Seeing the ghost orchid was not on the Charlotte Canelli bucket list. I actually don’t have an official bucket list, although I’ve been known to mentally check things off a list-of-sorts. I am hard-pressed to adopt any I-must-do-this-before-I-die obsessions. Spending a night in a Russian monastery was a happy consequence of a purposeful trip to the Soviet Union. Sipping mead in an Irish castle, viewing fields of Texas bluebonnets in the spring, and observing a Santeria ceremony in Cuba were the rewards of other whimsical adventures. My life has been a chaotic mixture of loss, love, joy, and pain, and I’ve happened upon many serendipitous experiences along the way.

How I came to trod over a mile into southwestern Florida’s Corkscrew Swamp to view the elusive super-ghost orchid is no mystery to me. I simply awoke one sunny and hot July morning in Fort Myers, Florida, and placed it on top of my must-do-today list.

The ghost orchid (or Dendrophylax lindenii in horticultural parlance) is one of the rarest flowers in the world. It is an epiphyte – a plant that grows on air. The ghost orchid and other epiphytes are not parasites, but like bromeliads, mosses, etc., they derive their nutrients from the water, air, and the detritus of their host plants. Ghost orchids are native to the Everglades of Florida and Cuba, in the moist and warm environments that make their lives possible.

The ghost orchid flowers in an 85-day blooming phase, mainly between June and August. The ghost orchid got its name because it is a master at camouflage – it is challenging to make out from its background – the trunk of a tree. Its thin, pale-white petals and curling tendrils form what looks like the hind legs of a frog, and it is also called the white frog orchid.

When Charles Darwin became fascinated by orchids later in his life, he suggested that a particular pollinator would be found for each specific orchid. In Chasing Ghosts in the Everglades (Forbes Magazine, July 19, 2019), the story is told of a team of three photographers who braved Florida swamps filled with alligators, panthers, snakes and bears. Armed with high-powered cameras, they were on a mission to photograph, at last, the ghost orchid’s mysterious pollinator. A beautiful fifteen-minute bioGraphic film can be viewed embedded in the Forbes article, or directly on YouTube.

What this intrepid threesome of researching photographers (Peter Houlihan, Max Stone, and Carlton Ward, Jr.) found just this summer is astounding. Just as Darwin had predicted, a specific moth, the fig sphinx moth, is the fantastic insect with a proboscis long enough to pollinate the ghost orchid. Its proboscis is also short enough so that the moth withdraws with pollen on its face.

Audubon’s Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary lies just east of Naples and south of Fort Myers, Florida. It is found off the roads east of the high-rise condominiums and beaches of the Gulf, north of the Everglades, and just west of orange groves and sugar cane fields. The 13,000 acres of Corkscrew Swamp, a beautiful preserve of inland watershed and Bald cypress forest that was saved by the efforts of ecologists, primarily the National Audubon Society, in the mid-1900s. Corkscrew Swamp (named for the winding Corkscrew River) is home to wide varieties of wildlife and flora. Its most-famous flower is the super-ghost orchid found about one mile into the swamp. A ghost orchid with a plethora of blooms is called a super ghost. While it usually blooms in the summer months, it has been seen blooming as early as March and as late as December.

On the Saturday of my ghost orchid hunt, the temperature between 8 and 10 am rose from a bearable 75 degrees to the muggy mid-80s. Steam rose from the slick puddles on the wooden boardwalk; it rains nearly every summer evening in southwest Florida. My friend and I, warned about the mosquitoes and bugs of the swamp at dawn and dusk, were outfitted in long-sleeved shirts and long cotton pants. We packed socks, hats, and Off spray, planning to grab them all at the first sign of pesky bugs. Our overkill clothing and my poor choice of footwear (sandals) became apparent when I slipped and slid along the slimy boards. Happily, no mosquitoes could be found, but I began to doubt my passion for the ghost orchid. Yet, we braved deep into the swamp.

