Author: Orlando Salinas

Brooksville, Fla. –From the outside, the small one story home for sale in Brooksville, Florida looked like any other. Then we walked inside and noticed that thieves had stolen everything that wasn’t tied down.

Even things that were tied down had been taken: the fridge, the oven, the microwave. The kitchen sink and bathroom mirror were gone. The dishwasher and bathroom soap dishes that were tiled into ceramic walls had been taken.Toilet lids and the aluminum towel bars were ripped away. The vandals had even taken the bulbs from every light socket. They even snagged the huge outdoor air conditioner unit before they left.

We came to Hernando county to do a story about foreclosed homes. Thieves were having their own private Christmas in March – stealing every appliance. Then, as one real estate agent told me, “these homes are left for dead.”

Nearly 100 houses in one month have been ransacked. The sheriffs office tells me the vandals often dress like repairmen or movers. They back up their trucks right into the garage and start taking the items.

Where are the neighbors you ask? Police say many are too busy to notice. Some homes are in rural parts of the county, and there’s too much distance between houses for anyone to see what’s going on.

A good number of these foreclosed homes are owned by out-of-state banks, which aren’t dealing with any local realtors just yet. That’s a mistake, police say, because real estate agents could be another set of eyes watching that empty property.

Police near Brooksville have arrested two people so far. They outsmarted the would-be thiefs with GPS technology by placing small, almost invisible electronic tracking devices inside a whole slew of appliances. And those dishwashers and refrigerators and air conditioning units are inside scores of empty foreclosed homes.

Police are throwing down a challenge, they tell us: “Go ahead punk, are you feeling lucky?”

Davenport, Fla. – There’s so much iron and metal that it’s too much for the eye to take in all at once – actually it’s impossible. We see front loaders, bulldozers, cherry pickers and dump-trucks. There are water trucks and sky-high cranes with arms that have been extended to look even bigger. They resemble the “daddy long leg” spiders I used to catch as a kid.

The first thing I notice right away are all the baseball caps. Most look old and worn. My guess is it’s probably favorite headgear. Frayed edges, some stained – and I’m pretty sure these folks don’t care.

There’s more than 3,500 people here at what’s been dubbed the world’s largest auction of industrial equipment in Davenport, Fla. Ritchie Brothers owns this 200-acre tract, and today there are close to 6,000 different pieces of heavy machinery up for auction.

Bidders from 75 different countries are represented here. We’re told most of this equipment comes from across the U.S., from companies and private owners who think it’s time to unload.

This could be for a couple of reasons. It could be the slow economy and fewer big projects on the horizon, or just families and small companies that couldn’t hang on any longer.

Pete Blake is the CEO of Ritchie Brothers. He’s tall and skinny, and like most of the crowd, he’s wearing a cap. Pete tells us that the auction, in its third day, is bringing in good numbers. Pieces are being bid on and bought quickly. He says that could mean a couple of things; either the sellers have a bad feeling that their industry hasn’t quite bottomed out, or, the buyers see a promising future – so good, in fact, that they want to bid on and buy as many pieces as possible.

The scene here is sort of a mechanical beauty pageant. Tons of machinery rolling by an audience, each piece having been  cleaned and positioned to look its best.

Folks take notes as equipment is driven by in front of them – scribbling as fast as the auctioneer is spitting out numbers. It’s a language I don’t know.

Most of the bidders are men. A few women are scattered in the crowd. They would be hard to spot though if it were not for a whiff of perfume.

Photo courtesy: Ritchie Brothers

I can smell all kinds of things: hot dogs, burgers, deep fried fixin’s that I know taste like heaven — all of it bad for me. But most I smell racing fuel.

I’m standing on a riser inside the winners circle at the Daytona international speedway. We are here for the 52nd running of what many call “the great American race.”

The scene in front of me is a sea of fans. Nearly 200,000 people are sitting or standing on the aluminum benches. Lots of them are sitting inside the infield watching the race from their wheeled motor home mansions, drinking beer and grilling just about anything you can imagine.

