Warrior in the Garden
“Master, you have taught me many
fighting techniques, but we spend our day in this garden and talk of pursuing
peace. How do you reconcile the two?” asked the student. His Master replied,
“The garden does not prepare one for the inevitable battles of life. Trouble
comes – it always does; therefore, I teach you the ways and skills of a
warrior. Tending the garden is relaxing, provides food and beauty
and teaches us how to be calm and serene. But if trouble should come to
the garden, better to be a warrior in the garden than a gardener in the war”
Story origin unknown
Garden
As the screen door swung
open and Sam stepped onto the porch, he looked ahead at the rising spring sun,
its rays’ various hues and intensity promised a good day ahead. He hugged
his morning coffee with two hands to keep the brisk dawn spring air from
cooling it too quickly and took his first, satisfying sip, the warm beverage
reaching his core as he looked eastward. He took in the landscaped front
yard extending almost 200 feet from the porch and thought about how much he
loved this place and what it truly was to him and those it housed. He
marveled at the tall and thick barberry hedges encompassing the property’s
perimeter. They had been there as long as he could remember, and likely as long
as the house itself protecting the house and those in it, an excellent barrier at
keeping out intruders, better than any man-made fence. Looking at it also
made him think of all the hands, old and young, that had tended them (and were sometimes
punctured by them) as they in return stood strong and sheltered those in the
house from casual or intentional intrusion over the decades. He thought
of the 10 wooded acres on which the house stood, with clearing for its two
small green houses, a play area, utility shed and garage; and of course,
clearing for the vegetable garden. A decent sized garden that, while
providing only a small portion of the food for so many mouths, had also
provided a place for him and others to work, contribute and relax; especially
relax at times when it seemed to him that the world was not a welcoming
place. This house, this home, his home... Pamela’s House was his garden,
and a garden for so many others before him. Except for his four years in
college, this house had been his home for 29 of his 43 years, sheltering him,
nurturing him, and helping him grow as it had dozens of children like him over
the century spanning decades. Pamela’s House was where he had his roots,
those roots were nurtured and he grew and where so many children like him had
been given a second chance, perhaps their only chance.
Still sipping his
coffee, and snapping out of his reverie Sam anticipated the day ahead, it was
going to be a busy one. His brother was coming home on this, his first day as
the Home’s new CEO. There was a board meeting to formalize the transition
to him taking control and a meeting with the mayor and city council in regard
to the recent land acquisition. Yes, a busy day indeed.
Continuing to sip and savor his coffee, he walked off the porch and into
the front yard. He turned and looked at the majestic mansion, now
converted to house up to 30 children and time seemed to stand still as his mind
recalled how the home started. Sam had studied this place and knew its
history as well, as well, no better, than he knew his own. He was
fascinated by the house and knew all its story and secrets. Built as the
Pennsylvania home of post-civil war profiteer Devin Warren and his family, the
house was built with borrowed monies invested by Warren in the armament and
clothing companies that supplied the North during the war. He lived and
profited off the industrialists of his time offering no contribution of his
own, not even that of his initial investment. He was ahead of his time as
a financial leech who, followed by his children lived well and lavishly off the
genius and labor of others more skilled. They would make even more funds
off the labor and troubles of the world through the first World War. They
enjoyed their money, and their home became a party house for the idle rich and
those who fed off them all the way and through the roaring 20’s. Then,
the collapse of the stock market quieted the roar and while they were fortunate
enough to have sufficient money to keep the house and land and provide
sufficient food on the table, there wasn’t much more. The home, once a
haven for excess and debauchery, devolved into a shelter for the family from
the spartan world they didn’t understand, and to some a prison for their crime
of careless spending and irresponsibility.
Later it became the tomb of an insane Benjamin Warren, who after
realizing he had no skills no value and no money, committed suicide as the
stock market crash lasted into an economic depression from which he felt he had
no chance of escaping or overcoming. This left his sole heir and
granddaughter, Pamela to remain and keep the house. Pamela was unlike her grandfather and
previous heirs, she had a keen mind, a genuine and strong spirit that never
cared for the excesses her family enjoyed. She embarked to take what was left
of the family’s money and home to make a new way for herself. She’d grown up to
womanhood in a house alive with action but devoid of affection, a cold vault of
selfishness, greed and avarice. She sought to change that and build it
into a warm, inviting place, a respite for the weary and unwanted where they
could relax and grow. A garden. The next ten years prior to the
second world war were extremely hard for Pamela as she struggled to keep the
house afloat. Even with the monies that remained she required more and took
in needy borders, men and women who the depression had left paupers. But it was these people, shunned from the
world who worked to maintain the property as their rent by applying their gifts
making quilts to sell, or talents to build. Many were skilled laborers hurt
by the depression and who were more than happy to help modify the house. She and they worked constantly to convert the
mansion into a dwelling for up to 30 people. As the economy improved and
then into the war the borders acquired jobs.
