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Every year on May 21, a quiet ripple turns into a wave—a movement known as National Legacy Day. For many, it’s simply a date on the calendar. But for Jill Thompson, Director of Legacy of Hope, it’s a living, breathing tribute to something much deeper. “National Legacy Day is May 21, and that is Inheritance of Hope’s Founder’s Day,” Jill shares. “It’s the day we started—May 21, 2007.” It all began with love. And loss. And the kind of strength that blooms in the face of unimaginable odds. Jill’s best friend, Kristen Milligan, was diagnosed with terminal liver cancer on her 30th birthday. At the time, her children were only six months, two, and four. Jill and Kristen were young mothers walking side-by-side into motherhood… and now, into the unknown. “Kristen lived for nine years with that diagnosis,” Jill says. “She passed away at 39. But she lived those years intentionally—planning, loving, and creating a legacy that still echoes through thousands of lives today.” Kristen’s legacy is Inheritance of Hope, a nonprofit walking towards families facing terminal illness when so many instinctively step away. “We serve families in lots of ways,” Jill explains, “but in May, on National Legacy Day, we ask everyone—not just those facing illness—to think about legacy. To consider living intentionally, today.” The challenge is simple, but profound: What is your legacy? Does it matter? Are you making an impact? Jill and her team invite people across the country to join two intentional acts during May: 1. Honor someone who has made a meaningful impact on your life. “You can post on social media and tag Inheritance of Hope, or do something that would matter to that person—donate to a cause they loved, volunteer, or even just share their story with someone new,” Jill says. “We want to know. We want to celebrate with you.” 2. Live today in a way that builds your legacy. “Don’t wait,” Jill urges. “Legacy isn’t just about what you leave behind when you're gone. It’s the impact you make while you’re here—in everyday moments, in the way you love, serve, and show up.” This year, Inheritance of Hope’s reach extends further thanks to local initiatives like Hope Hub in the Lakeland-Tampa area. It’s a cozy, heartful space for families to connect, grieve, laugh, and support one another—especially those walking through the wilderness of terminal illness. “When one person is diagnosed, the entire family is affected,” Jill says. “Roles shift. A spouse becomes a caregiver. A child has to grow up faster. And there’s so much grief—anticipatory grief. But in community, there’s strength.” That community fosters something Inheritance of Hope calls "jorrow"—a blend of joy and sorrow. “It may sound impossible, but it’s not,” Jill says with a soft smile. “We see it every day. Families laughing together even while holding deep grief. You can feel joy and sorrow at the same time. It’s powerful.” It’s also a sacred reminder that love and loss are inseparable. “I’ve learned that grief is part of love,” Jill reflects. “The deeper the love, the deeper the grief. That pain—it’s proof that you loved deeply. That you were loved.” And so, on May 21, Jill honors Kristen’s legacy the best way she knows how: by helping others build their own. “The work I do every day is how I honor her. It’s my legacy too. And I hope that, just like Kristen, I’ll still be making an impact long after I’m gone.” That’s the heartbeat of National Legacy Day. It’s not about grand gestures or dramatic goodbyes. It’s about waking up and saying, Today matters. I can do something with it. So, what will your legacy be? Who will you honor? And how will you live—today—to make it count? https://inheritanceofhope.org/

As we dive into Lakes Appreciation Month, let’s take a look at one of Polk County’s most distinctive water bodies, Lake Hancock. Nestled between Bartow, Lakeland, and Winter Haven, Lake Hancock is one of the largest lakes in the county, covering 4,583 acres. It is second only to Lake Weohyakapka (“Walk in Water”) for the title of the largest lake fully within Polk County’s border. However, size is just one of the lake’s attributes; Lake Hancock also plays a vital role in the Peace River Basin watershed and in linking Florida’s green spaces, supporting water resources and habitat connectivity throughout Polk County and beyond! HANCOCK’S HEADWATERS One of Florida’s key water systems is the watershed—an area of land that channels rainfall and groundwater into creeks, streams, and rivers, eventually reaching bays, harbors, and the ocean. Lake Hancock is a headwaters lake, meaning it’s one of the starting points for the Peace River Basin watershed. Water that flows out of the Lake Hancock outlet travels to the Peace River, then south through several counties before finally making its way to Charlotte Harbor on the Gulf Coast. This direct connection to the Peace River, coastal estuaries, and the Gulf makes what happens in and around Lake Hancock especially important—not just for Polk County, but for the entire watershed and its downstream communities. Supporting the ecosystems of Lake Hancock in turn supports the Peace River and everyone who depends on it–animals and humans alike. BUT LAKE HANCOCK IS SO … GREEN? The Florida Department of Environmental Protection considers Lake Hancock an “impaired” lake, meaning that its water quality isn’t as good as we would like it to be. But the green water you might notice in Lake Hancock is not necessarily a bad thing. You may hear biologists refer to green lakes as “eutrophic” or “biologically productive,” which simply means that they produce a lot of life from the excess nutrients in the water column. Think about it this way–the algae that grow in these lakes support a ton of small fish, which then support larger fish, which then support alligators and birds, and so on! WILDLIFE CORRIDOR CONNECTIONS Lake Hancock and its surrounding green spaces don’t just facilitate the movement of water—these natural areas create what is known as a wildlife corridor, forming linkages between larger habitats and allowing animals to move safely across the landscape. For wide-ranging species like bears, deer, and the Florida panther, connected habitats are crucial for finding food, mates, and shelter. As development continues to expand, preserving and linking natural areas becomes increasingly important to prevent habitat fragmentation, which can isolate wildlife populations and limit their chances of survival. LAKE HANCOCK AND HURRICANE RESILIENCE One of the many important functions of Lake Hancock during and after major weather events is its ability to collect and store amazing amounts of excess rainwater and help prevent flooding. Unfortunately, high water combined with strong winds can cause damage to the shoreline around the lake, as seen after Hurricanes Irma and Milton, with the closure of Alligator Alley. Fortunately, following each of these storms, important restoration work around Lake Hancock helped showcase hurricane resilience and lake rehabilitation. Thanks to efforts by Polk County Parks and Natural Resources, the Coastal & Heartland National Estuary Partnership (CHNEP), and the Southwest Florida Water Management District (SWFWMD), parts of the lake’s shoreline were restored with native plants and stronger barriers to protect against future erosion. Shoreline vegetation stabilizes sediments and slows runoff, helping to reduce flooding and keep water clearer during heavy periods of rain and wave action. It also gives fish, birds, turtles, and other aquatic wildlife places to feed and reproduce. Continued shoreline restoration results in increased wildlife habitat, cleaner headwaters for the Peace River, and a more pristine natural area! HOW YOU CAN HELP LAKE HANCOCK THRIVE Everyone can play a role in the continued health and improvement of Lake Hancock and its surrounding green spaces, even with seemingly small actions. Here are a few simple ways to help: · Pick up and properly dispose of pet waste, redirect gutters from the driveway to the yard, and keep grass clippings on your lawn. · Adopt Florida-Friendly Landscaping™ principles or add native Florida plants to your yard. · Learn about local conservation efforts and get involved! · Spread the word! Share this article or something you learned with a friend! To learn more about Florida-Friendly Landscaping™ principles and how they can help lower pollution levels in the Peace River watershed, contact our Master Gardener Plant Clinic at 863-519-1067 or via text at (838) 868-0066. If you’re interested in getting more involved in local conservation efforts, check out these local groups: Florida Native Plant Society’s Heartland Chapter, Florida Wildlife Corridor Foundation, Lakes Region Audubon Society, Ancient Islands Sierra Club, All Florida, and Polk Forever. As we celebrate Lakes Appreciation Month, remember how lucky we are to have natural spaces like this right in our backyards—and how much power we have to keep them healthy! Lake Hancock is much more than just one of Polk County’s lakes; it’s a lifeline for downstream waters, a pathway for wildlife, and an everyday reminder of hurricane recovery and habitat restoration. For more information, please reach out to us at UF/IFAS Extension Polk County or directly to our office via email (scarnevale@ufl.edu). Looking for ‘learning on the go’? Check out the “Naturally Florida” podcast, available on all major podcast platforms.

