Reimagining GNV

The beginning of a new year is always a good time to question priorities.

So if we want to reimagine Gainesville as a more resilient, self-sufficient and – yes – independent city, then how better than to start the conversation in broad terms by framing some relevant questions?

For instance, and in no particular order:

Can GNV become a 15-minute city?

How can GNV achieve food security?

How can we make GNV a more equitable city?

Can we save lives, and enhance our economic vitality at the same time, by making traffic calming by design a GNV norm?

How can we make affordable housing a GNV reality?

How can GNV become a more resilient city?

How can GNV build community?

What is Gainesville’s GNV sense of place? And how can we enhance, protect and nurture what defines our city?

How can GNV become a more self-sufficient city?

What might a GNV Green New Deal look like?

If that sounds like an ambitious list of what-ifs, then so be it. A city’s reach should exceed its grasp or what is incorporation for?

You ain’t seen nothin’ yet

Just in case we were all thinking.

That the earth’s going to bounce back in 2021.

That everything’s going to be coming up moonlight and lollipops.

That the worst is well and truly behind us.

That this will be, finally, the dawning of the Age of Aquarius.

That you know who has been consigned to you know where.

That all that remains is to face the music and dance.

That one day we will all look back on this year as the Dark Ages before the Enlightenment.

I feel it only fair to caution you.

That life is full of surprises.

So hang in there people. Take a deep breath.

And remember.

You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

Dorothy Parker was a prophet.

Hutch then and now

The many faces of Hutch

Hutch runs an Airbnb for indigenous fish.

The water in the tank is a bit murky, it comes from his well and is supplemented with liberal doses from nearby streams and wetlands “for the microorganisms.” And it is thick with vegetation, also harvested locally.

And his guests?

He’s got some crawdads. And tiny glass shrimp. A hog choker, a Madtom and who knows what else in there.

“I dip them out of local water bodies and then take them home for a while,” says Robert “Hutch” Hutchinson, late of the Alachua County Commission and these days still hiding out from Covid in his house tucked away deep in Flamingo Hammock. “The fish stay for a month and then I take them back to where they came from. It’s the ethical way to keep fish.”

And, before you ask, yes, he’s also got lots of plastic flamingos – on shelves and window sills and everywhere – because nobody ever accused Hutch of having a dry sense of humor.

Virtual county commission meeting

If your last glimpse of Hutchinson was back in the day when the commission was still hosting face-to-face meetings, you probably wouldn’t recognize him now. Back then he was clean shaven, closed cropped and likely sporting a tie. Now he looks like nothing so much as some sort of cracker Santa – white bearded, mustached, hair near to touching his shoulders.

“I call it my Covid mullet,” he grins. “I’m not getting it cut until I get a vaccine.”

And, listen, don’t worry about Hutch running out of things to do with his 12-years of public office finally behind him. He’s adding another room to his house for a billiard parlor. “My intent is to hustle all my friends and have half dozen jars on wall for my favorite charities. Nobody plays for free.”

“On November 17th, when I leave office at noon, my new business card will read: ‘Pool hustler for charities; deep woods gravedigger; on-call raconteur.’”

Naturally, he will continue his role as “Senior Executive Gravedigger” at Prairie Creek Conservation Cemetery. The “green” graveyard was his brain child after all, and somebody’s got to man the shovel. But he says he will resign from most of the numerous boards and committees that have taken up so much of his “free time” these many years.

One foot out the commission door

Because, among other things, that pontoon boat sitting in the shed out back is begging to be launched on Newnans Lake again.

“I grew up on the lake,” says the 68-year old Gainesville native. “I learned about critters and even more about ecosystems on Newnans.”

Meanwhile, his rock group of some 30 years, Weeds of Eden, continues to practice in the “Flamingo Band Cave,” in anticipating of at last being able to do live gigs again. “We practice in separate corners, stay masked, and use different entrances.”