We were warned in the visitors’ center that the camera scope, trained on the ghost orchid and live on the website, was not operating that morning. Neither was the cash register so that we could rent a pair of binoculars. A lightning strike the night before wiped out the visitors’ center Internet and any capabilities to record the flower. One mile in, we arrived at the famous plant. We were surprised and disappointed to see that the orchid was hanging high up in a tree, and yards away from the boardwalk. Several obsessive naturalists (armed with high-powered cameras and binoculars) were not only aloof, but they were stingy, keeping their equipment to themselves.

Steadfast and hopeful, I trained my iPhone camera on a white mass against the dark Bald cypress and snapped a photo. Hot, sweaty and getting cranky, we turned around and tromped the mile back to the center, the rental car, air conditioning, and our picnic breakfast.

My coveted photo of the ghost orchid is blurry and vague. It is undoubtedly the ghost, but the arching tendrils and pale-white beauty are better seen in photographs available everywhere but in my camera.

In January 1995, an article by writer Susan Orlean was published in The New Yorker magazine. Orchid Fever chronicling the life and antics of orchid-hunter, John Laroche. In her follow-up book, The Orchid Thief: a True Story of Beauty and Obsession (1998), Orlean expands the story of Laroche. At worst, he is a scallywag thief. At best, he is a self-taught horticulturalist. More importantly, though, Orlean’s book is a thorough investigation of the history and business of orchids.

It should be noted that Adaptation is the film starring Nicholas Cage and Meryl Streep that is loosely based on Susan Orlean’s book. It was released in 2002 and is a fanciful and surreal take on the Orlean’s story. In this case, the book is far better than the film. Another book, published in 2004, and titled Orchid Fever by Richard Hansen, similarly chronicles the obsession with orchids. Many reviews suggest reading Orlean’s book instead.

I will never forget my own encounter with the ghost orchid – a momentary fascination that brought me into the swamp one hot morning this past July. Audubon’s Corkscrew Swamp is pure delight. The boardwalk is the longest in the world at two and one-quarter miles long. The Bald cypress forest is hundreds of years old. The pristine wilderness is serene, yet full of life. Birds like the diving Anhinga and Black-bellied Whistling Duck live in an environment rich in prey. Alligators play hide-and-seek under the waters of the swamp and bromeliads, and a surplus of mosses hang from the trees. More adventures await me in Corkscrew Swamp.

Charlotte Canelli is the Director of the Morrill Memorial Library in Norwood, MA. Look for her article in the August 15, 2019 issue of the Transcript and Bulletin.

Photo by Skitterphoto from Pexels

I hesitate to admit it, having lived in the Boston area for my entire life, but I don’t follow the Red Sox. Or the Celtics. Or Bruins. Not even the Patriots. Don’t hate me! I’ve never been much of a jock, and don’t understand the finer points of team sports, but the main reason I neglect these undisputed best teams on the planet involves my commitment to super-fandom of another athletic endeavor – one that consumes so much spectator time and energy that it leaves little opportunity for interest in any other. “My” sport is called mixed martial arts, and it has no season.

On any given Saturday you’ll find me online making my picks, scouring mixed martial arts (MMA) websites, and solidifying my predictions for the evening’s bouts. I will text with a small group of super-fan friends, then sit down around 6:00 pm for the “early prelims,” the fights most people don’t bother watching. Then come the prelims, and around 10:00 pm the main event, and ring announcer Bruce Buffer (half-brother of Michael Buffer, of “let’s get ready to rumble” fame), bellowing “It’s time!” Depending on the outcomes, I skip or sulk off to bed, only to wake up on Sunday morning to watch the post-fight press conference and review the MMA journalists’ assessments.

