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The approaching holidays are a good time to look back on the past year and remember what we are grateful for. Bill Ross (page 8) is deeply thankful for his unusual upbringing as a child of Deaf parents, and Margie Kleuss (page 23), an executive who relies on hearing aids, is appreciative of a team that helps her manage expectations and challenges. Darcee Moreno (page 16) is grateful that it’s never too late to discover your true self. In The Chews Letter, Chef Tucker Bengoa (page 33) draws on his cherished childhood memories to make delicious and creative food.
This time of year, we also think more about our fellow humans and how we can be of service. Cindi Quick (page 28) looks back on how her past mistakes led to a surprising career, which allows her to help veterans, and retired Dr. David Elliot (page 14) reflects on his career in hospice care, helping his patients die in peace. In our From the Paddock department, Marla Bauknecht (page 19) recalls the twists and turns in her career that culminated in one that helps animals and humans.
We are grateful for a few things, too. First, we love that The Appleton Museum of Art offers such a spectrum of cultural riches; in this issue, they chat with poet and artist Debora Gregor (page 37). And we are excited about Ocala’s growing arts community. This month, get to know Ronda Richley, a visual and fine arts artist (page 39).
On a personal note, I am thankful for and proud of my insanely talented sister Lisa Anderson, who is the heart and soul of Locala. I am honored to be a part of her incredible vision and to work with a stellar team, making something we
can be proud of every single month.
Thank you for supporting our little magazine. We are indebted to our readers, who have helped us grow, and we hold so much gratitude for the recognition we have received in and beyond our lovely community.
We wish you joy and peace in this holiday season!
COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES, POEMS AND ESSAYS ON HOW 21 WOMEN LET GO AND MOVED ON…OR DIDN’T
an anthology “Forgiving him was beyond comprehension, but I could have full closure if I forgave myself; for staying and not speaking up for nearly 20 years.”
LISA ANDERSON, AUTHOR
Story by TAYLOR STRICKLAND Photo by JOSHUA JACOBS
“Deafness is a difference, not a disability,” says Bill Ross, contributing author of So You Want to Be an Interpreter? An Introduction to Sign Language Interpreting and Vice President of Hands Up Communication, an interpretation and translation company that aims to facilitate correspondence between speakers of different languages. “Deaf people can do anything hearing people can do except hear.”
Though born with the ability to hear, Bill had the unique experience of being raised in a deaf household. His parents communicated almost exclusively through American Sign Language (ASL) and instilled in him a strong sense of cultural identity. People often assume Bill must favor one group over the other, but he rejects such easy simplifications. “I don’t identify as hearing or deaf: I’m CODA,” Bill states firmly. “I’m not deaf, because my ears work. I’m not hearing enough, because I act like a Deaf person. I belong to the community of Children of Deaf Adults.”
in an unrelated field. Everything I’ve ever done has been about deafness. I’ve never not done this.”
Straddling two seemingly opposed cultures hasn’t always been so easy for Bill. “It’s difficult,” he explains. “I think every child wants their parents to be like everyone else’s parents, and having Deaf parents makes your parents different. When you fall down and get hurt, usually you scream and your parents come running. When you have Deaf parents and you fall down and get hurt, you go running to them. Sometimes, you even have to go looking for them.”
Bill realized his family was not like others after he entered grade school. “My parents were going through a divorce, and my mother moved to Arizona. I was in second grade, and the teacher said, ‘You know, you talk funny.’ She thought I belonged in Special Ed.”
The communication issues his teacher flagged were a product of Bill’s upbringing, as Deaf people do not observe the same social norms as hearing people. “It had very little to do with my ability to learn,” he says. “I had grown up being around Deaf people, and it was pretty much all I ever knew. The culture of my parents is different from the culture out in the world. Most people just assume that Deaf people are hearing people that can’t hear, but that’s not true. They’re a cultural and linguistic minority. I grew up with that very embodied in my life. Even today, my children tell me, ‘Dad, hearing people don’t do that,’ and I say, ‘How am I supposed to know this? I grew up with Deaf parents.’”
As a child of Deaf parents, Bill had more responsibilities than the average gradeschooler. “I remember being taken out of school to go to my parents’ appointments and interpreting for them. It’s how I found out my mother had a heart attack.”
Bill was praised early on for his fluency. His father regularly pushed him to be an interpreter—an honored position, considering that though many hearing people may know sign language, only a talented few are singled out to serve the community as an interpreter. “There was a time period, back then, where Deaf people kind of hand chose [hearing] people in the community that signed really well and said this person should become an interpreter.”
“My father would introduce me to his Deaf friends and there would always be a qualifier, so like, ‘This is Billy, my son. He’s hearing, but he signs well.’”
It was during such an encounter that Bill finally found the spark of determination that would later drive him to become an interpreter. “A lady was at our house for a birthday party—my birthday party—and asked where my dad was. I told her that he was downstairs, and she asked if I was Deaf. I said no, and she looked at me and said, ‘You act like a Deaf person.’”