Many would leave, a few, devoted to Pamela, would stay; but even those
who left felt gratitude for Pamela's support through those tough times and as
much as they could tithed to the home and provided additional income, with some,
their fortunes turned around significantly during the war and not forgetting
the kindness they received endowed the house with more significant funds.
With this support her work continued through World War II devoting her energies
and her home as a station for returning wounded soldiers. Through her
care and generosity and those of other volunteers she would help them to rest
and recoup before their journey home. Like her borders in the depression,
the gratitude by either the soldiers or their families was repaid with
donations to the Pamela which immediately went into the house fund. At
the war’s end her altruism continued, turning the House into a home for post
war children older than 5, who through the war and poverty had no place to go
and were not wanted for reason of age, gender or color. Using her
family’s previous status and remaining connections to appeal to those who
retained wealth or acquired it through the war used their generosity and
continued to run the home into the economic boom that followed. She, and the
house remained, stood, and watched as time, the economy and human expansion
changed the area from large plots of land where once ten grand estates each on
10 to 20 acres stood; replaced roads which divided them into areas for smaller
dwellings and local businesses. Her home alone remained on its original
land bordered by the perennial barberry bushes and became known as Pamela’s
House. Its once vast and numerous rooms modified to accommodate borders
became rooms for children to be cared for and nurtured until a home could be
found for them. She did this until her
death. Her will gave the land and house and all financial responsibility to
Richard Blank. He’d been the first, and only, child to arrive there as a baby
in January 1945, left on the doorstep with no note, no identity.
His placement there acknowledged by a series of hard knocks on the
door. Born with only one healthy leg, the other small and deformed, the mother
obviously didn’t want or could not afford him after years of war induced
struggle. Pamela took him in and with other foster systems equally
strained ended up keeping him. With the war recently over there were
too many other needs within the city and Pamela was able to keep the child as a
ward. She had loved the name Richard, and his last name seemed
appropriate as the blank space for his surname required an
entry. Richard Blank. He
would be the only child younger than 5 to reside at the house. She raised
him as her own and he would eventually be the first custodian designated by her.
Richard was as devoted to the house and its purpose as Pamela and would
keep her wish, that this home would stand as long as the home and monies would
allow. He would run the house until his retirement at 77 after it was
discovered he was ill with cancer. He and his wife Marnie decided that he
should retire to heal and thus the responsibility fell to Sam.
Richard had designated him as his successor and yesterday had seen the last
document signed by Richard before he and his wife would move on to other warmer
climates and hospice. Leaning back just a bit, Sam looked at what the house had
become, he thought that this house was more grand, and richer than it had ever
been and with his vision it would not only be worthy of Pamela’s legacy and
Richard’s trust but exceed anything even Pamela had envisioned. Sam would
not only tend this garden of children but help it to grow, it was time for the
garden to become bigger.
Warrior
Sam's historical reverie
was snapped into the present as Owen swung shut the back passenger door of the
Uber. Sam could see the driver grimace as the car literally rocked from
the force of the slammed rear door. Owen - his brother by another mother.
Owen - who he met 20 years ago. Owen who was now, as then, a commanding
presence. Owen, who he met the day two cars arrived at Pamela’s House at
the same time, with two very different boys getting out to be greeted
simultaneously by Richard Blank, his soon to be wife Marnie and select members
of the house staff. Sam recalled how Owen, big for his age and a
commanding presence, immediately strode forward demanding separate and primary
attention and pushed the smaller Sam aside.
Sam recalled stumbling back one step, but quickly regaining his balance
and seeing Owen laughed until the smaller boy surprised him with a quick thrust
of his left hand to Owen’s solar plexus knocking him back, staggering to fall.
Richard Blank, and the house staff moved quickly as did the two social workers
accompanying each boy, certain a fight would ensue. But that didn't
happen. Sam, using the same speed and fluid motion which struck the blow toppling
the larger boy now grabbed Owen’s left arm and righted him. The social workers
continued their forward motion to prevent the fight, but no fight would ensue. Owen
reached out with his right hand not to strike but instead grasp Sam’s hand that
held his left arm and took his hand in a clasp type handshake. Their eyes
locked and both smiled acknowledging a respect in that small tenuous moment
that would make them inseparable, friends and eventually brothers.
Owen was glad he had
come home at this time, but only to see Sam. He hated Pamela's
House. He’d been back for short periods before, but only coming home on
one, two, or maybe three-day leaves and then only because of Sam. At the
end of those three days, he was usually glad to leave. Sam,
however, had stayed at the home, only leaving for college at eighteen for
management and accounting, afterwards returning to work with Richard as an
assistant. Always devoted to Pamela’s house, Sam had seemed to Owen obsessed
with it in a way he could never understand. He had hopes that on this
trip he could finally take his brother away from this prison and introduce him
to a world full of possibilities. In fact, he was confident he could
until last week when he had heard of Sam being appointed to oversee Pamela’s
House. With that news, Owen's hopes of getting his brother out of here
and joining him someplace else seemed uncertain. He had such visions for
he and Sam combining their talents they could do anything; he was sure of
it. Sam was always the smarter of them, had great planning, management
and accounting skills and coupled with Owen’s world experience, military
connections, good looks, and charisma they could be a formidable team.