I. Amid the chaos of a malfunctioning shark and blockbuster ambition, it was the stillness of a story—told low and slow in the belly of a boat—that gave “Jaws” (1975) an inexorable sense of reality, serving to heighten fears imagined. Robert Shaw’s portrayal of Quint, recounting the horrors of the USS Indianapolis, etched itself into film legend. Shaw seemed to summon the performance from his marrow— something personal, something primal. It evoked the late-night tales told by weathered elders beside dwindling fires—stories of horror and survival, laced with gallows humor and told with such directness they left an impression long after memory let go of the details. Tales that felt too harrowing to be true, yet too vivid to be false. The monologue would serve as proof that blockbuster spectacle could pause for something as intimate as personal testimony. I’d argue that it still serves to remind film viewers and film makers alike of the character development necessary to leverage bombast with believability creating the pathway for our connection to the story. II. Born in Westhoughton, England, in 1927 and raised amid the rugged coastlines of the Orkney Islands, Robert Shaw’s early life contained the vivid shades and central characters that oftentimes make society’s storytellers. In a biography released last month by Christopher Shaw Myers, titled “Robert Shaw: An Actor’s Life on the Set of ‘JAWS’ and Beyond,” a chapter detailing his audition for the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art reveals a young Robert Shaw eschewing traditional performance pieces, instead reciting the poem “As I Walked One Evening” by W.H. Autumn. When his choice was questioned, he offered a critical analysis to his judges. Only after they’d heard his explanation of his first selection did he perform Marc Antony’s soliloquy from “Julius Caesar,” gaining him admittance to the academy. It was an early glimpse of a mind equally at home in interpretation and creation—a dual gift that would inform his later screen work, including his most iconic. He began his theatrical career with the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre, performing in “Macbeth,” “Cymbeline,” and “Henry VIII,” and later toured Australia and joined the Old Vic company. His career expanded—moving from Shakespeare to modern drama and television, and eventually across the Atlantic. Shaw’s versatility extended beyond performance: he was a novelist and playwright, publishing works like “The Hiding Place” and “The Sun Doctor,” which won the Hawthornden Prize, as well as “The Man in the Glass Booth,” later adapted for the stage and screen. III. The USS Indianapolis monologue isn’t just a standout moment in “Jaws,” it’s the scene where the film stops breathing. In just a few minutes, a summer blockbuster pivots into something more intimate and literary. The speech anchors Quint’s worldview in lived history, giving shape to his sense of fatalism and the eternal battle with the most tangible element in the series of events that informed the rest of his life. Though the authorship has long been debated, most agree the idea was first introduced by Howard Sackler, the uncredited writer who adapted the Peter Benchley novel and screenplay. He used his naval background to further develop the character of Quint through historical weight and lived experience. His initial version, reportedly two pages long, was a bump in a road that had many. By Spielberg’s account, the scene went through a number of drafts, with contributions solicited from writers like John Milius, Robert Zemeckis, Bob Gale, and Paul Schrader. Still, none of the versions fully captured the tone Spielberg wanted—until Robert Shaw stepped in. As a novelist and playwright in his own right, Shaw received the many drafts, revised them, and returned one night to dinner with a handful of pages, announcing, “I think I’ve got that pesky speech licked.” Spielberg agreed. Screenwriter Carl Gottlieb later credited Shaw with not just editing the piece, but transforming it—crafting the speech that now lives on in cinematic memory. Shaw synthesized the raw material into something singular, structured with a novelist’s instinct and performed with perfect restraint. IV. The postwar cultural landscape was saturated with stories of loss, heroism, and stoicism—all of which informed Shaw’s interpretive choices. Quint is a product of that world—a figure whose bravado is laced with unresolved trauma. Shaw’s understanding informed the tone of his performance: measured, weighted, and deeply aware of what wasn’t being said. His story unfolds like a long-rehearsed truth—raw, rhythmically composed, and impossible to dismiss. In that moment, the machinery of the film yields to the gravity of the human voice. The world on screen and the one off it stand still, listening. Shaw’s performance is unhurried. He builds tension through repetition—“Sometimes the shark would go away, sometimes he wouldn’t.” He paints pictures with restraint—“Black eyes. Like a doll’s eyes.” The rhythm mimics waves. The tone mimics testimony. And the silence that follows it mimics reverence. V. Fifty years later, the scene remains an apex of characterdriven cinema. It is cited in screenwriting manuals, dissected in classrooms, and remembered not merely as a standout movie moment living in our cultural consciousness, but as a story we all heard once—some sitting behind a screen fifty years ago, some as a film ritual every Fourth of July, and some only in the form of parody. Yes, there are those among us who haven’t yet seen “Jaws”—but tease not, for it is they who are within reach of a first viewing we’d all love a chance to live again. So, raise a glass of apricot brandy. Let the screen dim and celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of a scene crewed by the talents of many but captained by one.

As 1936 began, Dick and Julie Pope would host the grand opening of their park on January 2. Many local leaders had serious doubts about the park’s viability, and Pope often faced ridicule from those who felt the operation would surely fail. But the doubters failed to recognize Dick Pope’s skill set. His work with brother Malcolm in daredevil boating, as well as his golfing talent, had earned him valuable media contacts. He leveraged those contacts and promoted the gardens with passion, creativity, photographic excellence, and more than a dash of audacity. International ballet star Gail Armour was Cypress Garden’s first successful promotion. From the very beginning, Cypress Gardens’ fame spread through an ever-increasing barrage of photographic material. The park’s international recognition attests to the old adage, “a picture is worth a thousand words.” Dick Pope was well aware of this and used this photographic heritage to serve the Gardens well. One of his first successful promotions involved an international ballet star named Gail Armour. The Tampa-based dancer brought a crowd of several thousand people paying 25 cents admission to see her and experience the Pope’s “Florida Cypress Gardens.” International ballet star Gail Armour was Cypress Garden’s first successful promotion. Possibly Cypress Gardens’ most iconic photographic vista, complete with a “dash of audacity” from Mr. Pope himself! For the first several years of operation, the botanical gardens were the singular attraction. Then, in 1939, brother Malcolm Pope would introduce electric boats to silently whisk visitors through the lush landscaping via the canals. In the early 1940s the gardens were maturing and, as fate would have it, a hard freeze damaged the flowering vines located on each side of the ticket booth. Not wanting guests arriving to see dead plants, Mrs. Pope enlisted several employees to don what she referred to as “Old Fashions” or what we know today as Belle dresses. She had the women stand on either side of the ticket booth allowing the dresses to hide the damaged vines. In that moment, the iconic Cypress Gardens’ Belles were created. Possibly Cypress Gardens’ most iconic photographic vista, complete with a “dash of audacity” from Mr. Pope himself! Soon after, Dick Pope was called to WWII military service in Europe. During his time away, Cypress Gardens was one of only a few tourist locations that managed to continue operations. Julie Pope was managing the park when she was approached by several visiting soldiers inquiring as to “when the ski show would take place.” As the story is told, they had seen a newspaper photo of the park’s landscaping, and there were water skiers in the background on Lake Eloise. Mrs. Pope, not missing a beat replied, “3:30.” She then proceeded to have her children Dick and Adrienne, and several friends arrive at the park to “put on the show.” And with that, the world-famous Cypress Gardens’ Ski Show was born. The ski team would evolve into Pope’s traveling advertisement as he took the athletes around the world to thrill onlookers and advertise his park. Mr. Pope returned home at war’s end. His early experience with newsreels convinced him there would be natural avenues for promotion in film. He would later move quickly to pursue television coverage. With each new Gardens innovation, Pope would call the newsreels and often obtain coverage. This type of exposure helped him expand his network of contacts in Hollywood. Some of the first “shorts” filmed at the park included visiting soldiers (during WWII). This type of coverage was shown to the soldiers as well as the movie-going public. The content was patriotic with a little silliness thrown in - and, of course, vintage Pope stunts. This group of young skiers performed the first Cypress Garden’s Ski Show. Dick Pope, Jr. with megaphone. Soon Hollywood came to Florida and “the Gardens were ready for their close-up.” In 1948, “On an Island With You“ premiered at the Ritz Theatre. (This was the WORLD premiere for the movie - surely a bit of Pope’s flair for publicity). It starred Esther Williams and Ricardo Montalban and was the first feature film shot at the park. It featured scenes framed in the beautiful botanical gardens. In 1953, “Easy to Love” (also starring Williams, Van Johnson, and Tony Martin would produce the Gardens’ greatest Hollywood success. Incredible scenes captured massive ski show routines, water cannons, and even Pope himself in a bit part, all woven around a campy love pursuit at Cypress Gardens. The movie features lavish choreography by Busby Berkley and was said to have been seen by 170,000 people a day on Broadway in New York. It was for this musical water ballet that the famous “Florida Pool” was constructed. This Gardens’ landmark is now 72 years old in 2025. The film is available on DVD and features many recognizable Haven landmarks, including the Lulu-Shipp Canal and the Haven Hotel/Condominiums. The Gardens’ television era began in 1948 when Dick Pope Jr. and the Aquamaids were shown on station WPIX. Arthur Godfrey, a morning show host of WWII fame was one of the first television programs to originate from Cypress Gardens. The park’s exposure continued to grow through such network broadcasts as Ed Sullivan, Mike Douglas, Garry Moore, and late-night legend, Johnny Carson. These are but a few of the programs that provided endless and immeasurable exposure to Beautiful Cypress Gardens and Florida. The 50s and 60s were the golden era for Cypress Gardens. It enjoyed the reputation of Florida’s #1 tourist attraction. When Disney World plans were announced, Pope took out full-page advertisements welcoming the park with Pope’s ever-present optimism. He reasoned that what was good for Florida and Disney would be good for Cypress Gardens. The famous Florida Pool was constructed for a few minutes of filming in the movie “Easy to Love” starring Esther Williams. In anticipation of Disney, the park embarked on ambitious expansions including “Gardens of the World” and soon after, “Southern Crossroads.” But Disney/Universal/Sea World proved to be daunting competition. Other ski shows and flower festivals left the Gardens stranded too far off the interstate to survive. In 1985 the Pope family sold the park. It passed through several more corporate owners and ultimately into a local ownership team. In April of 2003 owners announced the park would close with the 9/11 tragedy as a contributing factor. A noble effort to resurrect the site as Cypress Gardens Adventure Park failed in large part due to triple hurricanes and their damage in 2004. Limping through receivership, the park ultimately closed its doors in 2008. The final ownership group brought Merlin Entertainment’s Nick Varney to the site in 2009. He was so impressed with the potential beauty of the location that, in his words, “the hair on the back of my neck stood up!” In 2010, Merlin announced they would build LEGOLAND Florida on the site. On October 15, 2011, LEGOLAND Florida opened to enthusiastic crowds. The original botanical gardens are owned by Polk County and maintained by LEGOLAND Florida in exchange for its use. Indeed the “Swami of the Swamp” Dick Pope had the last laugh on those who doubted his resolve. The park developed a worldwide reputation entertaining kings, governors, and a multitude of celebrities, not to mention 45 million tourists. Pope, known as Mr. Florida, also bailed out the failing Florida pavilion at the 1965 World’s Fair in New York City. The vision of Dick and Julie Pope has been honored by the National Register of Historic Places, as the botanical gardens were officially listed in 2014. The legacy also lives on in the performances of the Cypress Gardens Water Ski Team, performing on Lake Silver.