As the name implies, mixed martial arts combines a spectrum of combat sports. During three five-minute rounds (five for championships), fighters employ any combination of boxing, wrestling, jiu jitsu, kickboxing, karate, or similar techniques to attempt to submit or knock out their opponent. If neither wins via KO, TKO, or a submission such as a choke-hold or arm-bar, the verdict goes to the hands of judges who employ a point system to determine a winner. The action happens within a chain-link, usually round or octagonal “cage,” hence the MMA synonym, “cage fighting.”

Fighters bleed. Sometimes they break bones. This does not appeal to everyone. Although the late Senator John McCain once referred to MMA as “human cockfighting,” his point of view eventually softened, as promotions and state athletic commissions took measures to regulate the sport and assure fighters’ safety. Still, people often seem shocked to discover that this card-carrying, bun-wearing, bookworm librarian loves watching so-called blood sport.

I passionately defend my interest, informing anyone who will listen that MMA is less dangerous than boxing or football. Mixed martial artists wear smaller gloves than do boxers, which may cause nosebleeds or cuts to the thin skin on the face or scalp. Although not great for optics, these superficial injuries pale in comparison to the invisible brain damage inflicted on boxers and football players, whose brains get jostled during head strikes and tackles. The landmark book Concussion by Jeanne Marie Laskas and the movie that followed elaborate on CTE. Muhammad Ali’s biography by Jonathan Eig delves into the disease as well. Fortunately Rose Gracie of the legendary founding family of MMA recently teamed with Boston University’s CTE Center to launch the Gracie Concussion Challenge, which “calls on fighters to take control of their brain health by participating in research and getting educated on concussions and chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE).” Regardless of my lectures, some folks just don’t like seeing blood, or humans punching each other. I get it. I love the stylistic matchups, the combination of athleticism and grit, and the simplicity of one-on-one competition.

A less predictable reason for my obsession, however: feminism. Women have competed in MMA for ages, but the largest U.S. promotions, the Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC) and Bellator now include female competitors. Women fight in the same events as men, hold spots in the main and headline events, and share the spotlight with male counterparts. In the heat of the action an announcer may compare a man’s movement or tactic to a particular woman’s strategy. Live commentators routinely chime in with details about who trains with whom, and the information is not gender-segregated. Perennial discussions of FOTN (fight of the night), GOAT (greatest of all time), and best pound-for-pound include names of both ladies and gentlemen of the game. Imagine the announcers during NBA games routinely comparing up-and-comers to Tamika Catchings, who should be just as much of a household name as Hakeem Olajuwon based on her WNBA and Olympic record!

As I see it, nothing illustrates “the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat” better than MMA. Combatants train for months, culminating in a mere fifteen minutes of action, which entails being locked in a cage with someone just as eager to prove him or herself through punching, kicking and grappling. Only one gets their hand raised in victory. The emotional rollercoaster often mimics struggles outside of the cage. Many martial artists credit the sport for saving their lives, and elaborate in their biographies. Ronda Rousey’s My Fight, Your Fight, Chris Leben’s The Crippler, and Paige Van Zant’s Rise tell their stories. Doug Merlino gives an overview of the topic and profiles several fighters in Beast. A few documentaries lend insight into fight life including Anderson Silva: Like Water, and Fightville.

For lighter fare, read Bruce Buffer’s It’s Time!, which starts out with, “You don’t know who you really are until you’ve been punched in the face,” or check out the comedy DVD Here Comes the Boom. Of course the best and most obsessive way to learn about MMA demands dedication to viewing 39 UFC events per year (the total in 2018), exclusive programming and reality TV shows such as Dana White’s Tuesday Night Contender Series, a selection of Bellator, Invicta, ONE Championship, and other promotions’ events, and supporting local teams by attending their live shows. You see, I do support Boston and New England teams after all! Drives to Plymouth, Connecticut and Rhode Island allow me to cheer on competitors coached by local legends Joe Lauzon, Kru Mark DelaGrotte, and Marcus Davis.

