Chapter 3: Maybe Mr Carlyle Wasn't Crazy But He Sure Was Close

81 Years Ago

Al Parker, nicknamed Salty because of his habit of practically burying everything he ate in salt, had been neither a good or bad boss. Like everything else in Owens Farm, he was barely noticed by townspeople. In fact, he was barely noticed by the miners who worked for him.

If it weren’t for the large trucks emptying his house, within days of the mine closing, he never would have been noticed at all.

Perhaps feeling a bit of remorse at the closing of the mine, Salty Parker tried to find the mayor to express his regret at leaving. Quickly though, he had second thoughts when he noticed what could have been just about every mine employee marching up Elm Street to where he lived. This type of passion and energy was highly unusual in a town like Owens Farm.

Assessing the situation and realizing that he never had to set foot in Owens Farm again, Salty Parker’s remorse of just a few moments before turned quickly to self preservation. Jumping into his car and speeding off, Salty Parker gave little wave to the mob gathering in front of his house.

Several tried to pursue but Parker was quickly over the hill, never to be seen again.

“Burn it” screamed the mob and it was in this moment that Chief Harry Sager and several other police officers of the Owens Farm Police Department performed one of the few real acts of policing they ever had to do.

Running up from the police station, because Owens Farms only police car was getting an oil change at the new service station on State Route 123, the puffing and panting officers positioned themselves between the mob and the house.

Double over and desperately trying to get his breath, Chief Sager finally got out, “C’mon guys put the matches out. Nothin’ gonna burn today”.

And with that it was over. The mob’s passion had instantly gone.

Apparently the blandness of the town of Owens Farm, grey buildings, grey personalities, carried over into a kind of grey passion. Not hot, not cold but just quickly dissipating. Nothing was forgiven but the moment of revenge had dissolved. And the moment of usefulness for the town’s police officers disappeared too.

Chief Sager decided that it was time for lunch and went down to the restaurant on Main Street. After that, perhaps the police car was ready. The mob went back to their homes accomplishing nothing but then nothing was ever accomplished in Owens Farm.

And with this, the last official of the Eastern Mineral and Mining Associates left town and the large bland house at the end of Elm Street sat vacant.

# # #

The house around the corner from Mary’s house and just at the end of Elm Street had sat vacant ever since the mines had shut down many decades before. It differed from other homes in Owens Farm only by its size but not by design.

While it bore the gray siding so prevalent in Owens Farm, it had at least twice the number of rooms of any house in town. This large home was the former residence of Al Parker, the last manager of the Eastern Mineral and Mining Associates.

For a while, several citizens from the next town, just over the ridge, tried to make a small hotel out of the abandoned house but with no business in Owens Farm, there was no need for folks to stay over night in the town.

Abandoned for many years, the house though remained in very good condition. Since it was the nature of the people of Owens Farm to not poke their noses into other people’s business and, the big house at the end of Elm Street was, other peoples business.

Periodically a neighbor or two would mow the grass of the big when it just got too long and looked out of place. Remember, that the good folks of Owens Farm didn’t want anything to stand out and look out of place, so mowing the grass regained the conformity that made everyone comfortable.

Years passed and now, today, nobody was quite sure who the owner was and nobody in town ever really cared to find out, as long as the house fit in.

# # #

1 Year Ago

The big house at the end of Elm Street had been vacant for over twenty years but now it was going to get a new life. Mr. Carlyle was moving in.

Mr. Carlyle was an average size man who had sort of a confidence about him that said, without words that he been to many places and experienced many things. He had white hair, just long enough to blow and wave when the winds picked up. His eyes seemed to completely know his surroundings even though they were often gazing off in an entirely different direction.

What really set off Mr. Carlyle and that which made him totally different from other residents of Owens Farm were his colorful clothes. Perhaps colorful was an understatement for Mr. Carlyle liked the brightest of bright colors, often with bold patterns and prints.

The day Carlyle moved in, most of the town took no notice of his arrival, at least for a few hours. Even the flashing of his bright jacket as he stepped out of the taxi brought no notice except for the two children peering from an upstairs window that could see the large house at the end of Elm Street.

“Move on over BD, it’s about time I looked out of my own window”, said Mary giving Ben a quick but firm punch in the ribs”

“Ow. Watch it Mary, those ribs are still sore from Luke’s punches”, Ben muttered as he moved out of the small window.

“That guy isn’t very tall”, said Mary. “I bet I’m as tall as him. Is his hat bright green”?

Still rubbing his sore ribs, BD moved back to share the window with Mary but a large moving truck blocked their view of Mr. Carlyle and the large bland house.

“That’s a large truck, wonder if he’s got a wife and kids coming?” said Mary, jockeying with Ben for a better position at the window.

“My turn”, shouted Ben and he gave Mary a little shove pushing her out of the window, the chair she was sitting in and onto the floor.