Hutchinson first got himself elected to the commission in 1998, after which he and fellow first termer Dave Newport proceeded to drag Alachua County – practically kicking and screaming – into a new era of growth management and land use planning. “Over the decades, the county commission had been laissez faire about growth, do whatever you want to do, while the city’s reputation was ‘shut it all down.’

“The grand bargain we made was that it was going to be easier to build in the city but the county had to put in some sort of rational scheme for developing in the suburbs.”

Hutch changes his identity and then turns over the job to Anna Prizzia

Randy Reid, former county manager recalls “I think he joined the commission at unique time when growth was a paramount issue. Hutch to me has a huge legacy. He took seriously the comprehensive planning process, and he was pretty pragmatic about getting things implemented right.”

And all of that might have worked out pretty well – if the county hadn’t already approved thousands of exurban lots for development, if the Legislature hadn’t ended up gutting the state’s growth management laws and…well, if Hutch and Newport hadn’t been unceremoniously dumped four years later in favor of more pro-growth candidates.

Which is not to say that growth management was a total wash for his involvement. “A big part of the plan was establishing a urban defining greenbelt…an emerald necklace” around Gainesville, he recalls. “I tried to get the county to establish a small fund for land conservation, maybe half a million or so, and got nowhere.

“So I decided that the only way we were going to accomplish anything was with a public initiative.”

It is not for nothing that Pegeen Hanrahan, former Gainesville mayor and a director of the Trust For Public Land, calls Hutchinson the father of land conservation in Alachua County.

Having previously founded and directed Alachua Conservation Trust – which has since brought tens of thousands of acres into protected status – Hutchinson proceeded to launch Alachua County Forever. Approved by voters in 2000, that general bond obligation would ultimately generate more than $43 million and bring more than 20,000 acres of land worth more than $84 million into public ownership.

“He is certainly the person in Alachua County most responsible for protecting natural land,” said Hanrahan, who would later team up with Hutch and other conservationists to win voter approval, and then reauthorization, for the Wild Places and Public Spaces sales tax initiative.

“He’s just a person who doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘no’,” she says. “He’s extremely energetic he sets his mind to getting something done, and he certainly throws his whole energy behind it.”

Hutchinson would not return to the commission for a decade. Elected again in 2012, he would continue his environmental and conservation activism, but two other issues would engage his attention as well.

“When I came back we were killing more than 4,000 animals a year, 25 animals a day, just for population control,” he recalls. “We had to ask a county employee to figure out how to dispose of all those bodies – incineration, rendering whatever – it was incredibly depressing.”

At the time, Maddie’s Fund, an organization dedicated to establishing “no kill” shelters, was putting up millions of dollars for pilot programs around the nation. “They picked half a dozen counties to experiment with and we were one of them. They gave us 10 years of funding and we are essentially the first no-kill community in the southeast.”

Maddie’s Fund required a previously unheard of degree of cooperation between the county, animal welfare groups, veterinarians and other stakeholders. “Getting a low cost spay and neuter facility was key and that was tough because at first a lot of veterinarians resisted,” he said. “We created a huge foster pet care network, and Operation Catnip,” which traps, neuters and returns feral cats to the wild.

Who is that masked man?

“You have to be incredibly cleaver to catch them,” he said. “And we have almost 100 people working this assembly line to neuter up to 200 cats a day.”

But Hutch’s greatest legacy in his final years on the commission was arguably the work he has done to improve metal health services in the county and the criminal justice system.

He says Alachua County became the first local government in the nation to provide “mental health first aid” to all its employees. “It’s an eight-hour course that teaches what to say and do when you are with a person experiencing a mental health crisis – it keeps both them and you safe. The curriculum was originally developed in Australia, where it was widely taught. Locally, we were early adopters.

“It also saves lives by reducing stigma and by featuring local mental health resources, both of which increase the likelihood that a person will seek help.”

He also co-founded Gainesville Peer Respite, a mental health support group run entirely by people who have themselves experienced mental illness. The peers “provide support for those in mental health crisis, including a comfortable house where up to five guests can stay for up to a week.” And he has worked with the courts and law enforcement to divert more offenders with substance abuse or mental health problems away from incarceration and into treatment programs.