“It was like my whole heart exploded. I felt so different,” Bill recalls. “I said to myself, ‘I’m going to become a master of this language.’ I have never worked
Bill is incredibly grateful for the opportunities he’s been given and credits his parents and the wider Deaf community for his success. “One of the things I think about often is that I would not be where I am today without my parents,” he says. “Some people might look at Deaf parents and think what a hardship, but I look at them and think what a privilege. I’m part of a language and a cultural group that is so different from the one I live in every day.”
When asked if he thinks his parents knew the extent to which he appreciated their influence in his life, Bill observes a moment of silence. “No,” he responds softly. “Both of them are gone now, and they will never know how grateful I am. They gave me a place to belong.”
At 58, Bill honors his parents’ legacy through his activism and commitment to diversity. “My passion is for access. I talk about access everywhere I go. Even though our company has a heavy focus on language access, I believe that access is something that everyone needs to be able to experience–”
“I tell people if it’s not inclusive, it’s exclusive. It’s that simple. If you have diversity without access, you have isolation. You can’t be diverse alone.”
I think every child wants their parents to be like everyone else’s parents…
— Bill Ross
It may have taken nearly two decades and a global pandemic to get her to do it, but Amanda Rodriguez is finally making herself a priority. Born in Cuba, the 23-year-old University of Central Florida student and marketing professional moved to the Ocala area when she was in elementary school. “My mother moved us from Miami to Ocala, and to be honest, I think she hated it,” confesses Amanda. “There’s a big Cuban community in Miami, and she had a lot of support there.”
The lack of community support in Ocala meant that Amanda had to pitch in to help her single mother, who struggled with English. “She can speak it a little, but I think she gets embarrassed. I had to translate for her and take care of her [medical] paperwork growing up,” Amanda explains. “I filled out the FAFSA [Free Application for Federal Student Aid] completely on my own.”
Amanda’s independence and assistance to her mother went far beyond just paperwork. “My mom had a lot of jobs and used to work at a cleaning company under my aunt, but then she came to me and asked for my help to start her own cleaning company. It was something she really wanted, and I wanted to help her.”
“We did door-to-door and face-to-face marketing. We did cold calls,” Amanda laughs. “It took about two to three years to get the business started.” The business, Diosdersy Cleaning Services, has since thrived. “Mom does all the hiring and takes care of the business aspect of things, and I do the marketing.”
Due to her upbringing, helping others is second nature to Amanda. “I’ve always been a people person,” she says. “I only want to help people. Of course, I want to grow and prosper financially, but I ultimately just want to help my clients achieve their goals.”
Given the myriad responsibilities she was used to tending, Amanda felt she was best suited to a life of service. “When I was in high school, I was involved in HOSA [Future Health Professionals],” she mentions. “I always knew I would be in the medical field. I went to college to be a physical therapist for kids with special needs.”
It wasn’t until the COVID-19 pandemic hit the world in 2020 that Amanda realized she had overextended herself. “The pandemic was very hard for me, because I was in a relationship and that ended. It was a really big wake-up call,” Amanda admits. “Mentally, it was difficult to deal with; I felt really overwhelmed with all my classes and the issues with my relationship.
“Toward the end, I felt that I was so focused on others and helping so much that I began to lose myself. It was physically and mentally exhausting. I remember thinking, ‘I don’t want my life to be this way,’” Amanda recalls. At this point, she had realized that marketing was her true calling, but she had reservations after dedicating so much time to a singular pursuit. “I felt selfish going into business and marketing,” Amanda shares. “I thought, ‘How am I going to help people in business?’”
Something needed to change in Amanda’s life. Thankfully, she felt confident enough to reach out to some other helpers in her life. She started therapy.
“Therapy is amazing!” Amanda exclaims. “I had a lot of family problems growing up. With all the struggles I went through, I felt like I couldn’t be a kid. We were homeless when I was 13. It was me, my mom, and my grandmother. There were times where it felt like [my family] wouldn’t move past that. Coming from a Hispanic family, we don’t really talk about our issues. We’re sort of like a bubble that pops and then reforms again.”
Amanda usually avoids talking about the vulnerable moments of her life, but her new support system encourages her to acknowledge the experience she’s gained and follow her passions. “I changed my major to general business marketing; I graduate with my bachelors next year. I still manage the marketing for my mother’s business and even have several clients of my own now.”
As far as the exboyfriend goes, Amanda sees it as a life lesson.
“The breakup was really harsh, but there’s no hard feelings. I’m really grateful to that person, because I learned a lot about myself. I’ve always had a bit of anxiety, but I didn’t really know until that relationship,” Amanda muses. “I put all of my feelings into that person, and they dealt with them. So, when it ended, I had to face the anxiety alone.”
Amanda started her company, Marketing with Amanda, in January 2022. At times it can be overwhelming, but Amanda has a way of dealing with the demands. “I take breaks when I need them. I think about my past experiences and remind myself that I am always going to be okay. No matter what happens, I’m going to be okay.”
