Book Excerpt - Part One: Heaven & Hell
The Early Years - Heaven & Hell
He sat on a blue, 33 hp, New Holland tractor with a bucket on the front-end and a brush hog on the rear. A trace of a smile worked its way across his face as he looked out at the farm in the Hudson valley, a diversified tract, part wetlands, part grasslands and part farmland. Acres of lawns spread its luster over trails and fields. Gardens protected by split rail fence and chicken wire placed in strategic places to minimize the damage of nature. Wild and cultivated flowers joined this array of beauty inviting him to go forward in search of other surprises that might greet him as he turned another corner or reached the crest of a hill. Every step he took along the way provoked him with an expectation that there was more to come.
Ornamental trees, trees compatible with the wet soil were planted in strategic places. Trees that had an inexplicable beauty and shape that continued well into hibernation. The “weeping larch” as the farm was called was planned around a weeping theme. Weeping willows, weeping larches, weeping red buds, weeping cherries, weeping white pines, and a single weeping pea. It was, ironically, symbolic. Oh, to be sure there were other trees, nature refuses to be confined. There were tall white pines, ash, an occasional oak or maple. Wild and cultivated roses studded the landscape. Crab apples sprouted pink and white flowers in the spring and produce tiny apples in the fall.
And there was water, lots of water. A trout stream ran through the property, like a winding brook playing a symphony-of-sound as water rushed over stone inviting its guest to linger on. Sweet smelling and pungent grass perfumed the air from cuttings and weeds that had fallen into moving water after lawns had been trimmed. Together they floated down the Roe Jan Kill along with leaves and wood cuttings that fell from trees that hung over the creek. A half-acre pond sat above the trout stream. It was stocked with bass swimming along the surface searching for food, playing with lily pads and gobbling up smaller fish as they wandered into their paths. Surely, this place was heaven. But what was he doing here? He contemplated the question.
Questions passed through his mind like rapid fire from a handgun. What had he done during his life to justify the privilege of living in this special place? Why was he chosen to reap the pleasure of living in this magical wonderland? The answers were vague and often insignificant.
His mind wandered to another place, a place he remembered that was full of pain and hopelessness, without remedy. The smile was slowly replaced by the agony of a child with tears running down his face.
“You don’t have a mother, you don’t have a mother, you don’t have a mother, you don’t have a mother....” The children danced around the little boy, smiling and jeering at him as they poked at him, dancing with the uncensored vengeance of the young not yet schooled in the subtleties of sensitivity and compassion. Reveling in the comfort of finding someone in a worse position then they were. Poor, unloved, un-cared for children, their faces etched in smiles of glee. Other foster children, searching, for ways, to let go of their own pain. The child cried. The dancers smiled. And the pain slowly crept into his bones. The rage began to build but his innocence betrayed him. It stopped him from reacting. A voice inside him screamed, Wakeup you fool! Wakeup! Do something. Don’t let them get away with this. It’s wrong. What should he do? What could he do? Maybe it would just go away. Maybe it was just a dream and it wasn’t really happening at all.”