I am well aware that by kicking this thing off with words like “greatest” and “ever,” I am wading into highly subjective waters. Anyone proclaiming that any one person or place or piece of pizza or work of art is the preeminent example of its kind, “of all time,” is either selling something, engaging in a bit of cheeky hyperbole, or else they’re probably just an asshole. Stirring the pot. There is a decent chance this whole thing spirals into a diatribe and lands me firmly in the asshole column; but my intentions are to hit that hyperbolic middle. I must admit I have a bit of a soft spot for hyperbole. Not all of it, of course. Not the dangerous, disinformation-tool kind, but the good kind. The kind that gets deployed over the course of a casual, friendly conversation, or a spirited bar debate; as a means of expressing one’s intense belief in the merits of say, a rock band or a book or the best taco stand in town, it can be a charming and effective version of the hard sell. Particularly at a time when the recommendations of friends and family have been de-valued by a glut of streaming content and the impersonal algorithms that sift through it all and feed it to us. If you were to tell me you just watched a show so good it could make a blind man see, I would know, of course, you were exaggerating; but you would certainly have my attention. So, in the spirit of friendly hyperbole, I repeat the first half of my opening statement: Jaws. Is the greatest movie. Ever made. It could make a blind man see. Now, about that second part; the one with the big, round number … FIFTY. Jaws is fifty years old. Take a moment to let that sink in if need be. I’ll wait. For some of you, I imagine that fact will land with all the subtlety of a fridge chucked off a bridge. Because regardless of your affinity for—or indifference to—the film itself, I’m willing to bet that quite a few of you remember that summer like it was yesterday. The lines outside the local theater. Everyone asking if you’ve seen it yet. The way a few of your friends or family members suddenly refused to wade too far out into the water in the wake of its release. Everyone was talking about it. It was in the zeitgeist. Though it would go on to become the first film to gross more than $100 million and ultimately be seen as the genesis of a summer tentpole movie season that seemingly has no end, its massive success was anything but pre-destined. In fact, less than a year before its June 20, 1975 release, it wasn’t a sure bet the damned shark movie would even be finished at all. Tales of the troubled production of Jaws have been recounted countless times in the half century since it was first loosed on the world, so, here they come again. Who am I to break with tradition? One commonly held belief is that there is a direct correlation between the film’s crackerjack suspense and the fact that “Bruce”—the twentyfive-foot, three-ton, remote-controlled great white star of the film—rarely worked the way it was supposed to and often looked remarkably silly when it did. In fact, the very first day the shark was to be used on set, it immediately sank, like a slapfull toolshed, to the bottom of Nantucket Sound. One unanticipated hiccup—a consequence of Bruce being tested exclusively in freshwater pools—was the destructive, abrasive effect of saltwater on the delicate monster. The ocean ran roughshod on the shark’s robotic guts, destroying its internal motors and forcing an on-the-fly, on-set, square-one redesign of all the little mechanisms tasked with making Bruce move and chomp and eat people. All of this, of course, couldn’t be addressed until he was fished up off the sea floor and drained like some salvaged chunk of shipwreck. As a result of these constant setbacks, Spielberg was forced to imagine creative ways to suggest the presence of his predator. In lieu of giving him a big, toothy close-up, buoyant, bright yellow barrels and fishing docks torn from their moorings were dragged through the water in the “animal’s” wake, allowing the audience to fill in the terrifying gaps in their minds. Not only did it imply that the shark was nearby, but because it was pulling those barrels behind it, the implication was that it was even closer than it seemed. Film cameras were also housed in a specially designed, plexiglass box and half-submerged to put the viewer directly into the water. And of course, there may be nothing in the entire film that more effectively insinuates the presence of the creature like John Williams’s iconic BA-DUM, Ba-DuM score … An iconic theme that Spielberg himself originally considered too simplistic, and which has since gone on to transcend language barriers the world over, becoming universally understood shorthand for “something is about to eat us.” Thankfully, the filmmaker would have full faith in the instincts of his once and future composer/collaborator, but in the summer of 1974, having taken over the Cape Cod island hamlet of Martha’s Vineyard, Steven Spielberg was not yet the wunderkind who would launch a thousand blockbusters. And now, I will pause to allow you the opportunity to Choose Your Own Cheesy Water/Shark Analogy: The twenty-seven-year-old filmmaker … (A): was in over his head. Or… (B): had bitten off more than he could chew. Either way, Spielberg, who had spent years in the television trenches, had just one previous, feature-length theatrical film to his name; the effective—if slight—Texas road trip crimedramedy “The Sugarland Express” (1974), starring a young Goldie Hawn. Texas, it would be fair to assume, was not a particularly helpful training ground regarding what might have been Spielberg’s most ambitious decision on the set of Jaws; his insistence on shooting it on the actual open ocean. You know, where there are big waves and stuff. And wind. And even real sharks. Prior to 1974, the majority of ocean-set films were shot in tanks, with controllable elements and matte-painted backdrops. Shooting Jaws at sea would no doubt lend the finished film a level of verisimilitude that wouldn’t have been possible in a big swimming pool. It was also a major factor contributing to the schedule ballooning from its initial fifty-five days, to a hundred and fifty-nine days. Three times the amount of shoot days agreed upon by the studio, and a constant point of contention that, on numerous occasions, nearly cost Spielberg his job. As a consequence of its going wildly over schedule, it soon became apparent—much to the chagrin of the suits in the studio back on the West Coast—that Jaws was never going to make its intended, prime holiday release slot in the winter of 1974. As a result, they were forced to push the film’s opening a full six months. A move which would drop it directly into the heart of a season that had long been reserved for the outcasts. Pictures the studios had lost faith in, that had tested poorly, or that no amount of reshoots or re-edits ever seemed to salvage. The bad bets, the favors, and vanity projects. Movies that the marketing departments had no idea how to sell or who to sell them to. Jaws was, by dint of simple necessity, doomed to either sink or make its splash in a square of the calendar traditionally considered to be Hollywood’s dumping ground … Summertime. Whether or not it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, borne out by the quality of product that was typically released over the summer months; the numbers, historically, did in fact confirm the widely held belief that audiences simply had better, sandier, sunnier shit to do in the time between days Memorial and Labor, then hole themselves up in the dark of an auditorium. Jaws would be, to the tune of nine figures, the exception that proved the rule. It proved the ever-loving holy shit out of it. Its unprecedented success would rattle an American filmmaking landscape that had only recently found its artistic footing, and it would signal a seismic change in the movie industry that—for better and worse—remains business as usual to this day. A full half a century later. One of the truly unfortunate legacies attributed to Jaws, is the unkillable and oft-repeated belief that it was directly responsible for killing thoughtful, mid-budget, director-driven cinema in America for good. The studio system, for little more than a decade prior, had reluctantly resigned its livelihood to a generation of longhaired, dope-smoking, left-wing hippies. A burgeoning interest in foreign cinema—the French New Wave, the Italian spaghetti westerns of Sergio Leone, and post-war Japanese filmmakers like Akira Kurosawa—had begun to take hold in Hollywood. The moviegoing public had begun to skew younger— the majority being under thirty years old—they were also more educated, curious, and socially conscious. Suddenly, chaste, technicolor musicals and lavish historical