So, Owen had returned to
try and understand what Sam saw in this place – what he saw as its future and after
he figured that out, pry him away from it. All Owen knew right now was he
sure as hell couldn’t see it. Certainly, the home had raised them, had
given the two of them food clothing shelter and in some perhaps fated way, each
other. But Owen only saw it as that, an old house where some do-gooder
had spent the last of her money. The house was old and the neighborhood,
regardless of what it once was, now housed the wretched of the world.
Owen had travelled enough, fought enough and seen too much, to know what
hopeless causes looked like and this was one of them. He also was well
aware that the people in depressed areas didn’t take kindly to others making
their locale a better place. In his biased and shaded mind, these people,
like rats and pigs enjoyed the stench and rot, and didn’t take kindly to
cleaning the area up.
Sam watched as Owen paid
the driver smacked him on the shoulder through the window, the driver again grimacing,
and with his infectious smile and hearty laugh leap around the front of the
car. He watched as his brother approached up the walk, his six-foot three
height and broad muscular frame further exaggerated by his long stride and
classic swagger. Add the early morning sun rise directly ahead of Sam's
view, and behind his brother made Owen look more than even his commanding frame
typically did. Owen’s view was different. After shutting the car door
hoisting his duffel over his back and with one roller suitcase in tow, he
walked to the gate in the middle of the barberry hedge. The sun behind
him cast its light on Pamela's house and to him it loomed like and obstacle in
the way of the future, his future and Sam's future. He stopped at the gate
that was the only safe opening in the barberry fence that almost surrounded the
entire 10-acre estate. He hated this damn barberry hedge; it was like
nature's version of barbed wire and the old iron gate was heavier each time he
opened it and creaked and clanked. It felt like he was entering a prison
he thought he had escaped years ago and from which he need to escape again and
take Sam with him.
Stepping away from the
front porch steps still holding and protecting his coffee, Sam removed one hand
from the cup and moved to hug the man he called brother since their first week
here together, but instead of a hug, Owen chest bumped Sam sending the
remaining coffee flying. The bump was followed by a strong hug and lift,
Owen grabbing the five-foot eight-inch Sam as though he were picking up a
half-empty duffle bag. “Hey little brother. Now that you are the
King and control the kingdom, you’re going to need a bold knight to keep your
enemies away.” Letting Sam go and looking down from his taller viewpoint Owen
smiled with his Norse god-like looks of blond hair, blue eyes and handsome
Viking visage and continued: “I can settle for the demotion from lord of all to
knighthood and protector. But only because it's you” Owen stepped back
and continued: “Remember our favorite story? Better to be a warrior in
the garden than a gardener in a war.” That hug, that face, and his
comment brought back the memory of their arrival at Pamela’s Shelter, a stark
explosive flash of memories of arriving on the same day, the same time, a
chance encounter that bound them as brothers but would shape them very
differently. Owen continued: “Well your warrior is here! Let’s do
battle!”
Sam winced at the
"Let's do battle." Remark, as it recalled the number of times Owen
would get them into trouble with only Sam’s ingenuity to hopefully get them out
of it, but with a genuine love and gladness to see his acquired kin, he
returned his brother’s embrace and once back on the ground walked him toward
the house. "Thanks for spilling my morning joe." rebuked Sam,
as they walked to the door. Owen ignored the coffee comment and thought:
“Yeah, the house looks good" In fact, once inside it looked
great, surprisingly clean and no apparent areas of wear and tear, but it was
still over a hundred years old and in the middle of a poverty-stricken inner
city war zone, and "I still hate it." Sam broke Owens
thoughts: “Why don’t you go to our old room on the second floor? It’s all
ready for you. It’s for an adult now, but you can still use it." Sam
smiled and continued: "You can wash up, unpack and I’ll meet you
down here. If you're hungry, I’ll make you breakfast.” Owen
laughed. “Your cooking sucks. Anyone else here that can fry some
eggs and bacon? And remember, I eat a lot.”