“He was the first commissioner to really give voice to the mental health in our community,” says Maggie Labarta, former director of Meridian Behavioral Healthcare. “The system is pretty fragmented in this community and Hutch was very interested in mapping it out so he could see how it all worked. He understood how difficult it was for someone in distress to navigate the system.”

Speaking of living under distress, Hutchinson spent the last several months of his term as commission chair, and found himself dealing on a daily basis with the just emerging Covid crisis.

“I was very happy to be the chair during this period,” he says, “I knew i was a lame duck and that helped me make tough decisions. The first emergency orders were made by me and the county manager. We looked at what other communities were trying and we grabbed the best ideas. We were doing research day and night and some of the emergency orders were being rewritten on an almost daily basis.

“We were getting little or no help from the feds or state government,” he added.

Looking back on his 12-years in office and some of the issues he championed, Hutchinson muses: “I was much more of a socialist than the system allows me to be. I didn’t pull any punches, I was willing to say what’s on my mind. So I guess I have at least that in common with Trump.

Weeds of Eden still abide

“But I’m 68 and this is a young person’s job. To do it right takes 60 or 80 hours a week. At one point I was on 12 different boards and committees. Commissioners are paid well and I think we need to work full-time on the job.”

But that was then, and this is now. Now billiards, boating, burials and the band await his full attention.

I love this town

I will remember 2020 as the year I rekindled my love affair with Gainesville. And oddly, because of Covid.

No question, the pandemic knocked us all off our game. Often in jarring fashion. Sometimes leading us down paths of tedium, boredom and even borderline depression.

It was clear as early as March that this wasn’t going to be a “normal” year. It would be a year of lockdowns, closures, social distancing, face masks, resentments and rebellions…all conspiring to isolate us one against another.

Daniel Herriges, an editor with Strong Towns, recently wrote: “One of the best ways to deeply understand the place you live slow down. Way down. Take a walk around your city, without a concrete plan or destination.”

Way ahead of you, Dan. That was my Covid year in a nutshell.

Only I cycled rather than walked Gainesville. Day after day after day. Hundreds of miles all told. Snapping photos as I went. All the time minding my social distancing Ps and Qs.

And noticing things I hadn’t really paid attention to before.

This from a guy who has been writing about Gainesville for nearly half a century.

Like the growing seediness of our downtown. And the boarded-up abandonment of the Boulware Springs waterworks…literally where Gainesville was born. And the empty storefronts and weedy lots on University Avenue.

But my observations weren’t all negative. Over the course of the year I made a concerted effort to track down as many murals as I could. Taking hundreds of photos and posting them on my blog. I followed Gainesville’s meandering creeks, weaved up and down the streets of charming neighborhoods (by the way, this was a great year for yard signs: “Here right matters.”)

And I noticed that, Covid notwithstanding, home grown entrepreneurs were still gamely trying to make it in GNV: The 4th Avenue Food Park. The mom-and-pops springing up on a Main Street we redesigned to be more people friendly. The vitality of Grove Street. The renewal of Pleasant Street, one house at a time.

One day I followed the path of the much-ditched, diverted and buried Sweetwater Branch Creek. That sobering experience led to a series of Sun columns and blogs about how we might simultaneously reclaim Sweetwater, revitalize a long-ignored downtown park and create a urban greenway that would connect cultural treasures like the Harn, the Cotton Club, the Matheson and the Thomas Center. And now we’ve got some civic-minded folks working to make that concept a reality.

And in the process of all that aimless wandering and wondering, I fell back in love with this town. And I’ve been giving a lot more thought to who we are, what we are, where we’ve been and where we are going.

Listen, if we can’t learn from our Covid year and figure out how to make Gainesville a more resilient city, then shame on us. We are creative people and these times demand creativity.

