the old logging roads and tramways that were used in the 1940s and 1950s to haul out the giant baldcypress logs. Despite their terrible history, these old roads, now trails overgrown with ferns, buttonbush, tropical shrubs, pop ash, or cypress, are very useful in providing access into the deepest parts of the Fakahatchee.

Who knows what thrills you will find once you screw up your courage and enjoy a hike into the past. Remember, the orchids bloom through every season, wet and dry, and are waiting to bring smiles and expressions of awe and amazement to your pretty face. Of the 16 bromeliad species that are native to Florida, 14 are found in the Fakahatchee Strand as are 44 native orchids, making it the bromeliad capital of North America. Which, of course, is why John Laroche, the real Orchid Thief, made it his principal target. Among them is the legendary ghost orchid—Dendrophylax lindenii. Leafless with bright white spindly, curvilinear petals on slender spikes, the flower seems to float ghostlike in the air. Photographs will take your breath away but seeing one in its natural setting is heart stopping. Really. It was the ghost orchid that Laroche sought most fanatically and that provided the centerpiece of Susan Orlean’s terrific book.

The interior of the Fakahatchee is wet throughout most of the year, with water depths ranging from ankle and calf deep to chest deep, depending on the season. However, if you're not careful you can stumble into water holes well over five feet in depth. Which is why I strongly recommend that serious explorers carry a sturdy six-foot long walking stick to poke into suspiciously deep spots or to ward off various unwanted critters, should they appear.

For those who want to keep their feet and everything else high and dry, the Fakahatchee Strand Preserve State Park's interpretive facilities include an 850-foot hard-surfaced trail leading to a 2,000 foot elevated Big Cypress Bend boardwalk. The interpretive center is located on U.S. 41 at Big Cypress Bend, about seven miles west of State Route 29. For the geographically challenged, that means seven miles closer to Naples than the intersection of Highway 41 and Route 29. That trail system begins at a Native American (Seminole) exhibit and winds through some of the most incredible virgin baldcypress found in the Big Cypress Basin, excluding of course the magnificent champions in residence at Corkscrew Swamp.

For those slightly hardier souls, you might consider taking the "wet" guided tour in winter, which is the dry season, a choice that will keep you relatively dry and still provide legitimate bragging rights over your less adventuresome friends, unrepentant couch potatoes they may be. If you do visit the Fakahatchee, bring along industrial strength mosquito repellant. You'll need it.

Since we don't live in a perfect world, you Gentle Readers need to know about another serious problem that has recently attacked the Fakahatchee. According to information found on the University of Florida Department of Entomology and Nematology’s Featured Creature website, a species of Mexican bromeliad weevil, Metamasius callizona (Chevrolat), was first spotted in Florida in 1989 at a Ft. Lauderdale nursery. The best guess is that the weevils were brought into the State hidden in a shipment of bromeliads imported from Mexico. Although the nursery was doused with pesticides, within two months the weevil was identified in northern Broward County and southern Palm Beach County. Within two years the weevil had been found in four south Florida counties. The first report of the weevil in Collier County was in 1996, in Immokalee. Other sightings in Collier County have been reported at Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary, at the corner of Vanderbilt Drive and Bluebill Avenue in North Naples, and in an environmental preserve area in the Mediterra subdivision. According to the indefatigable weevil watchers, the evil weevil (as it is known locally) was confirmed in the Fakahatchee Strand Preserve State Park in March 2002.

That’s very bad news because 11 of Florida’s 16 species of native bromeliads are at risk from attack by the Mexican bromeliad weevil. All of those species are found in the Fakahatchee Strand. Ten of those 11 species are endangered or threatened. The species, Catopsis nutans, is found nowhere else in Florida and several other rare bromeliads are found in few places outside of the Fakahatchee Strand. According to botanists, in Florida the evil weevil seems to target the giant airplant (also known as the giant wild pine), the cardinal airplant, and the twisted airplant, all of which have been declared endangered under Florida law. As of 2009, the presence of the Mexican weevil was confirmed in 22 Florida counties.