After a very hearty
breakfast, they spent most of the morning going through the house and
grounds. Sam was showing off what had been accomplished in the 4 years
since Owen’s last visit. Sam was especially proud of the acreage next
door. Flags were still up indicating where utilities were placed, but he
weeds were gone and soil smoothed by the same bulldozer that had cleared and
flattened the ground and now rested at the far rear corner. Sam explained
to Owen the land, another 10 acres, had been given to the House as a gift from
the city's elite. After the Kyle mansion was torn down in the 50’s the
land had been used for a bottling factory which closed in the recession of the 80’s. It sat abandoned and rat infested until an overseas
corporation bought the land in 2000. Sam
and the city were able to get the property for almost nothing. “Tax write off I suppose.” Said Sam. Sam told
Owen how he envisioned a community garden: “I see a community garden with a
huge pond for water retention, a small building at the front where people can see
the overview of the garden and a history of Pamela’s House. I found so many old photos!” Sam beamed and continued: “I see half of the
land as a perennial garden with trees and the back half a community food garden
to help those nearby.” “Of course, he did” thought Owen “the silly
dreamer.” He could love Sam no more than if they had been twins. He
could see what his brother was trying to do, and he was impressed with the
scope of it. The earth had been churned, then pulverized, terraced to obviously
some plan and smoothed. A huge and deep hole 150 feet by 250 feet and
appearing 20 maybe 30 feet deep had been dug for a pond. The liner
material was still on a flat bed, and you could see where it would soon be laid
for the water retention and pond that would add to the beauty of the land and
provide a valuable water resource for both the perennial and food gardens.
But how did Sam think this could, would, last? The punks in the area
would vandalize it, tear it up, trash it and all just for fun, because they
could. "He's building a target, not a garden." he
thought. "He's building something they will tear down because they
can". He had to find some way to get Sam off this hopeless dream. It
was time for Pamela’s House to close up shop or at minimum to lose Sam.
After their tour Sam had
to excuse himself. His first day running the home already had several
tasks to be completed and people to meet. He assured Owen they’d be able
to go out for dinner. Perhaps even a ‘controlled night’ on the
town. Owen waved as Sam walked off to his duties and decided to take a
walk through the neighborhood. He continued past the corners of land on
which Pamela's House stood and strode in front of the adjacent and cleaned lot.
What he saw as he passed the property line from the cleaned lot and into the
remaining neighborhood confirmed all his previous thoughts. Weeds everywhere
and trash consisting of everything from old food containers to shoes, plastic
bags and stolen bike parts. Walking a bit further down the block older
homes stood where once mansions rested.
There he was met with glances of those who lived in the run-down homes
of the area. Glances that spoke of immediate distrust and in some eyes a
weakly restrained hate. The hate of people hit so hard and so often by
the world that they long to pay it back to anyone, even those who would
help. When his eyes met theirs, he could see their question of: “And who
the hell are you? You don’t belong here you blond son of a bitch.” He
passed an older couple as he reached the end of the block. They were
holding hands not so much out of love than habit, afraid that if they let go of
each other they might just stop existing because each other was all they
had. They looked tired, weary as though the life had been sucked out of
them so holding hands was more like two people holding each other up. It
was more than hopeless here, as though hope had never lived here, not even an
occasional visit. “How in the hell does he expect the place to prosper,
let alone, even continue in the center of all this.” He thought. “This
place is a desert in the middle of an uncaring city and Pamela’s House an oasis
doomed to be consumed by those hungry and thirsty around it. The only
things that thrive here are snakes and varmints.” He turned at the
junction of Palace and Gold streets and chuckled at how those street names, a
relic from the very distant past, now seemed to mock those that resided
here. A cruel joke repeated on their letter’s return address and
certainly on the bills and past due notices. Crossing the street to the
opposite corner, he resumed his walk back to the house seeing only more of the
same. This time a group of young people. They were laughing but a
laughter that was sinister from some and hollow from others. As he passed
the mixture of 4 young men and three girls, he was bumped by the largest of the
boys, he couldn’t tell if it was intentional. It didn’t matter. The young
man turned about to say something but Owen, used to this type of contact, turned,
and assumed a stance that clearly, accompanied by his size, stated he was ready
for whatever this punk had to offer. For a moment the two locked
eyes. The young buck leaning just a bit forward, Owen moving his right
foot back just a bit for better balance. He’d been in so many fights
before and knew with his size, experience, and training this would be no big
issue, but he could hear Sam telling him to calm down, focus, that this would
only end up with this guy hurt and likely most, if not all his friends.
That cell phones would come out, seemingly from nowhere and record another big
entitled white guy beating up another inner-city youth. But it didn’t
come to that. Perhaps it was the light of the afternoon sun, or their
previous laughter, but the young man shifted his lean backward, his stance and
visage no longer threatening. Instead, sneering the young man huffed and
shrugged his shoulders, then turned and moved on with a loud bark of a laugh to
indicate he was tough and that this white dude wasn’t worth it. Grabbing
a smaller young girl by the waist the group moved on. Owen could tell the
girl was uncomfortable, but that, for now, was not his concern. He had
more urgent issues; to convince Sam this was not the place to be, that there
was no future here. He had to, somehow, get his brother to understand the
time this place had was gone and all that remained was an economic DMZ not
fought with guns but instead with the killing bullets of refused
opportunity.