epics like “Mary Poppins” (1964), “Doctor Zhivago” (1965), and “The Sound of Music” (1965) were proving difficult to repeat and riskier to bankroll. For the first time in America, for a brief, beautiful decade, filmmakers, as opposed to financiers and studio fat cats, were given the keys to the kingdom. Quite suddenly, directors were being acknowledged as the driving artistic authors of the films being made, marketed, and released across the country. And then Jaws swam up and scared up a hundred million dollars and swallowed up the auteur movement and shit out five decades of loud, big budget, four-quadrant trash cinema. This is, of course, a wild oversimplification. It would be willfully ignorant not to at least acknowledge how it might seem that way on the surface, but to stop there insinuates, absurdly, that Jaws represented a hard stop. A line in the sand between the thoughtful cinema of the 70s and the excess of the 80s. On one side, there was Hal Ashby and “Easy Rider” (1969), and Altman and Malick and “The Deer Hunter” (1978) and “Dog Day Afternoon” (1975), “The Long Goodbye” (1973) and Bogdanovich and “The Last Picture Show” (1971) and “The Last Detail” (1973) and “Five Easy Pieces” (1970) and “Harold and Maude” (1971) and then BAM—Big Shark, Eat People, Go Boom, Make Money. The irony is that Jaws has far more in common with the films and filmmakers it was accused of killing, than it does with any of the four-quadrant popcorn comic book cash grabs it was credited with unleashing. One need only watch the damned thing with this in mind to see it for the thoughtful arthouse flick it truly is. Most of my favorite scenes in my favorite film don’t involve a shark at all. And not because it wasn’t working, but because they allow little moments of humanity and pathos, and levity to breathe. Roy Scheider’s put upon sheriff Brody, playing a quiet game of copycat with his young son at the dinner table before leaning in and grumbling, “give us a kiss” because he desperately needs it. Richard Dreyfuss’ Hooper showing up unannounced with a bottle of both red and white wine because “I didn’t know what you were serving” and then tucking into a plate of food before anyone can answer his neurotic “Is anyone eating this?” Brody popping the red wine bottle and glugging a pint glass full of it as Hooper exclaims, futilely, “you might wanna let that breathe.” The characters in Jaws constantly talk over one another, forcing the audience to choose which conversation to pay attention to, a technique utilized so often by another of the new Hollywood auteurs of the 70s that it has become known as simply AltmanEsque, after Robert Altman, director of “Nashville” (1975), “McCabe & Mrs. Miller” (1971), and “M*A*S*H” (1970), among others. When the men compare their scars in the belly of the Orca, there is a lovely, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment that occurs as Hooper and Quint are drunkenly recounting their respective run-ins with “big, fat Chinese fellas” and various sea creatures. Perhaps feeling left out of the first moment of genuine camaraderie since setting foot on the boat, Brody lifts his shirt and quietly considers his appendectomy scar, before deciding it isn’t really a story worth sharing. And of course, few, if any blockbusters in the fifty years since have stopped their story dead in its tracks to allow for a monologue as harrowing and heartbreaking as Quint recalling his experience during the sinking of the USS Indianapolis near the end of World War II. Everything we have seen him do to this point, and will see him do after, suddenly makes perfect sense. By the time he smiles and says, “So, eleven hundred men went into the water. 316 men come out, the sharks took the rest, June the 29th, 1945. Anyway, we delivered the bomb,” we know everything we need to know about him. The Greatest Movie Ever Made. So that about covers it. At least to the extent that I could manage to cover it under the crushing weight of a self-imposed responsibility I felt to give due credit to a film that has given me so much. If you’re interested in a more thorough, nose-totail examination of the entire production, I can’t recommend Carl Gottlieb’s book, “The Jaws Log,” highly enough. His detailed, almost diary-entry style account of the production was informed by the fact that he was there, on the island, on set, keeping an actual diary, and even sharing a bungalow with Spielberg for the entirety of the shoot. If you’ve hit your reading quota this week and prefer a more visual option, “The Shark is Still Working” (2007) from filmmaker Erik Hollander, is a charming, thorough documentary covering both the making of the film, as well as its enduring cultural impact. Or, for a more social, tactile experience, mark July 17 down on your calendars and come celebrate 50 years of the best movie ever made with me, at Grove Roots Brewing. I’ll be on hand to introduce the film. There might even be some Jaws trivia, Narragansett, and even some new merchandise to mark the occasion. EPILOGUE … When I was first offered the opportunity to write this article, to reshuffle those same, oft-repeated stories in a way that might read as even remotely fresh, I was reluctant. What could I possibly add to fifty years of analysis, from every conceivable angle, by bellyflopping onto the top of that pile? The honest answer is, not much. There is, however, one way that I can write about Jaws that has never been written before. As briefly as possible, I would like to tag this appreciation piece with just a few of the examples of what Jaws has meant to me personally. I made up my mind, nearly fourteen years ago now, (wow…) that if I was ever going to make a movie of my own, the first thing I needed to do, was to stop saying I was going to. Instead, anytime anyone would ask, I began telling them we were set to start shooting on August 1. It was an entirely arbitrary date that I had plucked from the ether, and it happened to be less than two months away from the moment I first blurted it out. I had decided, in a single, certainly beer-greased instant, that I would no longer be The Boy Who Cried Movie. By creating a deadline and stamping it on the calendar, I was committing to becoming something new. Something different. In sixty days, I would either fly or I would fail spectacularly; but one way or another, I was going to crawl my way out of that goddamned “someday” chrysalis. And though I’m certain I chewed up far too much of my word count waxing at the outset, about my affinity for it, it is not hyperbole when I say that Jaws informed and inspired my first film from the earliest spark of the story, until the day, years later, that we locked the final cut. Because I knew I would be working with a microscopic budget of just $6,000, I crafted the story from word one as though my shark already wasn’t working. Because I had settled on a zombie film, I purposely structured the narrative so that the main characters actively avoided populated areas, thus allowing the audience to focus on the men at the heart of the story, and our crew of only five people to steer clear, as often as possible, from expensive makeup, special effects and hungry extras. The entire third act would be an extended riff on that sequence below deck in the Orca, complete with a drunken sing-along of “Show Me the Way to Go Home.” My character’s name in the movie is Ben. My last name is Gardner. Ben Gardner is the name of the missing fisherman whose severed head makes an unforgettable appearance in one of Jaws’ most iconic jump scares. I bonded with an absolute indie horror filmmaking legend at a bar in Midtown Manhattan over too much whisky and our shared love of Jaws. The very next day, he read my script and became influential in eventually getting it made. Mostly, Jaws reminded me that movies about monsters are only as good as the people trying to slay them. Jaws does that better than any other example, period. For me, the shark has always worked. Even when it didn’t. Jeremy Gardner is the writer, director, and star of “The Battery” (2012) and “After Midnight” (2019). He has played supporting roles in numerous films. “The Battery” won the Audience Award for Best Feature and also received awards for Best Screenplay, Best Music, and Best Poster at the Toronto After Dark Film Festival (2013); The Audience Award for Best Feature at Dead by Dawn, Scotland’s International Horror Film Festival (2013); The Silver Scream Award at the Amsterdam Fantastic Film Festival (2013); Awarded Best Zombie Film at Fantaspoa; Nominated for Best Limited Release/Directto-Video Film at the Fangoria Chainsaw Awards (2015); won the Audience Award at Festival Mauvais Genre; and won Best Film at the Málaga International Week of Fantastic Cinema (2013). We wait, as some of his biggest fans, for his next film.