Amanda is now not only a student and business owner, but the proud dog-mom of a mini-poodle named Cudi. “After the rapper,” Amanda claims. “He’s so spoiled: He sleeps with me at night and has a BarkBox subscription. My family loves him.”
It’s obvious that Amanda has achieved a measure of peace and temperance since 2020. “I never thought I would get here,” she says happily.
“But I’m so glad I did.”
When asked about gratitude, former Director of Hospice and current chairman of the Ethics Committee, Dr. David Elliot, has a solemn response. “I’m grateful for the generosity of the American people and the soldiers that came to England during World War II. They would throw candies to us from the backs of their trucks. It was the first we’d had in years.”
David was born in England just before the beginning of World War II. He remembers the strife that blanketed the world at the time and the peace the Allied forces brought with them. “I am grateful to all of the servicemen in World War II for their sacrifice on my behalf.”
“I’ve always been curious about the natural world,” David shares. This curiosity guided David toward the medical field at a young age. “I finished high school at 16, and then I started to do a pharmacy apprenticeship. Pharmacists, in those days, weren’t attached to hospitals; they were managers of the stores.”
Much like David’s childhood, his apprenticeship was cut short by war. “After two years of working in the store, I got drafted. I had a chance to be deferred, but I decided to go in. I went in the Air Force and ended up in Iraq.”
“I did some college stuff while in the Air Force, but towards the end of the war, the Iraqis revolted and pretty much kept us as prisoners of war. We finally got out of there in 1959. We all had to come out in civilian clothes, and we had to go through Fallujah, where they stoned us,” David says impassively.
“I got back and thought maybe pharmacy wasn’t quite what I wanted to do, so I ended up with a degree in microbiology.” David worked through his degree, and his employer at the time enabled him to emigrate to the United States.
“I came over here to teach microbiology at the University of Miami medical school,” David recalls. He planned on getting a PhD in microbiology, but found that he didn’t enjoy the staid life of a researcher. “I didn’t want to spend my life working in a lab, so I decided I was going to go to medical school. I thought that would be much more fulfilling.”
After conquering an unnecessarily convoluted application process, David finally got into medical school. “My wife Karen and I were married at this point,” he explains. “She worked as a receptionist at the lab.”
David was accepted at Duke University for his internship and residency. “That was fantastic!” David exclaims. “The learning process at Duke was unbelievable. It was hard work: 36 hours on, 12 hours off for three years.”
“Karen supported me all the way through,” David says fondly. “Both of my children were born while we were at Duke—Matthew and Ian.” After a brief time in North Carolina, David and his family made their way to the Ocala area in 1979. It was there that David became involved in the movement that would define his professional career. “I began to realize that in medicine, the real sick people are in geriatrics, and that led me to hospice.”
Hospice care in Ocala began with David and four nurses. “We would get together every couple of weeks. After six months, we decided to start a hospice care center. The idealism of hospice always appealed to me, because we could get the social workers to come in and help the patients with their debts, help them with their wills and all of those things you can’t do in private practice.”
David and his cohorts quickly realized they were out of their depths. “The nurses and I were idealistic,” David laughs. “We didn’t understand how to run a hospice. We just wanted to look after patients. Our idealism got us together, but administration
kept the place running.
“We started with one full-time nurse, one part-time social worker, one volunteer chaplain, me as a volunteer medical director, and another gentlemen who knew how to do the administrative stuff. Almost all of our patients in those early years were cancer patients; treatment was a matter of pain control and family care.”
Pain control and family care are part of the trifecta that David refers to as “adequate proper total care,” a concept taken from the progenitor of the modern hospice movement, Dame Cicily Saunders. “It’s so important that people can pass without social problems and spiritual problems, as well as medical support,” David explains. “Often, doctors didn’t want to look after them when they were terminally ill, when they need a doctor more than any other time.”
Eventually, David had to step back from his role as director. “I was still private practice at the time, and it was just too much,” he admits. “But, I still serve as chairman on a lot of the local medical committees.”
Now that David is mostly retired, he enjoys spending time at his RODEO club. “It stands for Retired Old Doctors Eating Out. We meet every Tuesday.”
Darcee Moreno has always danced to the beat of her own drum, but it wasn’t until this past year that she became truly comfortable showcasing her unique spirit. “A year ago, my family had dinner for my birthday,” says the 64-year-old Iowa native. “My son asked me what I wanted as a present, and I couldn’t tell him. I said, ‘I don’t know,’ and he said, ‘What do you mean you don’t know? Who are you?’ I started to cry, because I didn’t know who I was. I was overwhelmed. At some point in my life, I had lost me.”
It was this experience that prompted Darcee to begin her year of reflection and selfdiscovery. “I wanted to break loose and be me,” she shares. Unfortunately, Darcee soon found out that finally getting to know herself meant facing some painful truths.
“Throughout most of my life, I felt invisible,” Darcee reflects. “I was a tomboy growing up. My brothers and I crossed the corn fields looking for Indian arrows and civil war bullets.