While I may strike some as an unlikely fight fanatic, MMA appeals to all sorts of people. Curious after hearing my incessant fight talk, my 80 year old mother, a retired schoolteacher, started joining in watching the UFC at my house occasionally, and once stayed out until 1:00 am at a live CES event at Twin River Casino. Anyone can get hooked, so if you haven’t given MMA a chance, perhaps “it’s time!”

Lydia Sampson is the Assistant Director at the Morrill Memorial Library in Norwood, MA. Look for her article in the August 8, 2019 issue of the Transcript and Bulletin.

“If you can keep your head when all about you / Are losing theirs and blaming it on you…”

I’m familiar with these words, but I never realized they were written by Rudyard Kipling. “If–” is consistently voted the most popular poem in Britain, and all too frequently quoted, according to its author. Despite being woefully unfamiliar with his other works, I was thrilled to be invited to spend a weekend at Naulakha, the Kiplings’ home in Dummerston, Vermont during their four years in America.

Whenever they travel, my second cousin Mark and his wife Liz, who live outside London, try to stay at one of the many properties run by The Landmark Trust in the U.K. Restored manor houses, castles, forts, and cottages, they exude history and charm. The Landmark Trust USA offers a small group of historic homes for vacation rentals as well, including Kipling’s former shingle-style home outside Brattleboro. 90 feet long but only 22 feet wide, it was designed to resemble a ship riding the hillside like a wave, with vistas of the Connecticut River Valley and a glimpse of Mt. Monadnock. It’s a stunner, alright. When Mark, who studied and taught at Oxford, started planning a trip to the States two years ago, he lost no time nailing down a stay at Naulakha.

Determined to know something about old Rudyard before I slept under his roof, I checked out The Jungle Book. I found all the anthropomorphizing a little daunting so I stuck to the preface. Thanks to that, and recent articles in the Globe and the New York Times about the new Kipling biography, I can reel off a few fun facts about Francis Rudyard (Ruddy) Kipling.

Did you know…

His parents fell in love in Staffordshire, England at a picnic on Lake Rudyard.

At age 41, he was the first English-language writer, and youngest-ever winner, of the Nobel Prize in Literature.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle gave him a pair of downhill skis, believed to be the first in Vermont.

He allegedly coined more phrases in the English language than any source besides Shakespeare and the Bible. In addition to “white man’s burden,” he gave us “bite the bullet,” “never the twain shall meet,” “slack-jawed,” and “Svengali.” Who knew?

Kipling was a complex man of startling contradictions. He has been variously called a colonialist, an imperialist, and a racist, as well as one of the greatest and most versatile writers of all time. He was also no slouch when it came to socializing, counting among his friends Henry James, Mark Twain, Frank Doubleday, and Teddy Roosevelt.

So how did this Bombay-born Brit come to call Vermont home from 1893-1896?  At age 23, he fell in love with and married American Carolyn “Carrie” Balestier. On 10 acres of land near Brattleboro, where Carrie’s family had settled generations earlier, he built his dream house, which he named Naulakha.

By all accounts, the Kiplings thrived in New England. There Rudyard wrote Captains Courageous and The Jungle Book, earning him world-wide recognition, and began work on Kim. He also started telling what came to be known as the “Just So Stories” to their two young daughters. Their idyllic life in New England, however, came to an abrupt end when Kipling and his alcoholic brother-in-law had an epic falling out that culminated in a messy court battle. With public opinion strongly against him, he packed up his family and returned to England, leaving behind most of his possessions. He might be pleased to know they remain in good hands.

Naulakha, if you’re wondering, is a Hindi word meaning “jewel without price.” That’s not entirely true today, as the opportunity to sleep in Kipling’s bed and bathe in his claw-footed tub is hardly free. But how often can one relax in a famous author’s book-lined study and sit at the very desk from which literary classics were penned? Paying guests can also play a set of tennis, go sledding, or simply stroll among the lovely grounds, just as the Kiplings did. Or even grill burgers and dogs on the outdoor barbecue, which I’m fairly certain the Kiplings did not do.