It’s still going to be a while before we get back to “normal.” In the meantime we really need to go into 2021 thinking about how we can make Gainesville a post-Covid success story.

I love this town. I have since I first got here in 1974. And I am here to tell you that no matter where we’ve been or what we’ve done…you ain’t seen nothing yet.

Happy New Year Gainesville. You won’t believe what’s coming in 2021.

Ron Cunningham is former editorial page editor of The Sun. Read his blog at Email him at

Serious about independence

Happy New Year Gainesville.

Listen, I’ve been having a lot of fun with FREE GNV on Facebook for the last few weeks. But we’re got a whole new year ahead of us. We’re literally entering into uncharted territory.

And so it’s time to get serious.

When I launched FREE GNV – my mock initiative to make Gainesville an Independent City – I admitted up front that mine was a Quixotic endeavor.

Mostly I was making fun of the Springs County people…the rural and small town Trumpsters who have given up trying to own Gainesville’s libtards and now want their very own county to sulk in.

My point was that we have at least as good a chance of making Gainesville an Independent City – in the legal sense – as they do of making Springs County a reality.

Which is to say no chance at all. The barriers are too high, the politics too polarized.

So why bother with FREE GNV?

Because if we choose to employ them, we have the resources, the intellectual reservoir and the deep pool of talent and creativity necessary to make Gainesville an Independent City in function if not in law.

We are Florida’s most educated city after all.

And what is independence but the ability to exist, prosper and thrive with as little outside influence as possible? We can do that.

How can we make Gainesville an Independent City in function if not in fact?

It’s an excellent question. One of many we need to be asking ourselves in 2021 as we go about the necessary business of reinventing a post-Covid Gainesville.

So starting today FREE GNV becomes an open forum for ideas. An ongoing discussion about how we, all of us together, can make Gainesville more resilient, equitable, greener, self-sufficient, economically vital and…well, liveable.

Let’s talk, GNV.

Listen, making fun of Springs County has been a lark, but we don’t need the blessing of Keith, Chuck or any other suburban politician to make Gainesville an Independent City.

We can do it ourselves. And in the process we can make GNV a better city in which to live, work, play and face the future.

I’m here to tell you that 2021 is going to be a trip. Enjoy the journey

Carbon fever dreams

I drove to St Augustine for the Christmas lights.

I saw a strange lady in my bathroom at the Casa Monica. She was laughing at me.

I looked out my window to see the Christmas lights. I saw cars.

Cars spewing carbon on ancient streets where conquistadors once strode.

I asked Henry Flagler what the hell happened.

He said “You got the wrong Henry, pal. Ask Ford.”

And St. Augustine’s lion scowled.

What damnable infestation is this!

But things forever change.

Eventually the rising sea will claim what Menendez built.

And even the cars, spewing their carbon still, will have to give way.

The future is in the water.

And the past will fade into memory.

And the lady will laugh. And the lion will scowl.

What would Flagler think?

It is a city under the sun. The oldest continually occupied European city in the New World. Ageless.

But if you have ever been to St. Augustine at this time of the year….

You know that when the sun goes down…

Something magical begins to happen.

Everything begins to change in the light and the shadows and the hues.

St. Augustine makes its own sunlight.

From the Matanzas River.

To the town square.

A symphony in black and white.

And, really, it’s something to see.

Like a whole city wrapped up in tinsel and colored bulbs.

Faces fade while facades brighten.

Entire houses come gift wrapped.

And if I you happen to be looking at it all through your hotel window, the reflections themselves are seductive.

As the city rolls slowly by beneath you.

And the creatures of the night come out to play.

And you find yourself wondering: What would Henry Flagler make of all of this?

And indeed, what would the Lion of St. Augustine make of it all?

No we won’t back down

I dunno. Maybe it was the ridiculous Springs County mafia that got my back up.

Or the Trumpets in all their majestic outrage. “We didn’t lose! We won! Losers!

Or the way our slick suburban legislators pretend to represent us while going out of their way to stick it to all things Gainesville.