“I feel like I didn’t have a childhood,” Darcee admits. “I’ve always been a parent, a partner, or a grandma. I didn’t know myself.” It’s a hard confession, as Darcee has always taken pride in her position as wife and mother. “My husband was a Vietnam veteran. I am so grateful he took a chance on a single mother and has been part of our 44-year love story.
“I got pregnant when I was 19—my first time. I didn’t even remember it. There was alcohol and a bunch of other stuff involved,” Darcee says hesitantly. “My daughter used to call me ‘little house on the prairie.’ I was never confident in the way I was and had a hard time accepting the things that had happened to me. Life has not always been hunk-dory in my family; my life has not always been rainbows and roses and unicorns.
“I couldn’t acknowledge until a year ago that I had been raped,” Darcee states. “I’ve just now been able to accept it. It’s been hard to recognize that I am not accountable for it, but it doesn’t identify me. It doesn’t define who I am.”
Part of Darcee’s inability to find closure in her past was her complicated upbringing. Her mother was from rural Tennessee and was indoctrinated by the racist ideology that permeated that region. “My mother tried to disown me when I had my daughter,” Darcee says, alluding to her daughter’s Black heritage. “She grew up in a very sad existence.”
There was never any great reconciliation between Darcee and her mother. “She was difficult in life, and she was difficult in death,” Darcee laughs. Nevertheless, Darcee was able to reap some wisdom from the experience. “Don’t let the worst moments in your life define you,” she implores. “There’s joy and kindness all around you.”
“This ring...” she holds up a simple gold band. “This is a rose gold ring that I received in middle school from a missionary, who wore it on his pinky. He was from Guyana, and he could see that I was very vulnerable. He could sense so much more about me than I knew about myself at the time. He told me whenever I was down to look at the ring and think of the obstacles he had overcome. His kindness spoke louder than anything to me. He gave me the address and name of his daughter, and we were pen pals for a long time. Later, I received notification that she died of Jim Jones’ Kool-Aid.”
“It represents kindness,” she says, glancing down at the ring. “I’ve carried it with me all these years, since I was a little girl. Just like he said, I think of him and his daughter when I look at it.”
Darcee has had a long-standing love affair with Mini Coopers. It began in the Seventies, just after the British automotive marquee released its first model. “The inside is built to resemble the cockpit of a plane,” Darcee excitedly explains. “I always
wanted one, but the timing was never right.”
It seemed Darcee was destined to never have the car of her dreams, until a chance encounter with a coworker changed her perspective. “There was a lady that I worked with who asked, ‘Why don’t you get one? If you want it, go out and get it.’ She had an aneurysm at work and passed away that next day.
“She was right,” Darcee says. “I thought, ‘What am I waiting for?’” Darcee has owned two Mini Coopers since. Her current model, a black four-door with checkered mirror caps, has an interesting license plate. “I always thought if I had a black Mini I would name her Hawk Eye for the Iowa Hawkeyes, but every time I would get acquainted and try to get the vibe of what she was about, I thought SHE-nanigans. I’m all about having some shenanigans.” SHEnanigans can be seen zooming around Ocala to various art gatherings.
As for plans for the future, Darcee would like to get more serious about her art. “I want to start delving into my art more and fill my life with light,” she says. “I would never have been able to do it if it weren’t for this past year. I want people to know: It’s never too late to know yourself and who you truly are. Look at me, I’m 64 years old and just coming into myself.”
Alifelong passion for animals and problem–solving has led Marla Bauknecht to exactly where she was meant to be. The Florida native was raised in Jacksonville in a family where animals were a constant presence—dogs in particular.
“I’ve always loved horses and dogs,” says Marla, who was 10 when she got her first dog, a purebred Sheltie named Bo Derek. “I did shows with her. She was way smarter than I was.”
The first horse she truly bonded with was a Morgan mare named Gretchen that her family leased when Marla was about 8. “She was built like a freight train and ran like one,” says Marla. “She taught me lessons: Wear a helmet and hold on!”
After high school, Marla took a job trail guiding for Sawgrass in Ponte Vedra Beach. When the urge to travel struck, she took her skills and eventually worked in multiple states, including at the well-known Sunnyside Farms in Rhode Island. “I moved around from 1989 to 1994, even went to Puerto Rico and then back to Jacksonville,” says Marla, whose next adventure took her much farther west.
She ventured to Alaska where she ended up getting married and working for a safety training company that taught Wilderness Medicine with other safety training programs. In true Marla fashion, she did dog sledding with Alaska Search and Rescue Dogs (ASARD) and managed a barn where she did equine-assisted therapy.
An experience with the therapy horses triggered what would later guide Marla to her current career. Some of the horses had bucking and biting issues, which wasn’t safe for working with autistic kids. Marla recognized that the horses were acting up because they were in pain. At the same time, she witnessed the remarkable turnaround of a friend’s horse, which was seriously injured and completely recovered after chiropractic work. “I said, ‘I want to learn this!’”
