by Tom Lowe
“In your opinion, what’s causing these toxins in Lake Okeechobee?”
“It’s not my opinion. It’s from consistent data gathered from biology and science research. For decades, massive farming operations, including the sugar industry, have pumped water from the lake into irrigated fields, which are laden with pesticides and fertilizers, and then pumped the runoff water back into the lake. That’s created a toxic soup. Today, a lot of that return dumping into the lake has ceased. However, the damage is done. Big Sugar owns or controls most of the farmland on the southern border of the lake. It’s here where that water should flow through, not into the rivers like they flush a toilet of toxins into the two rivers whenever they want to.”
“At this point, what can be done?”
“Almost twenty years ago, the state and federal government agreed to a Comprehensive Everglades Restoration Plan. The basic idea was to clean the water and restore its natural flow south of Lake Okeechobee into the Everglades and the Big Cypress Preserve. Some progress was made, but we still have a long way to go. Too much corporate greed and special interests lined the pockets of career politicians, and the original restoration agreement became full of roadblocks, amendments and holes. It’s a sham and a shame. In 2014 the Florida taxpayers, in a special referendum, voted to fund the buying of farmland south of the big lake for water restoration. However, powerful lobbyists working for Big Sugar and big agriculture dammed the flow of that effort.”
• • •
“Your dog is so cute,” said the young woman who approached us. Max snorted a half-bark and sauntered over to her, tail wagging in a full-bore doxie greeting. “Can I pet her?” asked the girl who looked college-aged, blonde hair hanging below her shoulders. Pretty oval face in a natural sort of way. No make-up. No earrings. She wore a long-sleeve khaki shirt, jeans and lace-up black boots. She held a garden trowel, taking off a pair of dirty cotton gloves.
I said, “Max has never turned down a scratch behind her hound dog ears.”
The girl smiled, blue eyes sparkling. She squatted down next to Max and petted her, using both hands. “How does a female dog get a name like Max?”
“Her real name, at least the name my wife gave her, is Maxine. A few weeks after my wife died, Maxine sort of assumed the personality of Max.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” She pulled a strand of hair behind one ear. “What kind of personality does a Max dog have?”
I smiled. “You’re seeing it. Rather bold. Friendly. Very unformal. Nothing pretentious, not that Maxine is a pretentious name … just a bit more formal. Actually, I wasn’t the first to call her Max. A friend of mine, a guy who lives on his boat, called her Max first. Now, he often uses the name Hot Dog. Max comes to either name if you have food. Her affection can be conditional.”
The girl laughed. She stood and smiled, the screened door opening with a rusty squeak. I turned and watched the old man, full beard, cane in one hand, walk down the three wooden steps, holding onto the railing with one hand. He stopped and inhaled, the breeze filled with the fragrance of flowers. The girl smiled, watching the old man approach. “That’s my grandpa. I was a little girl the first time I remember seeing him, and it was out here. I must have been about five or six. And, the very first thing he asked me was if I believed in ghosts. I said I really didn’t believe in ghosts. Then he smiled and said he’d take me into the Everglades and show me a real ghost. He did. Ever since, I’ve been a believer—at least in what he says. If you’re lucky, maybe he’ll show you, too.”
SEVEN
Rachel Moreno waited for the TV commercial break to end. She looked at her notes and smiled at Joe Thaxton. As a local appliance commercial played in the background, she said, “One of the producers in the newsroom said a lot of people are calling in with positive comments. Some want to know if we’ll take live questions on the air.”
“I’m game,” said Thaxton. “It’s all about the people anyway, or it should be.”
“Standby!” shouted the floor director. “In three.” He pointed to her and the tiny lights mounted above the camera lens glowed red again.
“If you’re just joining us, we’re speaking with Joe Thaxton, a man who a year and a half ago was a fishing guide. His daughter became very ill from breathing toxic spores from an algae outbreak on the St. Lucie and Indian River waterways. He’s running for state senate and is growing quite a base of supporters.” She turned from the camera to Thaxton. “If you are elected to the state senate, what can you do?”