The walk back seemed
longer than the walk from the house as he remembered the first time he saw this
street. He was in the back seat of his mother’s car and being driven down this
road going in this direction toward the house. He was not aware of it,
but he was being abandoned by his mother at five years old. She and her
'boyfriend' dropped him off at the iron gate, "My God" he thought even
then at five years of age; "I hate this gate." He opened it at
his mother’s direction and walked the long walk to the porch. It was there he knocked on the door and stood
alone with a letter in his shaking hand which he held tightly as his mother had
directed. He held tight that letter in his hand while he waited at the
door with no knowledge why he was told to come here, what was to happen.
He was so focused on the big house and delivering the letter he never heard the
car leave, didn't notice it even after the door opened. A volunteer
woman answered the door, read the letter and took little Owen promptly to meet
Mr. Richard. It was then that Owen looked back and saw the car and his
mother gone. He was introduced to Richard Blank who oversaw the house and read
the little boy's letter. “This is Owen Hart; father doesn’t want him and
neither do I. He’s fussy and a pain in the ass. We got lives to
lead so he's yours”. Richard looked at the young tall, good-looking young
man and knew it wouldn't be hard to find Owen a home. Tall for his age,
thick curly blond hair and blue eyed he was accepted by a foster couple quickly
with the anticipation by all that adoption would soon follow. But the
mother’s warning was spot on; Owen was a pain in the ass. Strong, fast
and already full of a willfulness beyond his years, he was a challenge to
raise. He was listed as ‘precocious’ but that was politically correct
speech on the paperwork for mischievous, rough and willful. He was passed
from one family to another never lasting more than 2 years, often only
months. Fighting with other children in the home, at school and
surrounding neighborhood, he was hell to control. He always demanded his
way, and by implication or statement declaring his way was the right way, the
only way. At ten he was back to Pamela’s Shelter after his most recent
incident of stealing the foster family’s car. He didn’t get more than a
few blocks before police stopped him but even as they approached, he opened the
door and attacked them. This brat seemed destined for a place less
favorable than Pamela's House. So, at 10 years old he was back at the
shelter, and that was OK with him, here he was king, and the food was usually
pretty good and plentiful. And of
course, here he met Sam.
Gardener
At ten, Sam was being
placed temporarily in the shelter after the death of his parents in a
suspicious fire in the empty house next door resulting in an explosion which
engulfed his home. The son of an American Vietnam Veteran to a
Vietnamese bride, Sam’s father, Alan, had returned to the US in 1974 to
a family was biased against his marriage and ultimately alienating each
other. Most communities were just as unreceptive so working 8 or more
hours a day as a base laborer at minimum wage, Alan went to community school at
night to learn accounting toward a hope of a better future than the present
they had. Tough to make ends meet, all they could afford was renting
a simple home in a shady part of town, but their hopes and aspirations
motivated them, and Sam’s father knew he’d work their way out of it and into
something better. His Vietnamese mother took care of Sam with a love and care
born from knowing what life would have been for him had her husband been like
other soldiers who fathered and left offspring there to become a trodden
class. Poor though they were, she worked and made the house a clean
comfortable home. They were a great family that was cut short
when the blast from the home next door would generate a concussion shattering
glass, collapsing walls, and starting rapid fires to the homes on either side.
It was later discovered by fire and police; the house basement held a meth lab
which was unattended at the time. Sam’s mother was preparing the bed
with clean linens as his father was just coming home from third
shift. The explosion would hurl debris into the house killing his
mother and knock his father off his feet, as he opened the front door returning
from work. His father would later die from the concussion when his
head hit the corner of the front stoop. Firemen, able to rescue Sam,
at the other end of the home and protected by the buffer of his parent’s room
and the kitchen, was now the unwanted Asian looking son of an American father
and Asian mother, an Asian-American orphan now with no known relatives
stateside or in Vietnam.
Dropped off at Pamela's
house so soon after the accident, Sam was numb to everything around him.
He had no thoughts about the future only reflections of a now lost past.
He didn't feel hunger or thirst, only a deep sadness, a void in him that he
thought would swallow him up. This was everything and the only thing in
his mind as he stoically stepped out of the car toward strangers waiting his
arrival. It was the only feeling he thought he would ever have until he
felt the shove. An aggressive push by someone for no apparent
reason. It was from that blond kid, and his head screamed at him to hit
back. All the fear, sadness, anger, and confusion - all of it was in his
next move. It was a standard self-defense move his father had shown
him. One, regain your balance, two place your right foot directly behind
you, three move forward slightly bending your left knee arm slightly bent then
push off the right and at the proper moment straighten the arm so that you
forward motion from your right leg and right arm are in unison and provide the
greatest amount of force.
As his blow knocked back
the larger blond boy and sent him falling backward, it also pulled his emotions
from him if only momentarily and snapped Sam back to reality. Just as his
father had shown him how to defend himself, he had also instructed him that
violence is the first resort of a fool and the last resort of a man. His
arm still extended Sam reached for the boy and held him from falling. It was a defining moment as Sam realized he
truly wasn’t alone. He wasn’t the only
one with tragedy and heartbreak and anger.
