passed the greengrocer with his window full of apples and oranges, and the butcher with his bloody lumps of meat on display and naked chickens hanging up. There was a small bank and an electrical shop. The town was a maze of narrow winding streets. They loved to walk what they called a wonderland.
Mike would say, “Look up Kenny, the sky is all etched in blue.”
Kenneth always replied with, “Miki, the sky is the same color as your eyes. Also, notice the lawns are always freshly cut. Maybe we could get jobs mowing lawns.”
Mike making a stop to just stare, “I would love to work in these gardens overflowing with explosions of color.”
Now as Kenneth rode gazing out the bus window, he remembered times past. As the bus hit a pothole, it jerked to the side, jolting him back to the present.
The bus approached a narrow country road, curling over the hill. The houses on each side had acreage large enough to accommodate farm animals. The bus cruised by and down a twisting road as grassy forest green hills loomed.
This is the land he grew up on, an idyllic place. He felt protected and free here. His mind drifted to another time when he and Mike rode their bikes everywhere. They swung on rope swings and swam in pools and river streams. There was nothing to fear, so their mom set them loose out the back door each day and they raced through the woods, to some nearby friend’s farm where there was a game of football or Wiffle ball raging.
Kenneth remembered jumping from one hay bale to another hay bale, hiding in the barn and jumping out and seeing his brother leap in surprise with a laugh in his eyes, spreading to a smile. The two of them were never happier than with muddy boots and the wind tousling their hair. The hills were a safe place to play, to explore, to create stories and live their dreams to the fullest. They had chores, a perfect balance of feeling needed and freedom. Whether it was work or play, Kenneth and Mike bonded with family and friends, keeping relationships strong.
Their house was cozy warmed by age, and the kitchen had aromas flowing every day of the year. Mom loved to cook, but she, also, had other talents. She crafted beautiful wedding dresses for the brides in the area and she gave piano lessons to the younger set.
The bus came to a stop, Kenneth was home, but his mind and heart had not stopped remembering.
He struggled with his crutches stepping off the bus. He wondered how many more days or weeks until he would be free of these aids or has his dream of being a basketball player died?
Passing the orchard to the house, he felt the pain from the swelling and stiffness, and he smelled the aroma of the delicious apples waft through the air. At the foot of a nearby tree, squirrels scampered. He thought what a wonderful sight, so close to nature. He took a rest, nestling up to the tree, grabbing an apple that fell from the tree.
He took a bite, heard the crunch as the sweetness spread over his tongue in a contemplative mood. How circumstances changed lives.
That fatal car crash shattered our small town. It shattered my group of friends, my family and me. The accident occurred on the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving of my junior year in high school.
It left one friend, Jack, injured and one dead, my brother, Miki. There were two cars, belonging to Jack and Simon driving from school up through town to the woods for a celebratory beer after winning our first basketball game of the season. Riding with Jack was Mike. On a stretch of road Jack lost control of his car, hit a telephone pole, and skidded a hundred feet into a tree. The crash drove the engine through the dashboard.
Shocked neighbors called police and ambulances.
The emergency rescue personnel used a hydraulic apparatus to pry the wreckage to free Jack and Mike inside.
Neighbors and witnesses dialed an orbit of calls to the victim’s families as they gathered the bodies and rushed them away. What was it like to hear those dreaded words, “There has been an accident…?”
We kids were like millions of teenagers lost in the oblivious haze of youth that nothing could ever touch us, especially not in our perfect happy place.
At the hospital that night, bright lights, and the stench of antiseptic flooded the waiting area. Me and my circle of friends sat all night stupefied and empty. We got good grades, played sports, would soon be off to a decent college. Now we are marked by tonight.
My thoughts centered only on the athletic kid, my brother, with the blond hair and blue eyes being gone. It seemed so surreal and impossible. I was alive, saved. Why? What is next for me? How can I go home again? All I can picture is the place where Miki and I thought our home was a castle where we were the Princes. Our mother and father were the King and Queen of their kingdom, gliding through the halls. With all the joy squeezed out, there was nothing left but grey and dull.
Contemplating the end-of-life was difficult. Miki loved, and we gave him love. He possessed a great gift, and he returned that gift to others. He read. He had millions of thoughts. He had not traveled or written, but he gave us love and we gave him love in return. That is important.
So, how can I give and receive more love? How can I perfect my gift and return it for the common good?
As the dark night sky deepened, he heard the caring call of his mother letting him know that dinner was ready.
Kenneth embarked on his senior year of high school. He spent time at the gym where he practiced winning. He went to the YMCA to escape his thoughts for a while and release some stress, even though the scent of sweat, sneakers, and hard work combined were constant reminders.
Now the family farm was for crops. The Turner family homestead rested on a gentle rise that sloped. There was a well-kept vegetable garden and the apple orchard.
Edward Turner, Kenneth’s father planted only heirloom varieties. Their skins were works of art, perfect blends of red, green, and yellow in patterns my hand could never paint, but better than that they were not shiny. Their sizes were as uneven as beach pebbles and you could not predict the flavor unless you knew the variety. They had brown spots and the occasional worm—they were real apples. They did not shine any coating of wax and in their dullness, Kenneth felt safe to take a bite. No chemicals, no trucking between states just fruit right off the tree.
Their old house was the sanity of these hills the ever-present home amid the changes.
Ed Turner sold part of the family land to a light manufacturing company, producing consumer goods, to build a factory. Man was transforming nature to employ hundreds of laborers. From the foundations, amid the machines and the people who labored, the building site laid out one large two story rectangular building and a parking lot.
Right now, the building was only an ugly skeleton on steel girders and prefabricated concrete slabs. A swarm of men in hard hats surrounded the area. There were bulldozers, cement mixers, and towering above them all, a huge, canary yellow crane.
Ed would often walk through the construction area at lunchtime, seeing guys and gals sitting about with their sandwiches and their music ringing out from vintage radios.
This was the start of the future, something he and his family needed to embrace and be excited for. Kenneth felt another death had arrived. Nature had died. He struggled to imagine that this was once his family’s farmland.
Nature beckoned. Industry called. The countryside lay before him like a divine fingerprint, curving and changing, no two parts the same.
He