Her marriage had ended, but as she left Alaska, Marla was excited about a future in hands-on therapies that could help horses. She began studying at Aims Community College in Loveland, Colorado, and in 2014, she transferred back to Florida State College in Jacksonville to finish earning her Bachelor of Science in Bio Medical Sciences.
“My 103-year-old grandmother was dying, and my dad needed some help. He was 81 and retiring from his dental practice,” says Marla. “I came home to take care of my family and finished college at the same time. I took care of my dad for the last five years of his life and wouldn’t trade that for the world. My dad died the same day I graduated in the fall of 2019; it about broke my heart.”
With the end goal of becoming an equine chiropractor, she attended Sherman Chiropractic School in Spartanburg, South Carolina. During this time, she experienced intense physical problems after two vertebrae in her neck fused together and affected her nerves. After a combination of chiropractic work and massage therapy restored her health, she knew she was on the right track in her pursuit of using such therapies to help others.
In 2020, she completed the program at Brandenburg Animal Massage Therapy School in Ohio and got certified for animal sports massage therapy. That same year, she went to the Colorado Springs School of Massage and became licensed to work on people.
“I was then licensed in the State of Colorado and got hired by the school,” says Marla. “I finished out the year working there and started doing equine massage on the days I wasn’t working at the massage school.”
Today, Marla’s business, 3H Salt & Massage Therapy (3Hsalt.com ), is based out of Ocala. The 3H stands for horses, hounds, and humans. “Ocala has always been a place I wanted to call home, because it’s the intersection of horses, hounds, and humans,” she says.
Marla is a licensed human massage therapist and also certified for animal massage. She provides sports massage, trigger point, neuromuscular, and deep tissue massage, in addition to myofascial release (MFR) therapy to the great relief of her
clients—both two-legged and four-legged.
As a certified halotherapist, Marla also offers dry salt therapy, a therapeutic process using pharmaceuticalgrade sodium chloride.
“It’s a natural, noninvasive therapy with no side effects. It reduces inflammation and increases circulation. The body uses it to rid cells of toxins, allergens, and inflammation,” she explains, adding that salt therapy’s number one use in humans is for cystic fibrosis. Marla has seen great success using salt therapy to treat clients who can’t catch their breath or have lost their sense of smell and taste after COVID.
Because salt therapy requires a controlled environment, she has an equine trailer and an enclosed salt booth where she can control the temperature and humidity. Her practice is mobile, so she travels directly to her clients.
Since she decided not to finish her doctorate program, Marla isn’t licensed to do chiropractic work, but she’s thrilled with how her business has evolved. Her goal has always been to relieve pain and solve problems, which she’s now doing on a daily basis, often working six days a week.
“I’m very glad I made the decision to get my license to work on people,” says Marla. “I love meeting different people. I find Ocala such a cool place to live after traveling to all these places.”
In 1974, Margie Kleuss was born in Gainesville but did not call it home forever. The mix of agriculture and industry compelled her to love Ocala. Currently, Margie is the director of business development for Tech Serv, which is located in Ocala.
In her twenties, Margie’s hearing declined due to otosclerosis. After undergoing three failed surgeries to attach wires to her bones, she turned to hearing aids, which were an adjustment for her and her family. “I realized I had to teach my youngest son to stop screaming at me, after I got hearing aids, because he was so used to having to talk loud,” Margie said.
To help her children understand hearing loss, she taught them a lesson with earplugs. “I gave [my kids] a set [of earplugs] to try. I [told them] I’m gonna teach [a math] lesson and they [said] but I can only hear like every third word,” Margie recalls. After the math lesson she had them remove their earplugs and journal about how it felt to figure out the math problem without having access to all the information. Margie showed her children what her life is like on a daily basis.
Margie knew about American Sign Language (ASL) most of her life—but never turned to it until recently. She began learning the language from an ASL class and from a Deaf-owned and -produced app. After the class ended, the app has been an asset for Margie’s continued learning of ASL. She also attends Deaf events hosted by Hands Up Communication as another way to dive into the language and culture of the Deaf community. “I was [at] Deaf Night Out, and it gave me this absolute feeling of ‘I have no idea what anybody said.’ I don’t know if they’re talking about me. I don’t know what they’re talking about, but they’re all very clearly communicating.” Watching members of the Deaf community converse was an experience Margie would never forget. “It was a very humbling experience, but I’d have to imagine that it was incredibly empowering for the people that were there because that was their first language.”
“It was awesome to see, and there were so many [people] that were very inclusive,” Margie recalled. Being an extrovert in a room full of people using a language she was learning challenged her. Ordinarily confident, Margie learned she had a comfort zone she would need to step out of if she wanted to meet people and use the ASL she’d learned.
The advice Margie would give to anyone with a hearing loss is to “definitely go get a hearing test…because getting past that hurdle is really important. The best thing that I did was [to get help] before it became a big problem. The language skills and the ability to hear is part of your brain’s path. If you wait until you’re 75 to get the hearing aids, your brain is gonna stop being able to tell the difference between [similar sounds], but if you get the hearing aids early enough, then your brain… retains all of it.” Margie stopped hiding her hearing loss, and misunderstandings and miscommunications minimized.