“BD, for that your never getting another look out of the window”, declared Mary.

“Look Mary, let’s just go for a walk. Perhaps in the direction of the moving van and casually check out the stuff he’s got”, said Ben backing away from Mary.

“Sound good to me” said Mary. “It saves you the humiliation of being pushed out of the way by a girl”.

Those words instantly cut deep in Ben for in his mind, it seamed that had been beaten, stepped on and thrown around by just about everyone in Owens Farm.

Starting to lash out at Mary, he saw her smile and realized that Mary was not mean to him. It had all been in jest, gentle ribbing among friends.

Running down the stairs and through the kitchen Ben and Mary were off to do a little spying on the new neighbor.

“Back soon mom”, Mary shouted as she and Ben left to head for a not-so-quick walk by the moving van.

As they turned the corner onto Elm Street, something did not seem quite right to Ben, something that he could sense but not yet answer. “Mary, something’s just plain different here?” he said.

Mary had sensed it too as she got the first glimpse of the moving van in front of the big house at the end of Elm Street. “Yeah but… wait I know. BD it color. Look at the moving van”.

True enough it was color. Ben and Mary slowly walked toward the moving van and were both speechless. There before them was the most colorful collection of furniture, paintings, trinkets and do-dads that had ever been unloaded in the town of Owens Farm.

Near the tree in the front yard was a brilliant, fluorescent yellow table positioned next to an orange lamp shaped like a yawning hippopotamus. There were multicolored couches, a desk of brilliant green and seemingly endless rainbows of kitchen utensils, boxes overflowing with all shades and manner of household goods.

“Blue cabinets and purple chairs”, said Mary, “I don’t believe it. The people in this town are going to flip”.

“Yeah, they’ll chat it up at the diner for a few days and then forget about it like folks around here always do”, said Ben.

From their position down the street, they could see clustered together on the lawn, more color than was to be found anywhere in Owens Farm. Ben felt that surely aircraft flying over the grey hills and town could spot this blaze of green, blues, red, oranges and any other hue that could be imagined.

“Let’s get closer”, whispered Ben to Mary who was now standing silent at the endless parade of colorful items being unloaded from the moving van.

Running down the street, Mary and Ben had now given up any idea of casually strolling by and examining the household now moving into the big house.

In awe at the colorful explosion around them, they had not even realized that they were now running up the front walk of the house. Finally they stopped halfway between the porch and the street and reveled at the color surrounding them.

In awe, Ben and Mary started wandering between the boxes the moving men were piling on the lawn. The colors filled their senses, overshadowing any idea that they had about staying out of other peoples things. A red box over there, a purple box here and in a box that was partially open, they saw brilliant figurines catching the rays of the sun and reflecting a sea of color in all directions at once.

“Mary” cried Ben as he stood up with a jolt. “Do you notice anything about these things? About the colors I mean. Do you notice what’s missing. Look. Look carefully”.

Mary stood, faced Ben and was immediately startled by the figure standing behind Ben.

“Behind you, watch out” she shouted. And taking a quick step away from the figure she tripped over a small fuchsia table behind her and fell into the bushes.

Ben spinning around was too startled by the looming figure. Starting to run, he tripped over Mary trying to untangle herself from the bush that now held her captive.

The figure walked to the edge of the porch, bent over slightly. The mouth beneath the angular nose drew a slight breath and said firmly, “Of course something’s missing. I don’t like grey”, and the he smiled.

Mary and Ben lay motionless in the now flattened bush as the figure came down the porch steps and offered a hand in assistance.

Mary squirmed away from the hand breaking several branches before she tumbled into the boxes stacked on the lawn. Ben squirmed and now also became deeply tangled in the bushes.

“You know of course that it is polite to ask before you go poking through things belonging to others”, said the figure pulling back his hand and now standing on the lawn.

Ben cringed at the words coming from the figure of a man standing before him. This is going to be worse than anything Luke ever did to me, thought Ben. And poor Mary, she’s never had to face a thing like this.

Mary though was silent, imagining a fate that was going to be quick and most likely painful or at the very least embarrassing, like a call to Officer Vache or her parents.

Of course anything one imagines is almost always worse than the reality of the situation.

The figure again extended his hand, smiled and announced, “My name’s Cleophus Constanius Carlyle, been called that for some time now. Glad to meet you. I figured that the townsfolk I would meet be upright citizens. Well, at least they would be standing upright”.

Ben took the Mr. Carlyle’s outstretched hand and with very little effort was gently pulled out of the bushes.

Picking pieces of the bush out of his clothes Ben said, “Sorry about the bush sir. I broke it, so I’ll replace it sir”.

“First don’t call me sir. My full name is a mouthful so Cleo will do although an occasional Mr. Carlyle might be nice. And second while the green of evergreens is pretty, it’s not bright enough for me”.