Florida’s state tree, the cabbage palm (Sabal palmetto), is one of the most recognizable native plants in our landscape. It grows along highways, in neighborhoods, and throughout Florida’s natural areas, from pine flatwoods to wetlands and prairies. Because it is so common, it is easy to overlook. But the cabbage palm is more than a familiar backdrop. It is a native species that plays an important role in supporting Florida’s wildlife, especially in landscapes that are increasingly managed for people rather than nature. The cabbage palm became Florida’s state tree in 1953, and in 1970 it was added to the Great Seal of Florida and the State Flag, clarifying the species depicted, which had previously been referred to only as a “cocoa palm.” CABBAGE PALMS PLAY A CRITICAL ROLE IN FLORIDA ECOSYSTEMS Unlike many palms found in Florida landscapes, cabbage palms evolved here. They are adapted to our soils, seasonal rainfall patterns, fire cycles, and wildlife communities. In Polk County and across central Florida, cabbage palms often persist where other trees struggle, providing long-term structure in both natural and developed areas. From an ecological perspective, that structure matters. Wildlife habitat is not defined by food alone. Animals also need shelter, protection from predators, and places to rest and reproduce. Cabbage palms provide all three, particularly when they are allowed to grow naturally in clusters across the landscape. One of the most important habitat features of a cabbage palm is its skirt of older, dead fronds. While these brown fronds are often removed for aesthetic reasons, they serve a critical ecological function. The value of cabbage palms becomes especially clear in late winter and early spring. February is a challenging time for wildlife. Floral resources are limited, temperatures can fluctuate quickly, and animals are conserving energy ahead of the breeding season. During this time, palms provide thermal refuge and shelter when other vegetation may be sparse. Another important habitat feature is easily overlooked. Where the fronds attach to the stem, there are large Y-shaped attachments with fibrous material along the trunk, called “boots.” The boots of the cabbage palm create sheltered spaces for insects, spiders, and other invertebrates. These small organisms form the base of local food webs and support birds, reptiles, amphibians, and mammals throughout the year. These areas can also support a host of smaller plants. One species that relies heavily on cabbage palms is the Florida yellow bat (Lasiurus intermedius). This native bat prefers to roost in cabbage palms, using dead fronds for cover and protection. When suitable palm habitat is unavailable, yellow bats may also roost in Spanish moss. Generally speaking, bat maternity season takes place from April through August, when pups are born and reared. Stable roosting sites become increasingly important in the weeks leading up to maternity season, so late winter and early spring are a critical period for habitat availability. Removing dead palm fronds during this time can unintentionally eliminate roosting habitat just as females are preparing for maternity season, increasing stress on a species that already depends on limited roosting options. If you’d like to read more about Florida bats and their preferred roosting habitats, check out the Florida Bat Conservancy’s Florida Bat Habitat webpage at floridabats.org/bat-habitat. CABBAGE PALMS AND OUR LANDSCAPES Cabbage palms are also well adapted to Florida’s natural disturbance cycles. They tolerate flooding, drought, salt exposure, and strong winds, and they are adapted to survive low-intensity fire. These traits allow them to remain standing after storms and prescribed burns, maintaining habitat structure when other vegetation may be damaged or lost. In this way, cabbage palms contribute to ecosystem resilience and continuity. Thankfully, most of these disturbances don’t occur in our residential and commercial landscaping. Their drought tolerance and cold-hardy adaptations are still valuable in developed areas, allowing cabbage palms to persist where other species may fail. Despite these benefits, cabbage palms are often overmanaged. Routine removal of dead fronds removes critical habitat and reduces shelter for wildlife. From a conservation standpoint, leaving brown fronds in place is one of the simplest ways residents can support many native species. Florida’s state tree has earned its designation not only for its resilience, but for its role in our ecosystems. By viewing cabbage palms as functional habitat rather than landscape features to be routinely “cleaned up,” we can make small changes that have meaningful conservation benefits. When pruning is truly necessary due to safety concerns rather than aesthetic preference, it should be done carefully and professionally. You can locate a certified arborist or check an arborist’s credentials at treesaregood.org. Poor pruning techniques can also affect palm health. Producing a new frond is energy-intensive for a cabbage palm, requiring significant nutrients. To meet this demand, palms withdraw nutrients from older fronds before they turn brown. Removing fronds that still contain green tissue interrupts this process and deprives the tree of stored resources. When pruning cannot be avoided, only fully brown fronds should be removed. If you are interested in learning more about native trees, wildlife habitat, or conservation practices in Polk County, the UF/IFAS Extension Office in Bartow is a great place to start. You can ask for the Master Gardener Plant Clinic, if you have palm-health or landscaping questions or email me, Shannon, at scarnevale@ufl.edu if you have any questions about cabbage palms or other habitat in our native ecosystems. Sometimes conservation does not require planting something new or adding complexity. Sometimes, it simply means allowing native species to do what they have done here for generations.

Have an insect on a plant and you don’t know what to do? Moved to a new home and looking for advice on how to maintain your lawn? Looking to install native plants but don’t know where to start? Look no further than the UF/IFAS Extension Plant Clinic! Homeowners in Florida know that maintaining a healthy landscape can be both rewarding and challenging. From mysterious spots on leaves to declining trees or pests in the garden, plant problems can arise quickly. Additionally, many homeowners are new to the area and are not familiar with the types of plants grown in central Florida. That’s where the UF/IFAS Extension Plant Clinic comes in! We are a trusted, research-based resource that helps you find solutions to your lawn and landscape questions. The Plant Clinic is staffed by trained Master Gardener Volunteers under the supervision of UF/IFAS faculty that can accurately diagnose plant problems and answer your questions. Whether you bring in a leaf sample, a damaged branch, or email a photo of your yard, the Plant Clinic will use science-based methods to identify pests, diseases, or nutrient deficiencies. When necessary, samples can even be sent to the UF/IFAS diagnostic labs for specialized testing, or to a specialist, ensuring you get the most accurate information possible. All recommendations from the Plant Clinic are grounded in university research, and this means you’ll receive management options that are effective, environmentally responsible, and specific to Central Florida. Whether you’re looking for advice on fertilizers, pest control, or pruning techniques, you can feel confident that the guidance supports long-term plant health and sustainability. Guessing what’s wrong with your plants can lead to wasted money on unnecessary products and treatments that may not solve the problem or could even make it worse. Contact the Plant Clinic early, so you can catch issues before they spread. This can save time and money and can help your landscape recover quickly. The right diagnosis and management plan also prevent the need for repeated treatments, reducing costs and keeping your plants healthier overall. Plant Clinic services are available for anyone managing plants in the home landscape. Whether you maintain a few potted herbs on a patio, a small butterfly garden, or a full landscape we are there to help. The Plant Clinic can also assist with turfgrass concerns, vegetable gardens, palms, and native plantings. The UF/IFAS Extension Polk County Plant Clinic is open daily and homeowners are welcome to stop in, send a text or email, or even give us a phone call. Diagnosing an issue can sometimes take a bit of back and forth and require further investigation that may take some time. There are no fees associated with utilizing the services at our Plant Clinic although sending samples to labs may require them. UF/IFAS Extension Plant Clinics are located throughout the state, making it easy to find one near you. By using your local clinic, you support a statewide mission to protect Florida’s natural resources and promote sustainable landscaping practices. Every visit helps you become a more informed, environmentally conscious homeowner. If your plants aren’t thriving, or you just want expert advice on a landscape or garden query, contact your local UF/IFAS Extension Plant Clinic. You’ll gain the confidence to care for your landscape the right way and know that if you run into any issues that help is just a phone call (or text, email, or office visit) away. For more information contact UF/IFAS Extension Polk County at 863-519-1041 or visit us online at sfyl.ifas.ufl.edu/polk. The Plant Clinic is open Monday through Friday, 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. to answer your gardening and landscaping questions. If you are interested in purchasing a garden journal, contact the Plant Clinic. If you are not in Polk County, Contact your local UF/ IFAS Extension Master Gardener Volunteer Plant Clinic. To learn more about gardening and landscaping in central Florida, listen to the Your Central Florida Yard podcast. You can find the podcast wherever you listen or find out more on our Substack: substack.com/@yourcentralfloridayard. The January episode is a great listen for anyone interested in learning more about garden journaling. Find the episode here: bit.ly/4hzCrth. Anne Yasalonis is the Residential Horticulture Extension Agent and Master Gardener Volunteer Program Coordinator for UF/IFAS Extension Polk County. Please contact her at anneanne@ufl.edu.