However, telling people about her hearing loss came with managing misconceptions and common stereotypes. “You do deal with some people that just think that if you’re hearing impaired, then you couldn’t be as smart.” Hearing loss is not visible, and people often make accommodations for what they see, such as people who are physically disabled. “People don’t think about ‘can somebody hear me’ and that’s probably the most challenging piece.” Access shouldn’t be limited to someone’s appearance.
Margie has methods and techniques she uses to manage her hearing loss. “I strategically plan when I am in a meeting: I sit on the outside edge in a corner because that will ensure that nobody is behind me talking and that acoustically, the sound is coming to me…[from] the right corners of the room.” The methods
she uses enable her to communicate with friends or family.
Margie’s openness and honesty allows herself to be surrounded by people that understand.
“I would love for people to realize that if you’re talking to somebody’s back or if they walk by you, they should not assume that [no response] was a personal thing. You should assume that I didn’t hear you,” Margie explains before giving an example: “If I walked by somebody… and didn’t speak, they [might] say something smart. My team would turn around and be like, ‘Hey man, you didn’t know she wore hearing aids. You shouldn’t just assume that she wasn’t being respectful.’
“You don’t owe anybody an explanation. You just need to say, 'I’m sorry I didn’t understand what you said'…but [hearing loss] is also not something you should avoid talking about.”
Accommodations can be made that allow people with a hearing loss to have access. Access can be as easy as using a microphone that sends the sound into someone’s headphones. With the technology developments, Margie states, “You just cannot accept that there’s nothing we can do about this.” Retaining access with hearing loss is challenging. “I wanna be heard…[it] sounds kind of silly that you wanna be heard while you’re trying to hear,” she says. “It’s hard, but…it’s like [being left or right-handed]. It’s just the way it is.”
Story by LISA ANDERSON Photos by JOSHUA JACOBS
Former Drug Dealer Trains Dogs for Veterans
Cindi Quick is constantly moving. She has a landscape business, she is a server at a local restaurant, and she is a canine behavior specialist.
“I have some substantial debt from my types of charges. I have over $60,000 in fines, which is a huge financial burden. So, I haven’t had the option to slack.”
The charges happened while she was at college in Boca Raton, Florida, when she was arrested as a drug dealer and sentenced to five years in prison. But how did Cindi get herself into that mess?
“I’m actually from Inglis, Florida, which makes Ocala look like the big city. I definitely thought of this as a big city growing up. I [grew] up in a household that had domestic abuse and substance abuse. That was very much a formative part of my experience, and it led me to the typical small town [thinking], ‘I want to get up and get out as soon as possible.’ So, I went to college at Florida Atlantic University. That was a culture shock.
“Going to Boca Raton was eye-opening for me. I don’t want to say I was naïve, but I was a little naïve. I made some very poor choices when I was in college— the people I associated with and the things that I chose to do. I was very aware of the socioeconomic
differences between myself and my peers.”
Cindi was at the university on a scholarship. She was used to living on a budget and with a poor mindset. “Everything [was] reduce, reuse, recycle. Then, I was surrounded by these people who just had ultimate wealth. That led me to want to attain that wealth for myself.”
Eventually, Cindi became involved with students who dealt drugs, and it didn’t take long for her to become a dealer, too. “Like I said, I was naïve, and I wasn’t really good at it.”
Without realizing it, Cindi was a midlevel dealer. She began towards the end of
2012, but by mid-2013 her home was raided, Cindi was arrested, and she was sent to prison for five years. “[Given] my home situation growing up, I had a little bit of a different idea of what the actual consequences for these actions were, because I saw it as normal. It didn’t make me very prepared for manipulation with other people; although, it did [give] me a lot of situational awareness.”
“Prison is everything that you’ve heard about in the stories and the books, and not at all the same all at once. It’s a huge contradiction. It actually was one of the best
experiences of my life, believe it or not. I know that’s a weird thing to say, but it really gave me a moment to stop and think about what I was doing with my life, the direction I was going, and what I wanted to do moving forward. I did not want to repeat the mistakes of my family and move forward with those behaviors.”
Cindi’s incarceration not only gave her the opportunity to reflect, but it ultimately led her to dog training.
Sitting still was not easy for Cindi. She has always been a motivated person, hyper-focused, and looking for creative projects. “The biggest hurdle for me in prison was boredom, because it is a very regimented routine. Every day, you are told what to do, what to wear, where to go, who you can talk to, who you can’t talk to, who you can touch, who you can’t touch. You can’t touch anybody, by the way. It’s very strictly enforced. That monotony was something I could not envision myself doing for five years and maintain my sanity. So, I did some research on the different programs that were available.”