“Say hell no to lobby money. Say yes to Florida’s clean water and health. I’ll work hard to sponsor and pass a bill to change the status quo. I’ll be tireless in my effort to protect our waterways, our beaches, the Everglades, and the health of our residents in Florida and that of the people visiting our state. When people no longer come and vacation because Florida’s beaches are hazardous to their health, what’s going to happen then?”
The reporter nodded. “You’re talking about a potential disastrous economic effect, correct?”
“Absolutely. Think of the jobs that will be lost. Tourism is the number one employer in Florida. It generates close to a hundred billion a year for the state. Last year, more than 120-million people came here for vacations. What happens if that ends? Nobody will come to beaches where the lifeguards are wearing respiratory breathing masks. Who wants to step over thousands of dead and rotting fish in the surf and on the beaches?”
“Your critics, including the governor, dismiss you and say you’re not a whistleblower but more of a rebel rouser doomsayer who paints an apocalyptic ‘Henny Penny—the sky is falling’ view of Florida’s future, when that’s not necessarily the path. How do you respond?”
“Before I was a fishing guide, I worked as a marine biologist. The scientific data paints a better picture than anything I can say. There’s a direct cause and ill effect every time they flush Lake O, and we feel like someone just urinated on us. For far too long, the sugar industry has bought and sold politicians to get what it wants, and that’s not in the best interests of Florida, its precious waterways, beaches, and its people.” Thaxton smiled and said, “Rachel, earlier you’d mentioned the platform I’m running on … it’s really a platform of change and responsibility that I’m standing on as I try to offer positive change.” He shifted his eyes from the reporter to one of the cameras. “And, for too long, the average Joe’s in our state have suffered the consequences of corporate greed destroying the very thing that makes Florida unique among the forty-nine other states … our 663 miles of sandy beaches. Our rivers and our lakes. Lake Okeechobee, the tenth largest in the nation, is one of the most polluted in America. That has to change, or Florida will turn into a cesspool that can never be drained. I have no problem standing toe-to-toe with the well-funded lobbyists and special interest groups because not to do so will only allow the environmental disease to fester and grow worse. And, one day, we’ll wake up and learn our beautiful state—Florida, has terminal cancer. At that point, it’s too damn late. When Spanish explorer Ponce De Leon first sailed here and walked our beaches, coves and woodlands, he called this new land Florido … or a place with flowers. That bloom is in danger of falling off the plant forever. But the good news is that it’s not too late. It can be restored. It just comes down to choice: Do we want our Florida to be the land of flowers or the state of green slime?”
• • •
A dozen reporters, the news director and staff watched the interview on screens in the Channel Twelve news room. “He’s charismatic and persuasive,” said a middle-aged news director, his blue tie down a notch, a cup of black coffee in one hand. “You think he has a snowball’s chance in hell?”
The executive producer, a woman with her dark hair pinned up, quick green eyes, watched the interview on one of the newsroom monitors for a second more. She turned to her boss. “Maybe. There’s something about him that seems way beyond reproach. Sort of like the old movie, Mr. Smith goes to Washington. If he does get elected, he’ll
be the first politician to make a dent in the powerful sugar and agriculture lobby. Maybe he’ll touch a nerve. And maybe something good will happen because of it.”
The phone on her desk buzzed. She answered, and a receptionist said, “There’s a man on line seven who says he has a hot news tip. Want me to put him through. I tried Leslie’s extension, but just got her voice-mail.”
“Put him through.” The executive producer paused, glancing across the newsroom at the bank of TV monitors and said, “News desk. Can I help you?”
A man’s voice, husky, slightly distorted, said, “We’re thinking about blowing up your TV station for giving that freak time on the air.”
“You’re welcome to come in for an interview. Who is this?”