This month, we look back to 1915 when a small group of determined residents had a vision of connecting many of our lakes by canals. The group organized as the Twenty Lakes Boat Club. At the time, some of the lakes had small “runs” or swampy places that connected them. This club wanted to create canals there. Pleasure boat in Howard/Cannon canal, one the Chain’s most scenic. Foot bridge spanning the canal behind boat was originally installed to connect the properties of Dick and Malcom Pope of Cypress Garden’s fame. The fledgling citrus industry had made a healthy comeback from the freezes of the mid-1890s. Roads of the day were sand or clay and used to haul the crops to the rail line between Lake Alfred and Bartow. The automobile was a luxury, and it would be several more years before the growers could afford trucks. Therefore, a team of mules would pull a wagon loaded with ten to fifteen field crates of fruit. The crates weighed from 900 to 1400 pounds and proved difficult to move. Some believe the canal concept may have been an idea the growers thought would provide a better means of transportation. The Florence Villa Fruit Company was the major stockholder in the boat club. While the idea may have been to haul the crops to market using the lakes, others speculate the fruit company may have acted as much from a civic interest. Other investors included: H. A Miller, Lorenz & Lorenz, E. C. Linger, H. Warehausen, H. W. Ambrose, Worden & Son, M. Engleson, L. P. Gum, Mercantile Co., H. E. Miller, R. Starr, J. Snively, C. L. Turner, and H. E. Cornell. The early canal effort was backbreaking work with the most basic of equipment. This crew is using a small bucket scoop to pull sand up and onto a barge. The month the charter was signed, the club had an engineer plat a proposed course for boats to traverse the south, west, and northern perimeters of Winter Haven and beyond, all the way from Lake Winterset to Dundee. The lakes originally targeted included Winterset, Eloise, Lulu, Shipp, May, Howard, Cannon, Idylewild, Hartridge, Conine, Rochelle, Haines, Smart, Fannie, Buckeye, and Hamilton. The original corporation had no intention of changing lake levels and instead was anticipating a system of locks. Of the original twenty lakes to be connected, all but Buckeye eventually became a part of what today is known as the upper and lower chains, comprising a total of 25 lakes. These are separated by U.S. 17 between Hartridge and Conine where a lock now exists. (The Twenty Lakes Club did not accomplish the entire task before its demise.) The club’s cash balance in April 1916 was $265.05. By April 1917, the balance had grown to $9,689.91 by the sale of stock to 69 people or businesses. The last meeting of the Twenty Lakes Boat Course Club was held on April 23, 1917. Two weeks earlier, there had been a meeting to discuss the problem of damage to the canals from speeding boats - a problem that persists today. The demise of the club is thought to have involved the group having created responsibilities larger than their budget could maintain. Prep work in advance of actual dredging involved removing as much sand and soil as possible by hand. This is believed to be prep for the Winterset/Eloise canal. No further progress was made on the canal system until May 20, 1919, when the Winter Haven Lake Region Boat Course District was established by an act of the Florida Legislature. Taxing power was granted by referendum (78 for and 49 against) in a special election on July 7 that same year. By September 1919, an engineering company was authorized by the “Canal Commission” to dredge and clean canals. At the time, there were no seawalls used in the system. Early commissioners served as stump pullers, free boat towers, insecticide sprayers, and any other tasks that may have been required. FACTS ABOUT OUR CHAIN OF LAKES: Some say there are fourteen lakes in the chain ... some say sixteen. What’s correct? If you count Little Lake Eloise and Little Lake Winterset, there are sixteen lakes in the southern or “upper” chain. Before canals were constructed, as much as 75 percent more land was covered with water than now. The Dundee Marsh between Winter Haven and Dundee (adjacent to what is now Cypresswood) was strictly marsh and wet 99 percent of the time. A crossing route through the marsh to Waverly was known as Buffalo Ford. This dredge was used to complete the canals in the early 1920s, It is one of two believed to have been brought here after use in finishing the Panama Canal. Harry Miller (a charter canal commissioner) noted that when he came here in 1912 (before any canals) he tied his rowboat to an oak tree at the foot of Central Avenue on Lake Howard. To go to Lake Eloise, he could row and push his boat through weeds and grass in the shallows (or runs) between Lakes Howard, May, Shipp, Lulu, and Eloise. Based upon water marks found on Cypress trees, water levels at the turn of the century were four to five feet higher than we see today. Official records show a July 16, 1915 notation regarding landowners paid in stock for canal rights. Names included: Apple, Wolf, and Garrard. These are believed to have been in the Winterset area. Prior to the creation of our chain of canals, this steam-powered launch sailed guests from the Florence Villa Hotel on Lake Spring through a shallow run and into Lake Mirror. Acreages of some of the lakes in the Winter Haven Chain of Lakes: Cannon (336) Conine (236) Eloise (1,160) Fannie (829) Haines (716) Hamilton (2162) Hartridge (434) Howard (628) Idylwild (102) Lulu (301) May (44) Rochelle (578) Shipp (283) Smart (275) Winterset (548) Length of our canals (feet): Jessie-Idylwild 135 Idylwild-Hartridge 810 Idylwild-Cannon 1,200 Cannon-Mirror 320 Mirror-Spring 120 Cannon-Howard 590 Howard-May 420 May-Shipp 975 Shipp-Lulu 2,260 Lulu-Roy 1,760 Lulu-Eloise 265 Eloise-Summit 400 Eloise-Winterset 1,525 Water Level (as determined by Southwest Florida Water Management District): Maximum desirable level 131.50 High water mark 133.19 100 year flood 133.40 10 year warning 132.60 Minimum flood 131.98 Maximum operational 132.00 Minimum level 129.70 Extreme low management 129.20 Portions of this information are contained in a book compiled by Kenneth Recker and Marcia Ford.

In the 1970s, the unexplained was never absent from the table — especially in Florida, where strange weather and stranger claims sometimes met. Psychokinesis, or “psi,” the ability to alter either the internal or external environment by mental effort alone, or “mind over matter” was discussed on television, tested in laboratories, and debated in newspapers. Cold War anxieties quietly fueled interest and created government-funded research programs to study whether consciousness itself might be harnessed, measured, or even weaponized. It was in this cultural atmosphere that Ted Owens, known as “The PK Man,” positioned himself not as an entertainer but as an intermediary. His most visible demonstrations would eventually center on Florida, where he claimed macro-psychokinetic ability — not the bending of spoons, but the bending of storm systems: hurricanes, droughts, lightning strikes, and electrical disturbances through his contacts with “Space Intelligences.” Though the name Ted Owens, or his self-given moniker “The PK Man,” may be less frequently repeated within parapsychological circles today, he stands at the intersection of the early contactee movement, governmental research into remote viewing, the evolution of ancient practices in weather modification, and the enduring question of human ability. Psychologist Jeffrey Mishlove spent ten years studying Owens in the seventies, eventually writing “The PK Man” about the experience. In interviews, he provides the contextual framework for a time when cultural belief held that we were on the precipice of improvement in human development through new understandings of human ability and personal computing. The reverberations of possibility are powerful enough to be felt even when only trace amounts survive in faded print or archival scans, especially when juxtaposed with the ethical concerns pinned to the shirt of technological advance and our ever-material current cultural mindset. The phenomenon of Ted Owens is inseparable from those years. He was a mixed bag, a case that couldn’t easily be ignored and would likely still make strange days stranger today — a man who wrote letters about his contacts with space intelligences to the FBI. Born in Bedford, Indiana in 1920, Owens described a childhood shaped by instability but also by what he believed was inherited psychic sensitivity. He spoke often about relatives who practiced dowsing or claimed prophetic abilities, framing his own development as less an anomaly and more a continuation. By his account, his earliest experiences included spontaneous levitation and vivid internal communications that he later interpreted as early contact attempts. After serving in the U.S. Navy during World War II — where he trained in electronics before deployment to the South Pacific — Owens became increasingly interested in the relationship between mind and matter. His association with parapsychologist J. B. Rhine at Duke University placed him near one of the few academic environments taking extrasensory perception seriously. That proximity reinforced his belief that psychic ability was measurable and documentable. By the mid-1960s, Owens’ framework shifted from personal psychic development to extraterrestrial collaboration. He claimed that “space intelligences” had been attempting contact since childhood and were now using him as an experimental intermediary — a human capable of channeling unusually high levels of psychokinetic force. He described himself as a test case through whom non-human intelligence could determine how much PK power a human could absorb and withstand. He began attempting larger and more public manifestations: influencing storms, directing UFO displays, predicting disasters, and mailing advance warnings to authorities and researchers. His interest in using his ability for good was as strong as his insult when he felt proper thanks or acknowledgment were withheld. Owens’ claims were not confined to conversation. For decades, he mailed letters outlining predictions and demonstrations to scientists, journalists, and government offices, leaving behind a paper trail of thousands of pages. According to Mishlove, Owens would spend a Saturday with a bottle of Scotch and multiple television sets playing games that he believed he could manipulate by causing the team slated to win to fumble the ball. By the time he abandoned conventional employment in 1969 to focus entirely on psychokinetic work, Owens was no longer trying simply to prove he had abilities. He was trying to prove he had a role. The most cited Florida episode occurred in 1979, when southern portions of the state were suffering from the worst drought in decades. Owens proposed what he described as a yearlong demonstration of weather control beginning March 1, coordinated with tabloid journalist Wayne Grover of the National Enquirer. In letters sent that month, Owens outlined phenomena he intended to produce violent storms, electromagnetic disturbances, blackouts, heat waves, hurricanes, and UFO appearances. On April 15, after Grover reportedly asked him to intervene and end the drought, Owens promised rainfall within weeks. Roughly ten days later, heavy storms moved through the region. Owens cited the timing as evidence of psychokinetic influence. Skeptics noted that Florida’s spring weather patterns are complex and that storms are not uncommon, though the correspondence had been documented in advance. The relationship between Owens and the tabloid deteriorated after a failed attempt to capture UFO footage connected to the demonstration. Feeling betrayed, Owens wrote on May 15 that he would restore drought conditions to Florida. That summer saw dramatically reduced precipitation in parts of the state, and water rationing was implemented in areas including the Florida Keys. Once again, Owens claimed responsibility. Later that year, he made one of his boldest Floridalinked assertions. On August 22, 1979, Owens phoned Grover, stating that a hurricane he had forecast months earlier was forming but would be moderated to prevent unnecessary deaths. That storm became Hurricane David. Owens later wrote that he had “cooled the cane,” suggesting he had psychokinetically weakened the storm. Hurricane David did diminish in strength before impacting Florida and shifted elements of its projected path. Meteorologists attributed the changes to atmospheric conditions. Owens attributed them to extraterrestrial collaboration. Whether one sees coincidence, confirmation bias, self-mythologizing, or something genuinely unexplained, Owens’ Florida years remain the most vivid intersection between his claims and observable environmental events. In a decade when many Americans were willing to entertain the possibility that consciousness itself might influence matter, his insistence that droughts and hurricanes could respond to intention did not feel entirely detached from the shared imagination. Our cultural moment is often closer to something we’d call unfathomable, unimaginable, and unprecedented than merely unexplainable. The world we know is replaced daily by one that would make Nostradamus choose his words carefully. But if we could hear the watercooler conversations and newspaper reactions of the seventies — the era of Vietnam, Kent State, Watergate, the anti-war protests, civil rights movements, disco, punk rock, and new experiments in film — we might hear sentiments that sound remarkably familiar. The difference between decade past and present is that the seat we once reserved at our shared table — the one for the unexplained — sits empty more often than occupied. Belief being no prerequisite to the art of wonder, we owe the perplexities of today an invitation — if only to bring us back to the same table, where we may become closer companions in our confusion in a tradition older than our moment. More than a century ago, writer Charles Fort collected reports of unusual events that appeared in newspapers and public records — including accounts of frog rain and objects falling from the sky. He believed that if something happened, and someone wrote it down, it was worth remembering, especially if it was not invited into the everyday. His work gave rise to a tradition of documenting unusual occurrences now known as the “Fortean.” Join IV Horn in an exploration of the strange behind our sunshine, where Florida’s curious histories, unexplained events, and enduring mysteries are revisited in the spirit of Fort’s archive of the unusual.