Sam would enjoy his time here and feel it was family. Richard and Marnie
would marry and be Father and Mother to children who resided there for months
or those – like Owen and Sam who were there until the reached 18. Sam saved his monies and with help from
Richard and Marnie would go to college and return home to help with ‘the family
business’. Owen would seek the Marines and escape.
The
War
Two boys were walking
down two paths and where they met, one saw only the end of a road. The other
boy saw another road of possibility.
That evening Sam and
Owen met for dinner in the city not far from the government building where Sam
had met with the mayor and council. It
was one of Sam’s favorites in the city.
The bar was call ‘The Time After’ and popular with the locals for its
beer selection and great pub style food.
After a brief recap of Sam’s day, Owen started on his and described the
ugliness he saw, the tragedy and despair.
Then commented to Sam: “You can’t change this. It’s too huge, too deep, and ingrained within
the community.” You can lift people out of
a hole if they won’t grab the rope.”
“Owen, you don’t see
this place as I do. You never have.” Turning to Owen. “You
only see it as the place where we grew up, where we were left because no one
wanted us.” Sam was still visualizing the history and his vision as he
spoke: “I see it as an opportunity for these and other children, an opportunity
for the neighborhood and community. A garden
of opportunity where they can take root within a good place, be nurtured and
grow tall and strong and each to develop and use their gifts. They could spread through the city, state and
even the Country making it better. I see it as a place where we plant seeds
of opportunity that can turn this community and perhaps the world around” Owen
could tell that Sam could see this future as though looking at a movie screen. His eyes looked past Owen and were big and
bright. Owen was shocked by this intensity and to break it chuckled and said:
“Love ya. You’re a dreamer but I love ya. That’s why I’m here to
make sure you don’t dream this into the ground. You know this
neighborhood sucks – right? That this area is a dead end?” Owen
continued: “You realize you’re going to be the last person on this sinking
ship.” Owen’s tone darkened: “I’ve been to war zones all over this damn
planet and I’m here to tell ya little brother that this place is as bad as any
of them.” Putting his large hand on Sam’s should he resumed: “Your garden idea is
nice in a fantasy story but surrounded by thicket, weeds and nasty critters. And by that I mean gangs and drug dealers and
body peddlers. Not the best people
little brother.
Sam glared at Owen and
still seeing his vision from earlier in the day and took strength from it as he
remined Owen of that morning’s tour as an example of what the house
accomplished. Owen chuckled and said
“Seriously? That is an example of what
you will / have accomplished?” Owen
scoffed: “That house is a small island in the middle of a deadly swamp. You take a step off there and walk away the
critters in it will eat you and you little kids alive!” Sam ignored the dark
vision and continued: “With my appointment to run this place came a gift. A
gift to give back! You saw the garden is going in, a garden for ALL the
community. It will help inspire them.
If you remember from before you went to the Marines that as children that was a
garbage piece of abandoned land. Despite the debris, it was where we had
yard space for play, picnics, general recreation.” Owen remembered that
once you got through the one hole in those damn barberry bushes it was still
just an ugly lot used as a neighborhood dump site; one that the children of
Pamela’s house would routinely clean so they could pay until the next mess was
dumped there. Sam smiled sensing his memory and realizing it was not the
same as his. “Look, we see thing
differently, we often have. You see it
as it was and is, I see it as I know it can and will be.” Sam continued.
“We just were promised more adjacent land to the north of our property as well.
That too is soon to be ours. We’re
growing and gaining momentum!” Excited Sam Continued: “Yep, that is ours
and along with it donated machinery and even some local labor and help from
Habitat for Humanity and several local construction groups! So, first, we create our greenspace with a
perennial garden people can enjoy, with retention pond. We then develop a
community garden to generate individual ownership in the improvement. And now with this new 10 acres to the north
we free up space for expansion of the mansion.” Owen placed his hand on table
hard, hard enough to slosh the beers in the mugs. His face had a look of disbelief, or was it
confusion? “Are you crazy? Why would you expand this place. Why
waste the time and money on a community garden and adding to this old out of
code building? Close the house, send the
children to other more modern facilities and use that money for them AND save
yourself!”
Sam initially startled
looked into his brother’s eyes took Owen’s hand and resting his hand on top of
it gently said softly: “Because I can. It’s what she would have
wanted. It’s what she and Richard envisioned.” “She? Who the
hell is she? Owen stammered. “Why Pamela of course.” Sam answered: “She
established this house almost a century ago to help children. There sure
aren’t any less of them.” Owen’s voice was still elevated from his
confusion as he blurted: “They have CPS now and a dozen other public and
private organizations. Kids got places to be placed and go now. They
don’t need one more hovel let alone one that is this old and outdated.
Sam, who while passionate had restrained himself rose from his seat and faced
Owen so fast that Owen slid his chair back. It seemed to Owen that Sam
got larger and his eyes, his eyes were black and yet radiated light! Sam’s
eyes had always been so dark they seemed black but now, at this moment they
were like polished obsidian reflecting light or was the light coming from
inside? Sam leaned forward and in a cold strong tone that matched the
power of his eyes: “Her vision wasn’t to just help children who were societies
unwanted. That was only a small part. She wanted to establish a
community where those children weren’t special because of their short comings
out of pity but loved for who and as they are, their gifts, their talents.