The news director could tell his executive producer was agitated.
The caller said, “Like that would happen. Tell your average Joe to check his car before he starts it.” The caller disconnected.
The executive producer licked her lips, set the phone down and looked at the news director. “From what I just heard on that call, I’d say Joe Thaxton already is hitting a nerve.”
“What’d the caller say?”
“It wasn’t what he said … it was what he threatened to do.”
EIGHT
Chester Miller stepped from his front porch holding a wooden cane in his right hand. His flowing silver-gray beard reminded me of the Spanish moss hanging from the large banyan tree on his property. His hair was bone white and hung to the collar. He wore bib overalls with a red-flannel shirt underneath. No shoes. He grinned, approaching us, a large-boned man who walked with a slight bend to his wide shoulders, his eyes smiling. “Welcome!” he bellowed. Max cocked her head. “Welcome to God’s little acre tucked back here in the Big Cypress Preserve. Are you looking for an orchid? How may we assist you and your canine companion?”
I nodded. “As a matter of fact, I am looking to buy some orchids. And I’m a repeat customer. I bought an orchid from you about seven years ago.”
The old man looked over the scratched glasses perched on the tip of his nose, as if he were seeing me for the first time, trying to place me, his right hand gripping the cane. “I don’t get a whole lot of repeat customers. Not that I don’t want them. But my little strand in the ‘glades is not what the retail experts would say is the ideal location.” He inhaled deeply and gestured all around him. “It’s great for the flowers, not so much for people. I do remember you, though. And, if memory serves me correctly … I remember the type of orchid you bought. We’d spent some time chatting, walking. You were very interested. As I recall, you worked in law enforcement.” He chuckled. “I only get a few customers a month, so it’s not as if I have a mind like a steel trap. Although, I remember you and the orchid, your name slips my mind.”
“It’s Sean O’Brien.”
He looked from me to the girl. “This is my granddaughter, Callie. Callie is here for a few months to help me with the orchids before returning to the University of Florida. We’ve been replanting some of the native species of orchids in the ‘glades and Big Cypress Preserve. I’m not as spry as I once was when I traipsed all over the world studying plants. I’m Chester.”
“Chester Miller,” I said.
He grinned. “Impressive. You must have a thing for remembering names and faces.”
“Some, not all.”
“Well, I’m flattered to be included in that group you do manage to retain in your mind. Maybe it’s my Santa Claus beard.” He grinned.
“You’re a hard man to forget. I remember spending almost an hour with you. I felt like I learned more about botany in that one hour than I have my entire life. You even offered me some of your homemade banana wine.”
“I have a new batch fermenting. I’ll cork a few dozen bottles soon. You’ll have to stop in the next time you’re traveling through the ‘glades.”
Callie smiled and said, “Grandpa will never admit it, but I’m convinced that he knows more about orchids than anyone on the planet. He’s been studying them for more than a half-century. He has one of the best minds I’ve ever seen. He’s the reason I’m majoring in biology and botany in college.”
“Callie, my only grandchild, likes to flatter an old man.” He glanced at me, his furrowed brow tightening. “You bought a dove orchid that day. Not any run of the mill dove, but one I had worked to propagate into a hybrid that’s a cross between a pale white dove and the lady slipper.” He smiled. “May I inquire as to the health of your orchid? Is it still producing blooms three times a year?”
“Unfortunately, no. After my wife passed away a few years ago, I attempted to do exactly as she had done so well with the orchid.”
“I gather it had been a gift for your wife, correct? I hope she enjoyed it.”
“Yes. It was a gift. Sherri loved it. I soon learned that I didn’t have the green thumb that she did.”
He chuckled. “And now, I assume, you’re ready to try again? I have some orchids that are much more tolerant for folks who are, as you suggested, challenged when it comes to caring for plants.”