Motioning to the shrubbery around the front porch, Cleo continued, “I’m ripping these out and putting plants that are a little more colorful. So, no need to replace what you broke, this time anyway”.

Ben having completed the removal of all twigs and branches from his clothing said, “My name’s Ben but friends know me as DB and this is…”

“I can introduce myself” said Mary, lifting herself from the pile of boxes she had knocked over. “Mary Moore, Sir… Mr…. er Cleo. I live just around the corner and DB and myself were just so fascinated by the colorful things you own that we had to come over and well sorry we were pests but this color just can’t be found in Owens Farm, apparently we lost our heads and never should have gone on your porch without you permission and…”.

“Hold it little lady. Take a breath”, Cleo said with a chuckle. “Everything is all right. Now if you will excuse me, I’ve got a bit of brightening to do. Come back and visit anytime. You’re more than welcome.”

With that Mr. Cleophus Constanius Carlyle turned and walked back into the house. The movers resumed their jobs and Mary and Ben stood there for a second before strolling back down Elm Street.

“What do you think he means by ‘brightening’ Mary”, said Ben.

Mary could not imagine but already the bright packaging and household goods were starting to draw the attention of Owens Farm. The newly repaired police car slowly rolled by with Officer Vache sternly gazing out the window and wondering what manner of folk were now moving into Owens Farm.

Just before turning the corner onto Mary’s Street, Ben gave a little look back over his shoulder at the house at the end of the street. “This could be fun Mary. This could be fun”, and he smiled a little smile.

# # #

The next several months answered the question about ‘brightening” than Ben had asked Mary. With in the month, Mr. Carlyle had painted the outside of the large house at the end of Elm Street in the most dazzling array of colors every seen.

Lime green shutters lay against siding painted orange-red. The porch was redone in purple tiles with cyan blue highlights. Doors were done not in just one color but in the entire spectrum of colors. Sometimes violet hues to red other times red hues to violet.

Even the concrete sidewalk, right up to the curb was painted in the brightest colors available. The roof look like something out of a fairy tail as its array of color caught the sun at varying angles from sunrise to sunset providing a magnificent light show for the neighbors.

But in the beginning the neighbors did not appreciate or even want a ‘magnificent light show” and the grumblings were loud.

A least one family had threatened to move from a house near Mr. Carlyle’s home and relocate to the other side of Owens Farm but that required more conviction than most folks in Owens Farm had and soon the grumblings were silent. The citizens of Owens Farm just muttered under their breath to each other about “that” house at the end of Elm Street.

Mr. Carlyle tried but he could not endear himself to the citizens of Owens Farm. He invited neighbors over for barbeque but every one had excuses and other things to do. He offered to donate a new police car to the town but was politely but surely rebuffed. His first time attending a meeting of the Owens Farm City Council had others at the meeting sitting as far from him as possible. Mr. Carlyle was sure that if they could move to another room, they would. The meeting was the shortest ever on record.

Mr. Carlyle always dressed as flamboyantly as the house in which he lived. The shoes he wore were often of different, but always bright colors. Sometimes his pants were as green as any worn by a Leprechaun. There were red vests covered by blue jackets.

The only things that never changed were his flowing white hair and the affection he had developed for Mary and Ben.

As for Mary and Ben, they found Cleo fascinating for he brought color to their young lives in the grey town of Owens Farm.

They often stood on the sidewalk in front of Cleo’s house and played a little game to see who could find what was the latest color added to the house. Cleo would often come out sit on the porch and talk with them for hours.

They talked about the weather, the possibility of new road construction on Main Street and a hundred other un-important, but very friendly, neighborly things.

Sitting on Mary’s porch one Sunday afternoon, Ben and Mary watched Cleo drive down the street in his multicolored car, wearing almost glowing clothes. Cleo gave a hearty wave to Mary and Ben and turned onto his street.

Mary leaned to Ben and said, “Well he did say he didn’t like grey”.

Ben thought to himself, maybe Mr. Carlyle wasn’t crazy but he sure was close.

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Next Week...
Traveler’s Log - 486 AD - I Will Flee This Dying World

The Traveler’s Log: 2650 BC - I Will Travel Onward

Sumer - 2650 BC

I can easily see how the time I have spent learning to write will be useful. With the possibility of endless travels, I now have a way to record my story and more importantly, the places I have hid the goods I have acquired. Who would have ever guessed that a stylus and clay tablet would produce such a wondrous result?

It has become a burden to carry all I possess as I travel. Besides, many items are outdated by the advances of learning. I have no need for them but they hold memories for me still.

I believe I have found the perfect spot to leave my possessions. In an unused chamber beneath the Temple of Eanna I will secure my possessions until I return. From its looks, the chamber is older than anywhere else I have been during my time in this city. I some way, it looked familiar. Perhaps I had been there before and had forgotten.