Breakfasting at the original table in the spacious updated kitchen, along with my husband, sister, brother-in-law, and British kin, I read aloud the top 10 things to do in Brattleboro from the Moon travel guide to Vermont. We chuckled over the prospect of visiting a clothing-optional venue but opted instead for a hike to the former ice pond at Retreat Farm, followed by a stop at the Grafton Village Cheese Shop. I think we made the right call.

The latter, simply put, is a cheese-lover’s paradise. And who among us lactose-tolerant types doesn’t love unlimited free samples of fromage? Toothpicks for spearing cubes of cheddar, flavored with chili, truffle, garlic, and sage, were flying fast and furious, mostly by me. And then there was the award-winning Shepsog, the Algonquin word for sheep, as we all know. But it wasn’t all curds and whey. To cleanse the palate between cheese courses, one could also try savory spreads such as Triple Ale Onion on tiny crackers, and… well, you get the gist. The only disappointment was the chocolate bar, bursting with mouth-watering peppermint patties, dark chocolate-covered pretzels, and salted caramels; I couldn’t help but notice the distinct absence of toothpicks, tongs, or any other items to facilitate free tastings, within reach.

If following in the actual footsteps of one of the most prolific and popular writers of the 20^th century is on your bucket list, or just shooting pool on his table, the charms of Naulakha await. For a less intimate but more immediate experience, check out the newly published If: the Untold Story of Kipling’s American Years, by Christopher Benfey, the Andrew W. Mellon Professor of English at Mount Holyoke. Howard Rice’s Rudyard Kipling in New England can also be found on the shelves at the Norwood Library, as well as The Strange Ride of Rudyard Kipling: His Life and Works, by Angus Wilson. To read his own words, Kim— required reading for all CIA operatives in Vietnam—is available through our streaming service, hoopla.

Younger readers might prefer Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, a short story in the 1894 anthology The Jungle Book about the adventures of a young Indian mongoose. To enjoy Kipling without committing hours of time, I recommend the delightful, and delightfully short, Just So Stories. How the Elephant Got His Trunk and How the Camel Got His Hump are two of my favorites.

Whether you venture as far as Vermont or as close as your local library, Rudyard Kipling offers treasures for readers of all ages. “Just So” you know.

April Cushing is the Adult and Information Services Librarian at the Morrill Memorial Library in Norwood, MA. Look for her article in the August 1, 2019 issue of the Transcript & Bulletin.

I am, perhaps, one of the most uncoordinated women on earth. Oh, yes, I had the distinction of managing my seventh-grade softball team, but in retrospect, I suspect my team gave me the job as a manager because voting me the position of manager kept me from either guarding a base or handling a bat.

I have somehow accomplished a few sports during my lifetime. I learned to ice skate at the tender age of five on a meandering city park pond in the heart of Worcester. I managed to straighten my buckling ankles and have lovely childhood memories of taking care of my gorgeous pair of lace-up, white skates. I continued to skate for fun after we moved to the West Coast and into my pre-teens on the public indoor ice close to my neighborhood in Berkeley, CA. The San Francisco Bay Area was also where I learned to swim and play tennis in free summer camps.

I also roller-skated everywhere as a young girl, traveling on expandable metal roller skates with the skates’ key dangling from a piece of ribbon around my neck. Moving to the hilly suburbs, however, put a damper on that activity when, used to flat, city streets, the brakes were applied to my skating when I fell and broke my left arm for the third time.

As a high-schooler, I learned to ski in the Sierra Mountains near Lake Tahoe. I continued for years, leading my young daughters down New England slopes. Yet, I soon lost my ski partners when they abandoned me to the double black diamonds on the slopes in Maine, Vermont, and New Hampshire. I bought myself cross-country skis instead. I fell in love with the solitude of whispering pines and quieter, slower trails, but gave it up when falling became too threatening for 60-year old bones.