“The orchid is not for me. I’ve learned my lesson. It’s all I can do to keep Max fed and out of the mouths of gators here in Florida. I live on the St. Johns River in the center of the state. The orchid will be for a friend.”
He nodded. “A lady friend, I presume?”
“Yes. And she doesn’t live that far from here, so the orchid might do well in the same environment.”
The breeze blew, limbs from a large weeping willow tree swaying like leafy ropes. A wind chime on one corner of the cabin tinkled for a few seconds. Chester motioned toward a greenhouse that looked like a Quonset hut or an old airplane hangar you’d see abandoned in airfields. It was made of corrugated steel and curved plexiglass panels. The plexiglass had yellowed. He said, “In that old greenhouse are some of the rarest orchids on earth. I’ve spent my entire life studying and working with nature to grow them. As a matter of fact, you’re standing less than fifty feet from the rarest exotic orchid plant ever. I have waited more than fifteen years for it to bloom. I hope that I live long enough to see that happen. If you promise not to photograph it, and promise not to divulge the location … I’ll show it to you.”
“You have my word. No pictures. No secrets revealed.”
He chuckled, his gnarled, arthritic hand gripping his cane. “Follow me. We’ll visit the greenhouse first. I want to hear more about your friend. That way I might suggest an orchid for her. I have cultivated some flowers in there that I believe have ancestral roots all the way back to the Garden of Eden. I like to think it was before evil arrived and caused the garden to go to seed.” He laughed and came closer.
I could smell the odor of old clothes, dried sweat. He looked at his granddaughter. “Callie, if you will dear … lead us into the greenhouse.” He glanced down at Max and then eyed me. “Please watch your pup. There are cottonmouth moccasins around here. Now we have pythons to contend with in the ‘glades. I removed a large snake from the greenhouse last summer. Just like Eden, it’s often difficult to keep a snake from slithering into the garden.”
NINE
Callie led the way, followed by her grandfather. Max looked at me for a brief second before trotting behind them, her head high, stopping in her tracks when a lizard darted into a pile of green coconuts stacked at the base of a palm tree. “Come on, Max,” I said, bending to pick her up. “Leave the lizard alone. You heard Chester’s warning. There could be a snake hiding in that pile of coconuts.”
We entered the subdued light of the greenhouse. The warm air humid. The sweet fragrance intoxicating—mysterious and yet gentle, soft as perfume veiled on a beautiful woman. More than two-hundred orchids and lilies filled almost every square inch. Dozens of orchids grew from pots lined up and down a long wooden table, stretching for at least fifty feet. Handwritten, three-by-five cards were positioned next to each clay pot and the plant it contained. Other orchids were placed on waist-high benches that wrappe
d around the inside perimeter of the greenhouse.
I’d never seen such a hodgepodge sea of colors in bloom. The blossoms seemed to be in striking natural still art poses. Motionless. Raw beauty. The hum of a bee somewhere in the mix. The orchids were of every shape and color in the known flower universe. Some had such a blend of colors—flamingo pinks, lavenders, deep purples and iridescent yellows and golds, they appeared surreal and delicate, like blown glass.
Callie stepped to the center of the table and pointed to a white orchid with pinkish-blue cascading colors, similar to rings, on the five largest petals. “This is my favorite so far.” The center portion, the smallest petals, were like rubies, the tint of light through a glass of merlot. “Grandpa started experimenting, trying to create this flower when I was born. It took him a few years, but he did it. And he named it after me.”
Chester laughed. “It took me longer than a few years. More like fifteen years. And then it took another two years for the orchid to bloom. I wasn’t sure it ever would, but at the time Callie graduated from high school, the first bud appeared, and the rest is history. The scientific name is Platanthera Calliope … Calliope was the Greek muse who presided over song, poetry, and the arts. I simply shortened all that to one word … Callie.”
She smiled wide, slight dimples in her cheeks. “Thanks, Grandpa.”
I said, “I’d bet that one is not for sale.”