Sometime in March 1974, the Betz family discovered a metal sphere on their property on Fort George Island in Jacksonville while investigating the aftermath of a small brush fire. Partially exposed in the scorched earth was a smooth metallic sphere, roughly the size of a bowling ball. It had no seams, no markings, no visible openings—nothing to indicate how it had been made or what it had once been used for. The family, Antoine, Jerri, and their son Terry, turned it over in their hands and, lacking a better explanation, assumed it could be a cannonball and brought it home. Several days later, twenty-one-year-old pre-med student Terry noticed that the sphere appeared to react to sound while he was playing guitar. We do not know what he was playing, but as it was 1974, I like to imagine it was something by Jacksonville’s own Lynyrd Skynyrd. It produced a faint vibrating or throbbing noise. Soon after, they reported that the sphere would roll across the floor on its own, stop, and change direction, occasionally returning toward people after rolling away, as if correcting its path. At times, it vibrated audibly, producing a high-pitched tone that reportedly caused nearby dogs to whine and recoil. The sphere was placed inside a bowling ball bag in an effort to contain the unexplained. Like many reported anomalies, these events appeared intermittently—what happens once can be doubted. What happens repeatedly, but irregularly, occupies a space in a foggier dimension. By mid-April, local newspapers had begun covering the object. Within weeks, national and even international outlets picked it up. Visitors came to the Betz home to witness the object firsthand. Reporters described demonstrations in which the sphere appeared to move in response to slight inclines, vibrations, or nearby activity—though never with the consistency one would expect from a controlled mechanism. The sphere was alternately described as extraterrestrial, experimental, or even sentient, labels that adhered less to the object itself than to the cultural moment in which it appeared. The early 1970s, suspended between post-Apollo optimism and Cold War unease, proved fertile ground for interpretations that blurred the line between technology and visitation. The U.S. Navy was granted temporary access to the sphere under a contract written by Jerri Betz herself. The agreement allowed the Navy to study the object at Naval Station Mayport for two weeks, with the condition that it be returned if it was not government property. After X-ray and metallurgical tests, it was determined to be stainless steel with a 1/2-inch shell, measuring 7.96 inches in diameter and weighing 21.34 pounds. Scientists later examined the sphere as well, including Dr. J. Allen Hynek, creator of the “Close Encounter” classification system that we all know and love, who was in New Orleans for a meeting with the National Enquirer, which was establishing a $50,000 prize for definitive proof of extraterrestrial life. Since Hynek and several other scientists on the Enquirer’s panel were all there, Terry Betz and the sphere were reportedly taken by private plane to ensure its safe arrival and secure return. Their conclusions aligned with the Navy’s: the object was man-made. The vast difference in accounts, newspaper reports, internet articles, and podcast deep dives pushes the conclusion of the sphere’s story toward what is, I believe, the best ending—that thrilling, spine-tingling, favorite line of the externally curious: “We may never know,” standing in place of the metal mystery ball that we cannot reexamine for a 2026 analysis, as it is nowhere to be found. This is not to say that there are not a healthy number of possible explanations from investigations past and nearpresent, many noting that the sphere’s specifications align with industrial ball check valves. A stainless steel ball manufactured by Bell & Howell, when weighed and measured, was reported to match the Betz sphere almost exactly, according to a 2012 Skeptoid podcast analysis, along with the account of James Durling-Jones, who recognized the object as identical to spheres he had used in his sculptures. He had transported them on the roof of his car through the Jacksonville area years earlier, stating that some fell off along the way—one of which may have remained on Fort George Island until the Betz family found it. These are but a sampling of explanations offered by those who recognized the sphere as an object of the everyday, setting the unusual behavior reported aside. We can place the Betz sphere in a broader category: objects that are clearly physical, clearly real, but not immediately understood. An uncommon phenomenon, made even more rare by the emergence of applications that can identify almost any image or find relevant information based on its description so quickly that we need not suppose or imagine. All hope and wonder are not lost, though. To uncover such an object is the expected mystery within archaeological research—that land wherein the questions “What is it?” and “Where did it come from?” still live. One of the oldest examples of this is the Roman dodecahedron. Found across parts of Europe and dating back to the 2nd or 3rd century CE, these small bronze objects have twelve pentagonal faces, each with circular holes of varying sizes. Many also feature small knobs at each vertex. Despite decades of study, there is no consensus as to their purpose. It is supposed that they may have been tools, ritual objects, instruments for measurement, or even artifacts of play. The dodecahedron might have been one component of a larger machine, placed within the same theoretical shelf as the one on which our odd ball sits. Mystery objects like the Betz sphere are the perfect example when posing the question: What will the remnants of our civilization cause our descendants—or those who will one day descend upon our planet—to suppose about us based on what they find? Perhaps they will find objects whose purposes are obvious. Perhaps they will find others that resist explanation, even with all the tools available to them. May we leave them as many mysteries as were left to us, and may they confuse, capture, and connect those future finders lucky enough to happen upon them.