I had the distinction of earning a high school Varsity letter at the Senior Sports Banquet in June 1970. I received the honor because I had spent the season expertly, and proudly, handling my football statistician’s clipboard, while managing to send beaming smiles to my handsome Varsity team boyfriend.

Coincidentally, in the wake of a star-struck nation obsessed with the Women’s World Cup win, I was suddenly struck by the fact that none of my high school girlfriends had been members of a high school sports team, let alone a soccer team. Our high school was a suburban, middle-class institution. We went to school just across the bay from San Francisco and just north of some of the most progressive school systems in the country. Yet, there was not one high school sports team for girls. I verified that fact by finding my high school yearbook online. Evidence proved that male classmates joined the wrestling, baseball, football, tennis, basketball, golf, and track teams. My female friends (active, academically solid students) were cheerleaders, artists, singers, actors, and writers, but not one high school athlete was among us. (Interestingly, some New England high schools and others across the country supported girls’ sports teams well before the 70s. My husband, Gerry, remembers many female athletes in his high school in Framingham.)

I soon realized that our high school, and probably many other suburban California schools, did not treat girls’ sports with the same respect (and money – mostly money) that they treated boys’ sports. We had Phys Ed every day – playing basketball in the gym, archery behind the school, and softball on the fields. We did not, however, play sports against other high school teams.

Congress passed Title IX of the Education Amendments Act in 1972 (guided into law by Congresswoman Patsy Mink of Hawaii). Title IX is a federal law stating that “no person in the United States shall, on the basis of sex, be excluded from participation in, be denied the benefits of, or be subjected to discrimination under any education program or activity receiving Federal financial assistance.” In their online July 6 edition, The Guardian wrote that, “by demanding that schools provide opportunities for young girls to play sports and mandating that universities provide equal scholarship funding, Title IX created opportunity and incentive” for women’s sports in a void that faced many young women before 1972.

Well, congratulations, Congress. This was two years after I graduated from high school, and it changed the lives of young women across the country.

Of course, the rest is history in women’s sports. In 1974 the Women’s Sports Foundation was established. (Billie Jean King defeated Bobby Riggs in 1973.) In 1983, Sports Illustrated named track star Mary Decker as the Sportswoman of the year. In 1985, women were inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame. The Women’s Volleyball League was established in 1986. In 1972, one in 27 girls participated in sports. Today the number is two in 5, a dramatic increase of over 900%.

In 1991, the Women’s World Cup for soccer was established, and the United States won that competition. The Women’s World Cup is held every four years, and the US team won eight years later in 1999 and again in 2015. 24 women’s world teams participated in 2019, and the US team won once again, this time four years later, for consecutive wins. On July 6, The Guardian wrote: “the talent pool for female soccer players in America appears bottomless.” Title IX “has nurtured several generations of women and girls.”

Beginning in 1964, the American Youth Soccer Association (AYSA) ignited a flame across the country. Other organizations were taking hold in every community across the country (the Massachusetts Youth Soccer Association among them). My young daughters were on town soccer fields in kindergarten in the mid to late 1980s where I chatted with other parents, sometimes frozen or dodging raindrops. I admit that I often chose to be home making dinner when my daughters’ father was coaching, but I supported their sports participation, nevertheless. Without Title IX, my girls would not have gone on to run cross-country or play college rugby, among other sports like swimming and skiing.

Congratulations, Congress. And thank you for changing women’s lives in 1972.

If you’d like to read about some of our amazing US women’s soccer players, the library has many biographies, including one about Hope Solo. The youth collection contains a plethora of books about soccer, meant to encourage girls and boys alike. Without Title IX, young female sportswomen would not be making history in the United States.

Congratulations, Congress.

Charlotte Canelli is the Director of the Morrill Memorial Library in Norwood, MA. Look for her article in the July 19, 2019 issue of the Transcript and Bulletin.