A place where they are treated like everyone else. So many can even become more.” Pulling back
slightly he continued: “She envisioned all this becoming an example of what
money could, and should, do. She saw the excess of her family, the
gluttony, and the waste. She came from a family that offered nothing and
sucked off the life the goodness capitalism can create for those who work.
She realized that money, capitalism, the chance to succeed is an amazing gift
this country has more than all others. What she couldn’t understand was
the excess of greed and avarice. When you have more than you can ever use
within your lifetime or even within the lives of all that follow you why have
it. What value does it offer. It offers none to the person that has
it and it offers none to the person that doesn’t.” Owen still stunned but
recovering from Sam’s confrontation interrupted: “Damn you are a dreamer.
More than that, a delusional fool. A nice short fool but a fool
none-the-less. People aren’t going to hand over money to you for
something that they get nothing from. You speak of value. Where is
the value in that? Shit, that’s just tossing it away. Not happenin’
dude.” Undeterred Sam proceeded: “There is more to my plan than you know,
than you ever needed to know because you never liked the place.” Sam, angry continued: “With my help over the
years I have developed a fortune for the house kept quietly in overseas
accounts. I have used this money to keep
the house up just enough to avoid issues and still inspire others to donate. I have even used this money to pay off the gangs,
so our children are protected by the very – as you call them – vermin in the
area.”
And the anonymous benefactor that buys the land and donates it to us.” Sam sprayed
spittle as he yelled: “That’s me you ass.” Then feeling strong and with so much
information out: “Even Richard was not aware of the monies I was moving out and
building into huge funds. He likely
would not have approved of that nor of paying extortion to gang leaders and
drug dealers to keep them at bay. He was
more a status quo guy.” Sam’s voice
softened: “Pamela was the visionary, and I chose to follow her example. So that is my mission, the value is in the
people developing a community. I just
need to slowly change the people in it. Hopelessness creates the
community we are in now, so we wait until those who are too hopeless to let us
save them move on as property is bought up. The drugs, the gang violence
will move out as money comes in, and it will.
I have money and money begets money.
People will gentrify the area and remove those with hatred and distrust.
Sam looked even taller as he announced: “See Owen, I am changing all
that!” Sam left a one-hundred-dollar bill on the table and stormed out. Owen followed and as the two walked inside
Owen felt uneasy, unsure. Sam had always been a force, strong willed and
determined, but this was more this was a fire a passion, no an obsession in him
Owen had not seen. He thought: “I need to keep an eye on my little
brother I think he’s lost it” Owen decided to step into this discussion: Using his best baritone voice and a smile to
soften the mood: “Still the visionary little brother. A dreamer trying to
live in the real world.” Then Owen leaned against a and continued:
“You’re definitely going to need a knight me-lord as I think you’ve forgotten you
need a knight.
With Sam’s revelations
Owen started to inquire around the neighborhood. Initially few would even look at him but once
they found out he was Sam’s brother they opened up and he discovered that Sam
had indeed spoken the truth. We a
variant of it. Apparent in addition to
paying money for protection, Sam had offered protection of his own to
them. Sam was laundering money for the
drug dealers and getting a cut. This had
been one of his revenue streams to increase monies for the house. Owen was
shocked that his so straight and proper brother was involved in this. While Sam was gone Owen would go into the
house office and loo through the papers.
Fortunately, neither Richard or Sam changed the safe combination so
access was easy while the result shocking.
Sam had – for years – been siphoning money from the wealthy designated
for Pamela’s house and moving it to high paying accounts overseas. Richard trusted Sam implicitly and was
oblivious to this embezzlement. Further
review into files within the safe showed Sam had documents on specific local
government personnel. He was using that
to help assure he would acquire the plots of land he wanted. Owen thought: “Jesus! This is like some
Godfather scenario and Sam is the Don.”
He looked further into another folder and pulled out a map. He recognized Pamela’s Place on it
immediately and after a few seconds also noticed the pond, flower and community
garden being built next door. A bit
further was the new land to the north Sam had mentioned at dinner. This contained an extension to Pamela’s place
plus apartments separated by a park area that linked to Community Garden. “Damn” he thought: “He’s envisioned an entire
two-hundred and fifty maybe 300-acre community.
He’s even got them in stages.”
Owen was shocked at the scope but then mortified by how Sam had gotten
to this point. This was wrong. If this
was discovered Sam and the house would be done for. Owen never loved this damn place but there
were 27 children in the house currently, 14 people employed, and the brother he
loved all in peril. It was time to
confront Sam and stop this nonsense.
They could take some of the money but leave most of it to the house and
get the hell out of here. They could
start over together.