Reaching this milestone is a chance for us to look back at the stories, conversations, ideas, and the people who have helped shape Haven over the past decade. More than anything, we’re thankful to our readers for picking us up every month. We’re grateful to our contributors, partners, and everyone who has given us their time, trust, and support. Thank you for sharing with us. Ten years is a big moment for us, but it’s also a reminder that we’re only successful because of our community. Thank you and cheers to ten more! THANK YOU TO THESE BUSINESSES FOR SUPPORTING US SINCE DAY ONE: Bond Clinic | Bok Tower Gardens | Watson Clinic Winter Haven Hospital Foundation | Eye Specialists of Mid Florida, PA Silver Moon Drive-In | BayCare | Advent Health | AAA Vertical Blinds

For the readers long ago who embarked on the journey through Dante Alighieri’s vision of the darkest steps of Hell, they found themselves guided by the poet Virgil. For listeners in the classic Golden Age of radio, it was Raymond who led them behind the creaking door of the Inner Sanctum, and for the watchers of late-night television in the ’60s through the ’80s—in some lucky cases, even later—their trip into the dark often began and ended with their local horror host. Our trips into the dark, into the lands of monsters, B-movies, silly movies, and wacky-pack jokes were prescribed by a doctor by the name of Paul Bearer—Dr. Paul Bearer. His tenure in the Tenement Castle was longer than that of most regional television horror hosts in the country, and he is remembered as one of the most enduring horror hosts in television history, best known in Florida for hosting WTOG’s Creature Feature. That I can say this story is not over is a Halloween to hearts that celebrate all year long. Dr. Paul Bearer was created and portrayed by Ernest Richard “Dick” Bennick, who first brought the character to television in North Carolina before carrying him south to Florida. Beginning September 15, 1973, Bennick hosted WTOG’s Creature Feature, remaining associated with the station and the character until his death in 1995. The 22- year run established Dr. Paul Bearer as a fixture of Tampa Bay television, reaching viewers far beyond St. Petersburg and becoming familiar to generations of Floridians who spent their Saturday afternoons in his company. The road that brought Dr. Paul Bearer to Florida had begun years earlier, during a period when monsters that belonged to an earlier generation of moviegoers were finding new audiences on television. In 1957, Screen Gems prepared 52 Universal pictures for television syndication under the wonderfully direct name Shock! Among them were Frankenstein, Dracula, The Invisible Man, The Mummy, and other horror, mystery, and suspense pictures from Universal’s library. The surviving Screen Gems exhibitor book prepared for the package contains images, synopses, news releases, and promotional ideas for the 52 movies, supplying local stations not only with films to broadcast but with suggestions for building an event around them. Television needed programming, and Hollywood studios had decades of it. Movies produced for theatrical audiences in the 1930s and 1940s were now entering American homes, where children born long after their original releases encountered Bela Lugosi, Boris Karloff, Lon Chaney Jr., and the visual vocabulary of Universal horror as something simultaneously old and new. The monsters could now arrive in the living room on an ordinary afternoon or late at night, their theatrical lives beginning again on a smaller screen. The promotional material for Shock! included sections devoted to “SHOWMANSHIP,” “SALES PROMOTION to enthuse your sponsors,” and “AUDIENCE PROMOTION to excite your public.” A station preparing its premiere was encouraged to arrange a Shock party inside its own studio or, if possible, in a haunted house. “Be sure the setting enhances the appeal of the pictures themselves with every kind of ghoulish prop imaginable,” the brochure advised, before adding another practical suggestion: “If you can, borrow a coffin to add to the mood.” The monsters could leave the television studio too. Screen Gems suggested a “FIND THE SKELETON” contest in which viewers followed clues to a skeleton hidden somewhere in the community, while a mummy might “escape” from a local museum just in time to meet waiting reporters and photographers. A monster and a girl in Charles Addams-style makeup could even travel through town in a flower-covered hearse, stopping along the way to distribute membership cards for the “Monster Society of America.” Local news programs could interview a different monster each day before the premiere, making the creatures part of the television station and its community before the old movie had even begun. The arrival of Shock! coincided with one of the peculiar possibilities of local broadcasting. Stations in different cities might purchase the same films, but everything surrounding the movie could be created locally. The sets, announcers, contests, comedy, advertisements, characters, and promotions could belong entirely to the community watching them. The host became one of the most memorable parts of that arrangement, waiting outside the movie to welcome the audience in and then returning during breaks to keep them company. Bennick entered that tradition with years of radio behind him. His career began in radio, where he developed the skills of a “boss jock,” and expanded into stage magic, television, and live entertainment. In his extensive August 1991 interview with Ed Tucker, conducted at Bennick’s Winter Haven home, he remembered beginning at a Charlotte radio station in 1949 and later moving to Winston-Salem, where he became a successful disc jockey, held record hops, and ran a teenage dance club. Television brought interview programs, weather, and a teenage dance show, and Bennick developed the habit of volunteering whenever another opening appeared at the station. By the mid-1960s, he was working in television at WGHP in High Point, North Carolina, where he became involved with the station’s Shock Theatre. Bennick remembered a Saturday-night horror program whose presenter lacked a consistent character or set, sometimes dressing differently and appearing against whatever surroundings happened to be available. Having been, in his words, “a horror nut all my life,” Bennick wanted to try something more definite. “I felt if we had a definable character and a definable set there was a better chance of gaining an audience from this,” he recalled. His first experiment was Count Shockula, a skeletal figure Bennick quickly realized was not connecting with viewers. He redesigned the act, drawing upon his interests in magic, old horror movies, costuming, acting, and puns, as well as the pages of his collection of Famous Monsters of Filmland. The replacement became Dr. Paul Bearer, and Bennick later remembered the ingredients simply: “You bring all this into play and this is what comes out in Dr. Paul Bearer.” Bennick was already known on radio and wanted the character to sound separate from the disc jockey his listeners recognized. He did not consider himself particularly good with dialects, so he developed what he called a “reverse falsetto,” moving his voice downward instead of upward. The resulting gravelly sound joined the scar, center-parted hair, frock coat, spats, and makeup as parts of a character that would remain recognizable for decades. Bennick called himself “a sound effects freak” because of his radio background. He heard a doorbell effect in an old Roger Ramjet cartoon playing at the studio and immediately wanted it for the show. He constructed the sound of the coffin opening by splicing two creaks together, while the familiar scream came from a North Carolina cameraman who had recorded one especially enthusiastic attempt years before. The Three Stooges, Groucho Marx, Mad Magazine, and Charlie Chaplin all contributed something to Bennick’s approach. Inside the Tenement Castle, he could distort familiar products, talk to strange characters, take ordinary expressions literally, alter the titles of books and magazines, and produce special prerecorded segments. The world remained consistent because Dr. Paul Bearer did not behave as though any of it were strange. As Bennick explained it, “Dr. Paul Bearer’s world is very real to him; it’s everyone else who is out of step.” Bennick was a monster kid himself before generations of younger monster kids knew his face. His Famous Monsters collection helped him assemble Dr. Paul Bearer, and eventually the magazine turned its attention back toward him with an article that appeared in Famous Monsters of Filmland No. 144 in June 1978, capturing Dr. Paul Bearer while he was still relatively early in what would become his decades-long Florida run. The magazine introduced its Florida horror host with the same sort of language that filled the Tenement Castle, describing him as an “MC (Madly Crazy)” and warning readers about the extraordinary number of puns awaiting them. Dr. Paul Bearer greeted his television audience in the article with, “Good evening, fright fans… I’ve been lurking for you,” adding that Halloween was Dr. Paul Bearer’s “biggest & best horrorday,” when Bennick climbed into his 1963 Cadillac hearse to make between 25 and 30 personal appearances throughout Central Florida. The character became familiar far beyond the studio in St. Petersburg. Personal appearances, parades, promotions, telethons, and the hearse placed Dr. Paul Bearer in the physical communities receiving the television signal. For the people who grew up watching him, Dr. Paul Bearer belonged not simply to a television program but to Central Florida itself. The long run ended with Bennick’s death in 1995, but Dr. Paul Bearer remained in the memories and collections of the people who had watched him. In time, the character found another performer. Richard Koon, himself from Winter Haven, began performing a tribute version of Dr. Paul Bearer around Halloween and later continued the character with the blessing of Bennick’s widow, Patty Bennick. Koon hosted Tombstone Tales beginning in 2015, returning Dr. Paul Bearer to WTOG decades after Bennick had first brought the character to the station. More recently, Dr. Paul Bearer’s Creature Feature joined the Nostalgia Network, where the format again paired the character with movies, new sets, and the pun-heavy humor associated with the original Doctor. What had begun with one generation of monster kids was being carried forward by another. Within monster culture, there is a poignant tradition of preserving the legacy of those who created the characters we loved. The kids who grew up with them became adults who used available mediums to introduce that work to new generations. One such path leads from Forrest J. Ackerman, founding editor of Famous Monsters of Filmland, to Lon Chaney Sr.’s enduring place in film history. Ackerman devoted pages to Chaney’s extraordinary monster makeups, often with the words, “Lon Chaney shall not die.” His example helped carry Chaney’s work to new readers and eventually guided me to write a tribute to him in this very magazine. That same spirit lives in the magazines collected by Bennick, his eventual appearance in them, and in the continued portrayal of the character by Richard Koon. The preservation of our local horror host history transfigures admiration into a conversation across generations—a celebration of ingenuity and dedication drifting through the culture like a chuckle from beneath a coffin lid, reminding us that monsters and silliness still have lessons to teach us. “Preservation of the name and look was very important to me. I was afraid that someone might take the character and turn him into a foul-mouthed serial killer. I tried to be just like Dick. Mrs. Bennick and I talked quite a bit about what I was doing, and she suggested that I not mimic him and put more of myself into the character. I then changed my appearance slightly over the first two years and started to put a little slapstick into it,” Koon explained. “I loved to watch him because he would have me believe what he was saying until he tripped the pun at us. An example was when he was going to bring in a topless go-go dancer. He warned that the kids needed to be out of the room before showing her on camera. Then poof, there she was. Only her waist and legs. The top portion of her body was missing. THAT was funny. It means so much to me to continue with the character. Making people laugh and smile. That makes me want to do more.” Growing up in Winter Haven, I heard tell that this good doctor lived nearby. Without context, without a memory or even a face to put with the mention of his name, I simply noted the reverence in the voices of those talking about him. There was a local pride attached to Dr. Paul Bearer that preceded my understanding of who he was, and it was enough to make his name memorable before I understood the television program, the character, or the man underneath the makeup. Fans of Dr. Paul Bearer were people who remembered something I could not, until one day, about seven years ago, the distance between their generation and mine became considerably shorter. There was a hearse parked outside a restaurant, and dining inside was the Doctor.