Cindi had been at the Gadsden Correctional Facility in Quincy, Florida, prior to being transferred to Ocala, and that’s where she began working with a dog training program. “My first dog Pepper wound up going to a school for blind children.”
The dogs are with the inmates for 24 hours a day. A kennel is set up at the end of one of the beds in the dorm room-style cell. Sometimes, people express their concern for the dogs being locked up in the prison, but Cindi knows the dogs are treated well. “They’re the center of our world. They’re the only soft, warm, fluffy, loving thing [we have], because you can’t give hugs or
touch anybody else. I’m an excessive high fiver, and we [couldn’t] do that. So, I teach all of my dogs [how to] high five as one of the first tricks, because sometimes, you just need a good high five.”
When Cindi came to Ocala, she applied to be a part of the Patriot Service Dogs program. “[It] is a 501(c)(3) nonprofit. We raise full-service dogs for veterans—free of cost.”
The puppies are typically donated and arrive to the nonprofit at about 8 to 10 weeks old. “They start training from day one. [They] stay with us for about two years, just until they reach their full maturity, and we can put them through a full medical examination to make sure that their hips, their elbows, everything is good physically on them, before they’re placed with their veterans.
“They learn over 90 commands,” Cindi states. These range from positions to object differentiation and retrieval to mobility and balance and PTSD. “All of our commands, we do both hand signals and verbal cues. This way the dog can be set up for success with both. We never know what our veterans are going to need until later on in the process.”
The dogs spend time bonding with their main trainer, but they also spend time with other trainers in the program so that they will follow the commands from anyone who gives them. “This way they can be effective no matter who is holding their leash. This way, when they go
to their veteran, they’re good to go.”
Cindi has had four long-term dogs since 2015, but she has helped train about 20 to 25 dogs.
“While it can be difficult to give them up, the great thing about it is there’s always another dog.”
Training dogs helped remove the sting of loneliness in prison, and it created a skill set for Cindi after her early release.
“I was very lucky to be a part of a work release program while I was still incarcerated.” She had a job in Orlando at a doggie daycare and boarding facility. She became a kennel manager, while still in prison, and the job was waiting for her at the time of her release.
Coming back into the world wasn’t exactly a smooth transition. Cindi was faced with more choices than she had available to her in the last 4 ½ years, but she had made amends with her family and had a support system in place with friends.
She also had the opportunity to continue working with Patriot Service Dogs, once she was settled, and she still works as a volunteer consultant with them to this day.
To see the full interview on our podcast, visit localamag.com . Learn more about Patriot Service Dogs at patriotservicedogs.org
Interested in hiring Cindi as a canine behavior specialist or gardener?
Call 407-676-8824.
Tucker Bengoa is living proof that childhood influences have a powerful impact. It’s no stretch to say that Tucker’s career today is directly tied to his experiences as a boy. Born in Bilbao, Spain, Tucker was just a year old when his parents moved to the U.S. They came to Ocala specifically because his father Juan played professional jai-alai.
His mother Teresa hailed from Portugal and was a chef in France before she had Tucker. Her love of cooking extended well beyond the restaurant; Tucker was not the kid who grew up on a rotation of chicken nuggets and mac-and-cheese. “My mom was always cooking and encouraging me to try new foods. She did a lot of Portuguesestyle cooking at home. We ate lots of healthy, real food,” says Tucker, noting that shrimp, clams, and mussels were normal dinner dishes when he was a child.
All those adventurous meals did more than satisfy hunger. They also captured Tucker’s imagination; he was about 9 when he first got interested in cooking. Soon, he was assisting his mother with meal prep and learning cooking techniques from her.
Although he enjoyed cooking, outside the kitchen, his hobbies had a faster pace. “I was into go-kart racing and did this locally, but also traveled all over the state racing until I was 14,” says Tucker. “In high school, I started drag racing at Gainesville Raceway. I did junior drag racing and then moved up to a roadster and did this for about six years.”
In high school, Tucker was also on the track team and played soccer. He graduated from Trinity Catholic in 2005. Although he attended College of Central Florida for a time, there was no question in his mind that his career would center around food.
“The whole restaurant food scene has been part of my family since I was a kid,” he says. “I worked at different restaurants, and then in 2010, I started cooking at Pi on Broadway, which was partly owned by my brother Juan Bengoa.”
It was during Tucker’s time at Pi on Broadway that he met Bill Bow and Tim Kirby. Both men were airline pilots. “They used to come into Pi all the time, and I always said if they ever wanted to open a place, I wanted to run it,” recalls Tucker.
As a matter of fact, Bill and Tim did want to open an eatery, but not just any restaurant. Inspired by their mutual love of flying, craft beer, and a fascination with the “golden era of flying boats,” the men formed an LLC in 2018, and thus Flying Boat Tap Room was born. Tucker came on board as managing partner and chef.
For the record, “flying boats” were large fixed-wing seaplanes with unique hulls that allowed them to land on water. Common during WWI, flying boats expanded in military use during WWII, when they were regularly employed for maritime patrol and air-sea rescue.