The biomechanics of bromeliad destruction are simple. The female weevil lays eggs in the larger bromeliads. As the larvae grow, they primarily feed on leaves but have also been observed feeding on bromeliad flowers. As they progress toward to the base of the stem they tunnel into the stem tissue, producing large holes that can result in the plant being dislodged from its support structure, causing the plant to fall to the ground and die. That removes the plant as a source for new bromeliads, causing a cascading effect as more and more bromeliads die and fewer seed sources remain. At the latest count, the weevil has left a path of bromeliad destruction on private and public land in 18 counties in south Florida. With no end in sight.

In its indigenous Mexican/Central American habitat, the weevil seldom causes sufficient damage to its bromeliad host populations to warrant management efforts. Therefore, it is not considered a pest. One of the main reasons is that insects like the weevil almost always have predators in its indigenous environment that keep its populations in check. However, when an insect emigrates from its original habitat it leaves those predators behind. Therefore its population may increase exponentially if environmental conditions are appropriate, meaning there are few or no predators around with a taste for its juicy insides. And if it finds a food source to its liking. Meaning, in this case, bromeliads. If those conditions prevail, then it becomes an exotic pest. Which, in a nutshell, is the situation in south Florida with the Mexican bromeliad weevil.

Author’s Note: Why are so many professional and amateur biologists and botanists in a tizzy over one little weevil? Because bromeliads play a unique role in health of many south Florida ecosystems, especially that of the Fakahatchee. The shape of the plants allows water to be collected and cupped between its leaves, giving frogs and birds a source of moisture and a source of prey when the rest of the swamp withers during the dry season. Some insects are so adapted to bromeliads that their entire lives are spent within their confines. Without bromeliads the whole ecosystem is in danger of being horribly altered and even of collapsing.

So, other than hand-wringing, cursing, and name calling what's being done to address the problem? The University of Florida’s above named Department of Entomology and Nematology is conducting research aimed at developing a natural predator from Central America as a biological control for the weevil. A parasitic tachinid fly (Lixophaga sp.) of the genus Admontia from Honduras, one of the weevil’s natural enemies, has been identified and is being investigated for use as a predator. The fly lays its larvae in bromeliads under attack by the weevil larvae. In the resulting war between the two larvae, the fly wins. At least that’s how it happens in nature.

When this material was written (in early-2006), University of Florida entomologists had discovered the right combination of factors needed to raise the flies in a quarantined lab. And that was a necessary first step since hundreds of flies were needed for tests to convince regulators at the Florida Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services that the flies would not attack other native species of weevil and cause as of yet unforeseen environmental damage. A strong fly colony was established at the U of F quarantine facility and Federal and State release permits were issued in 2007. Releases began at the end of June 2007 and are planned to be continued in some Federal Preserves and State and county parks with concurrent evaluation.

Implications

In the hopefully event a number of you Gentle Readers managed to doze absentmindedly through most of this section on southwest Florida, I'd like to close with a final word before we leave the Fakahatchee. The Fakahatchee Strand exists only because it was saved after most of the baldcypress had been removed. The remaining ecosystem was simply too beautiful to throw away. Today, in what is truly the eleventh hour for most of Florida’s surviving natural systems, do we have the luxury of waiting to commit ourselves to preservation?

The Fakahatchee Strand State Park, Collier-Seminole State Park, the Florida Panther National Wildlife Refuge, the Big Cypress Preserve, and Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary are here today for one reason only. Because they were preserved from the ruthless exploitation of land developers. The individual and specific mechanisms of preservation were slightly different in that the State, Federal government, and non-governmental organizations were involved separately. But in the final analysis the only thing that saved those natural areas for posterity was their removal from private ownership. Keeping environmentally sensitive Florida lands in private ownership simply invites their destruction. Why? Because the State has historically been unable to muster the courage to stand up to their paymasters, the powerbrokers. That's the lesson the Big Cypress, Fakahatchee Strand State Park, the Big Cypress Preserve, and Corkscrew Swamp teach us, if we're open to listening and learning.