There are so many race fans that they look like little multi-colored dots on a painting. I know they’re real but they look fake.

Nascar says it wants to increase its base by mixing up the fans – hooking in more women and minorities. They want a bigger slice of America’s money. It’s the American way.

I’ve been fortunate enough to have covered a few of these 500’s as a reporter, and each time its a rush.

These cars are whizzing by, screaming, hell-bent on winning at nearly all costs. It’s a blur of bright  colors painted beautifully on fiberglass and metal.

My heart’s pounding hard and fast as 43 race cars Tear past me.

Off to the left, the cars are out of site. I’m waiting as they make their way around the 2.5 mile Trioval track. It takes the lead car 49 seconds to come full circle; I counted.

A couple of week back, I watched my camera crew move from spot to spot, inside the ‘Historic Mount Zion AME” church in downtown Jacksonville, Fla. The choir sang and parishioners seemed to move in the spirit.

I was tapping my feet to the sound of the old black hymn, ‘God is good.” Listening as the Reverend Frederick D. Richardson Jr. begins speaking. An older man, who walks deliberately, and seems to share with conviction.

Besides the planned sermon, Rev. Richardson launched into a pep talk. Tossed in between scriptures, was a spiritual sales pitch of sorts, asking congregants to consider moving– permanently– to downtown Jacksonville.

Like many other mid-size American cities, when times were good, Jacksonville was rolling in dough and hope. But as the economy began tumbling, building projects stalled, and optimism began to wane. A reality that’s reflected in a myriad of cities across the country.

But Jacksonville is reaching out in faith, and meeting with a group of 12 different churches, asking families to consider moving into downtown neighborhoods. The city says it needs at least ten thousand new residents to take up permanent homes in what’s known as ‘the core.’

Mayor John Peyton tells me these congregations are responsible for bringing nearly 1 million people into downtown each year. Church-goers who collectively spend millions on concerts and conventions, and those dollars directly impact the region.

I hear a different song now being sung by the red-robed choir. A sea of old and young swaying together. The Rev. Richardson is lauding his flock for its years of consistent attendance. His words punched inbetween the drum set and organ solos. His glasses, thick with brown rims.

This nearly 150 year old church understands that a true downtown “economic revival” may help keep its own doors open. And City leaders “make no bones” about reaching out to Jacksonville’s so-called “church army,” hoping it can preach the gospel of good business.

I see Rev. Richardson on his knees. Service is almost over. I hear a chorus of “Amens” and “I believe’s.” I suspect Mayor Peyton is thinking the same thing.

Saturday January 23, 9 a.m. — Our driver’s name is Biondi, a large Haitian man with kids and a wife. He knows enough English to get us back and forth. He takes us in his Toyota mini van, zooming around packs of slow moving people. a man on a mission to get us to our morning “liveshot” location in time.

We’ve labeled his transport “the hell van,” because riding with Biondi is a breakneck run of sputtering starts and hard, unpredictable stops.

On this morning, our security guy riding in the lead car pulls over. Jimmie walks back to Biondi and tells the father of two, in very clear terms, that he must follow as closely as possible.

“Do not let other cars come between our two car caravan.”

Its a security thing. Jimmie walks back to the lead SUV. Biondi doesn’t take kindly to the lecture, but does speed up.

Driving this early in the morning, we see so many people sleeping in the streets. Slowly, bodies begin rising from the pavement, from sidewalks still covered with debris.

I don’t like that word. Never have. I’ve Always thought it was disrespectful to those who’d lost almost everything.

Debris- two syllables that most of the time masks what it is that’s laying in the streets. Family photos, children’s toys, bricks that were part of a wall that held up a family’s home. Wooden legs of a table where they ate — where people shared meager meals. That word “debris” is just too clean. Its a word the media uses too quickly, and then we move on to the next sentence. Maybe we should take a few more seconds to explain better what we are seeing scattered along the streets.

It not debris. Those are pieces of people’s lives that our driver, Biondi, is trying to not run over as we eventually make it to our location in time to get on television.