Listen, our backs are up against the wall, Gainesville. Keith and Chuck hate us. The John Birchers want us gone. the Governor wouldn’t even give us the vaccine if he had his druthers.

We couldn’t get a sympathetic ear if we went full press Van Gogh. Heck, we’re the People’s Republic of Gainesville so far as Red Florida is concerned.

Plus, I remember what another visionary said when he was up to his keister in ravenous gnats.

“Now, we could fight ‘em with conventional weapons. That could take years and cost millions of lives.

“Oh, no. No, in this case, I think we have to go all out. I think that this situation absolutely requires a really futile and stupid gesture be done on somebody’s part.”

And not to forget what his intellectual aide de camp contributed:

“Nothing is over until we decide it is! Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell no!”

So, yeah, let’s tilt windmills. Let’s carpet bomb the enemy with tons of futility.

It’s not like Keith and Chuck have a discernible sense of humor. So we’ve already got ‘em surrounded, outgunned and…um…outwitted.

Heck, with all the craziness out there in the Heartland, it’s a good bet we could declare ourselves a city-state and no one would even notice.

No, we won’t back down. Even if they stand us up in the gates of hell.

We’ll keep this bunch from draggin’ us down.

Hey, baby, we know there ain’t no easy way out.

In a world that keeps pushing us around.

We won’t back down!

I think somebody from around here said that. But I can’t remember who it was.

Anyway, what’s the point of being acquitted if we can’t have a little fun ridiculing the establishment?

When you come down to it, we’ve got as good a chance of making GNV an Independent City as the troglodytes have of getting Springs County. Better even.

Because we are dogged in our determination. How many national championships has High Springs brought home?

We have nothing to lose but our innocence.

Oh, and one more point:

Swine not?

Restoring Boulware Springs

This is where Gainesville was born.

Alachua County’s original seat of government, Newnansville, having been passed over by not one but two railroad lines, was deemed too remote. So in 1854 we had a picnic at Boulware Springs and voted to make Gainesville the center of county government. This because abundant water was literally spewing out of the ground.

This of course, inevitably set the stage for Gainesville’s growth.

The first waterworks consisted of a simple split-level structure powered by a wood-fired steam boiler.

Producing 194,000 gallons a day it was Gainesville’s main source of water for half a century. Indeed, the promise of “free” Boulware Springs water lured the University of Florida to town.

Although it sits at the trailhead of the Gainesville-Hawthorne Trail, the old waterworks is now closed up, windows shuttered, and awaiting restoration.

If not for a few artistic touches here and there, the old building would be a sad sight indeed.

But hope, like water, springs eternal. Flaws notwithstanding, it is still a beautiful structure.

This is, after all, where it all began for Gainesville. A piece of history, certainly worth preserving and celebrating.

Because water is destiny.

The building dates to 1905, and age notwithstanding, its reinforced brick walls – the “bones” – are still good.

“The variegated yellow-to-pink color and relative softness of the brick indicates that it was fired of local clay, possibly at the long-defunct Campville Brickworks in east Alachua County.” From the National Register of Historic Places nomination form.

After the first of the year, city commissioners will be asked to add Boulware Springs restoration to the list of park improvement projects. And who can turn it down? It’s where we came from, after all.

Depot Park after dark

No matter how often you’ve walked Depot Park, it never grows old. This is especially true during the holiday season when the very trees themselves are wrapped up like glowing presents and the woods take on a magical cast.

Seriously, if you haven’t strolled Depot after dark during this time of the year you are missing something special.

Both sides now.

Lights over water. And a noir look around the coffee truck.

A lone reader in the pavilion.

Lines, shadows…and arcs.

Don’t know why. But I had this eerie feeling I was being watched.

Wheels within wheels within wheels.

I believe this is where Bogie met Bacall.

Don’t ask.

Starry, starry night.

In case you’re wondering, everybody’s inside watching football.

What’s that old Gainesville slogan? Oh, yeah: Every path begins with passion.