Tucker’s expertise and creative palate are on full display at Flying Boat Tap Room, which is located in Belleview. Since the building was empty when they purchased it, the partners were able to remodel and design the restaurant exactly as they wished.
Tucker was given free rein to develop the menu he wanted, which has been a resounding success. The emphasis is on tapas, wood-fired pizza, and Florida-brewed craft beer. “Mainly, I write my own menus. I love coming up with new, creative things. There are not too many places like this around here,” says Tucker, 35.
“We built this place to showcase Florida beers, and we only serve Florida-based beers. We travel to Orlando, Tampa, and Jacksonville to pick up beers, so we have 110
to 130 cans and bottles that rotate on a regular basis,” he adds.
“We’re using fresh produce and have an herb garden, where we grow some of the things we use,” says Tucker, adding that he also smokes their meats.
While some restaurants have the crust already cooked and just add toppings when a pizza is ordered, that wouldn’t cut it with Tucker. “We make our own dough and stretch it by hand—and only when a pizza is ordered,” he states.
As much as he loved go-kart and drag racing when he was younger, Tucker admits there’s not much time for hobbies now. “There may be more toys in the future, but I’m totally focused on the restaurant now. We just had our one-year anniversary on August 13,” says Tucker.
Outside of work, Tucker is devoted to his family, which includes his 12-year-old son Laydyn Bengoa and his fiancée Rachel Workman.
Those early years in the kitchen learning from his mother continue to influence his cooking today. “I love what I do,” declares Tucker. “I get to make creative menus and talk to people. You’ve got to enjoy what you do, and I do!”
Gainesville-based Debora Greger is a professor emerita at the University of Florida (UF), where she taught English and creative writing. She has published over 10 books of poetry, and as a poet-in-residence for several universities and art museums, she has led students in looking at art and developing ways of writing about it. Not just a poet, Greger is also a talented artist and recently had a solo exhibition at a gallery in London, England. Her collages have graced the covers of books of poetry and poetry criticism and literary journals. Beginning December 3, the Appleton Museum of Art will display 28 of Greger’s hand-stitched collages, dating from 2019 through 2021. With 2020 as the fulcrum, Greger’s juxtapositions transmute our preand post-pandemic everyday worlds into poetry.
Can you let us know where you’re from and when you arrived in Florida?
I grew up in southeastern Washington State, in a sagebrush and tumbleweed desert, downwind from a nuclear plant. After many detours here and there, I moved to Florida when my husband took a job at UF in the 1980s.
Were you a visual artist first or a poet?
Is there a difference?
Hard to say. I grew up in a house full of low-cost art supplies, books from the public library, and a gift subscription from The New Yorker. It was a golden age of modern poetry in that magazine. Our drawing paper was what Dad brought home from work at the reactor. Paper blank on one side was stamped "DECLASSIFIED" on the other.
Your collages are three-dimensional. Do you see your poetry that way?
The 3-D elements—the hand-stitching, the tags—are to heighten the layers of paper on paper and create a little bit of elevation. 3-D in poems? I have tried, when I was poet-in-residence in an art museum, writing a few poems that took the shapes of their 3-D subjects. But a poet is working in 2-D, not 3-, I quickly discovered. Still, it was a very useful exercise in juggling words to fit a shape.
Good question and not one I know how to answer. A poet cooks up the titles for the pieces. I'm unsure about the relation between my visual and my written work. The page is less blank when you start a collage— because you're working with printed images—than when you're trying to find the way into a new poem.
Jason Steuber is Director at the College of Central Florida’s Appleton Museum of Art. Previously, he worked at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, Glasgow University, and Samuel P. Harn Museum of Art at the University of Florida.
What type of an artist are you?
Visual/fine art, including painting, mosaics, ceramics, printmaking, and now textiles, as I just added a floor loom to my studio.
What types of art and culture do you like to consume?
Music, music, music! And any live performances, such as plays, musical theater, and improv. Art openings, museums. You name it, and I like it.
Is there a connection between your message and the way you make your art?
Many times, there is a message. I have been known as The Tree Lady, as I paint and immortalize trees, telling their stories. I use recycled materials to do this, as trees are special living entities and need to be cared for. They offer us so much. I donate 10% of my sales of my tree paintings to onetreeplanted.org, where every dollar plants a tree.
What are you besides an artist? How do you define your role in life?
I am a past college and university art professor and gallery owner, and I have traveled a lot of the world. Creating a horse for Horse Fever 20/20 brought me to Ocala, and my husband and I decided to retire here. I believe in giving back to the world and the art community, as it has given me so very much over the past 50 years of my involvement and employment.
How do you define success as an artist or person? What do you hope to accomplish?
I base my success in life on my happiness. I have made my living in the art world and always said that I was in the top 10% of the world because of my happiness in doing what I love. What I hope to accomplish: another 10 to 15 years of living and loving life!
Like me on Facebook
@RondaRichleyArti st , send visitors to my website at ron darichley.co m , and buy some art!
That is what all visual artists want.
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