The Warrior in the
Garden
Sam arrived at the house
late that night. There had been a number
of meetings at city hall and 1 very special meeting with the Blue Hooks, the gang
that protected the area. Sam had to
renegotiate some aspects of their agreement as the gang felt their turf was
decreasing as the garden was being installed and they had heard about the
additional acreage to the north. They
needed some compensations for their lost territory. Sam had planned for this, as he often planned
for most contingencies, and had money ready.
Oh, he played the part of the poor guy who couldn’t afford more and did
the whole negotiation thing, but in the end it ended up exactly as he wanted it. He would pay them more (for now) and help
them migrate a bit further to the east, but what they didn’t see – likely would
never see coming – was the impact of his gentrification. With more people of money in the area more
law enforcement would be required. In fact,
his last meeting today was to donate land on the new plot to the north to house
a new police station. There were even
donations for known and anonymous sources to help defray the costs. Yes, before these uneducated ruffians would
realize what happened the tide of progress would turn and within 5 years be
firmly underway and in ten years complete.
He would have fulfilled Pamela’s dream and beyond. The land of every great house that had
existed would again be used for more than slums and waste. They would be restored to develop a new area
of upscale stores, beautiful townhomes and condos, parks and of course Pamela’s
house in its new form and the recipient of the income from all those properties. The properties that would reside in the
Pamela Warren Village.
As Sam took off his suit jacket and dropped his keys onto the foyer table, he
noticed his office door ajar. Upon
opening it he saw Owen there surrounded by folders and with the map of Pamela
Warren Village opened before him. “Well,
you’ve been busy brother.” Sam smiled
and snapped sarcastically. “Not as
industrious as you.” Barked back Owen.
“This is all appalling and illegal.
What the hell Sam. What the
hell!” Sam stepped forward to the
opposite side of the desk and map.
Calmly: “I thought you were to be my knight. Support the realm and the King.”
“King? Is that what this is a quest for power and glory? Apparently, you already have the money. Best I could discern, as I don’t have your
keen devious mind, is you have garnered over three-hundred million. So what you
only want the power and glory to finish it off?”
Sam’s shoulders slumped
and he sighed: “Is that what you think?
Seriously?” then moving to the
side of the desk and placing his hand on Owen’s shoulder: “I don’t want the
money, nor notoriety of any kind. This
is me fulfilling Pamela’s dream. A place where these unwanted children not only
reside but are truly the center of the community – of a community.” Their eyes
locked as he continued: “Think of it.
This house will be the very center of a vibrant community. A police and fire station, new stores, top
end homes and possibly even an elementary school where children from this house
can go and not be the odd persons out but have made friends over time as part
of this premier community.” His hand
left Owen’s should and went back to the desk and rested on the drawing of the
community. His fingers traced the title
‘Pamela Warren Village’ as he whispered: “Its what she wanted.”
Owen backed away from the desk a looked at Sam with stunned and sad eyes. “Your
insane. Not she or anyone else would
want this built off of drug money and gang violence and extortion of city
officials. Look I never liked this place but I know that this is not what it
was about.” Another step back. “She was about goodness and simplicity and
helping others. You know the history and
the stories better than anyone and this – well what you have done is a tragic
distortion of what she built. I’ll fight
you on this I will stop this insanity unless you stop it right now!”
Rasing his head up Sam walked toward his brother. As he did Owen could see tears in Sam’s eyes
and his lips quiver. Owen opened his
arms to hug his brother: “Sam, I love you. We can stop this and leave
here. We don’t need to go to war over
this crap.” Eyes still wet and now sobbing, Sam stepped closerto Owen and Owen
started to tear up. He knew and loved Sam more at that moment than he had in any
of their childhood years. Owens strong
arms folded around Sam and embraced him tightly as Sam rammed the letter opener
from the desk under Owens rib cage and into his heart. Owen’s breath and life left simultaneously
along with the last sound from his lips a gasp and moan of shock of what his
brother had done. His bulk weighed on
Sam only momentarily before his body slid to the floor.
Warrior in the Garden
The next morning the
crew was there on time and already laying in the liner for the retention pond. The first of a two-layer system was going in
place and the EDPM vinyl layer would be next by mid-day with water to be pumped
in immediately by the fire department. A
portly man whose appearance left no doubt he was a supervisor and not a laborer
saw Sam and walked to meet him. “Good morning!” he exclaimed. I work for the
company responsible for the pond’s installation”. Sam smiled but didn’t respond so he continued
“Yes Sir, this beauty will be full by tomorrow afternoon this time, and you can
be assured that this liner will have a good 40-to-50-year life. Once the liner is water settled we’ll top her
off with additional and decorative stone.” The supervisor waited again for a
comment but when none came continued: “Yep the decorative rock then Marty and
his landscapers will get started on the rest.” “Perfect” Sam responded, not so
much to the supervisor as to himself. “Yes,
Perfect”, he thought: “Isn’t it better to have the Warrior in the Garden than a
Gardner in a War?”
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