I heard a funny thing the other day but had to keep my silence for my own safety. In the market by the canals, merchants were repeating a story that Gilgamesh, our king, was the in the great flood story, that is so popular in the lore of this city. Of course I kept silent for if I did not, I surely would have lost my tongue as punishment by the Temple Priests. They must protect the legend, no matter how false and all things considered, I would prefer to keep my tongue.

I now end this entry. My time here grows short and I have to transfer my goods to the chamber without notice. I had, for just a second, thought of revisiting my wife, but I do not know if I can bear it. Instead, I will travel onward.

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Coming next week...
Chapter 3: The Maybe Mr. Carlyle Wasn't Crazy But He Sure Was Close

Chapter 2: A More Unexciting Place Could Not Be Found

The Present

The town of Owens Farm was a place of little excitement. Its inhabitants could never be accused of being overly adventurous or of even being adventurous at all. With just several hundred citizens, it was a town with a short and certainly not rich history. No Civil War general had ever passed though here. No great battle was fought on the hills surrounding the town. In fact, no citizen of Owens Farm had ever left more than a passing mark on history. Owens Farm was not exactly a dying town, but could be described as one that was very, very tired.

The streets of Owens Farm were graced with uninteresting, almost generic names: Elm, Main, Oak, The houses lining these streets were boringly repetitive, mostly of the same siding, the same porches on the same size lots. Trees were plentiful, mostly leafy but there were a few evergreens here and there. Flowering trees and shrubs were nowhere to be found for the citizens of Owens Farm were not the type to take easily to color. “Don’t wanna to be too flashy”, said one. “I don’t want to stand out”, said another. In fact, even the vibrant colors the typical fall brings to leaves bothered many folks in town.

Owens Farm’s Main Street was at one time, maybe fifty years ago, a major link between larger towns to the east and west. A two lane road wound in gentle curves next to a small creek that made its way slowly through the valley that housed Owens Farm. Walking down Main Street, one could still see a few remaining signs with its state designated number “SR-123” but these were now rusted and dull. The creek paralleling Main Street was often just a small muddy run, never overflowing its banks and never flowing too fast. Just like the citizens, the creek apparently didn’t want to be noticed.

Times though had changed Owens Farm. New highways were built. “Designed to ease congestion and promote commerce”, the politicians said. Certainly the congestion of Owens Farm’s Main Street was now gone but so were most businesses, giving way to malls and marts located near the new highway.

There was of course a Post Office. Doesn’t every town have one? Sharing the Post Office building was the station of Owens Farm’s two man police department and their one, twenty year old police car. This car was close to breaking down forever, but in a place like Owens Farm, some wondered why they even had a car at all.

It would be no understatement to say that the town’s police chief, Ernest Vache, was not in the best of shape. Local children knew this too and it was almost a ritual right of manhood in Owens Farm to perform some minor act of lawbreaking, flee and then watch Chief Vache bumble around in trying to solve the petty crime. Others in Owens Farm thought than Chief Vache knew the children was teasing him but he was comfortable in his position and didn’t ever have to work too hard. Besides the petty crimes of the children didn’t amount to much and he certainly didn’t want to exert himself in any way.

A small grocery occupied the lot across from the police building. With the growth of superstores on the highway just over the far ridge, the Owens Farm grocery would most likely close for good when its elderly owner died. Well into his eighties now, some believed that he was one of the oldest people the area.

Next to the grocery shop sat the hardware store of Henry O’Day. Thin to the point of being almost sickly, O’Day, had taken over the hardware store from his father years before. Now, times were hard and the store was small but if anyone in the town need to quickly fix a leaking sink or patch the shingles on their roof after a summer storm, O’Day’s store had it. In fact Mr. O’Day said that keeping the citizens of Owens Farm supplied was really quite easy, just stock the basics.

A neon sign saying “EAT” marked the town’s only restaurant. “Why should it have a name”, muttered townsfolk, “there’s only one and we all know where it is”. The old joke that you could get any kind of food there as long as it was meat and potatoes was very true here. Changing the menu would lead to grumble and groans from the regulars who stopped by daily for “the usual” and Woody Williams, the owner knew exactly what “the usual” was for each and every person.

Neat and clean, the restaurant’s Woody Williams once added mixed vegetables to the daily special and you would have thought the devil himself came through town. “Don’t need these mixed things”, was the most common grumble and some regulars actually stayed away until the mixed vegetables were removed and the world of Owens Farm’s only restaurant was returned to normal.

All in all, a more quiet, dull, brown, unexciting place than Owens Farm could not be found.

# # #

Ninty Years Ago

For all anyone knows, the town’s namesake Tink Owens never did anything more than accidentally lend his name to the town of Owens Farm. For Tink Owens lived and farmed in the valley just a short two years.

He was not a good farmer and there is no record of him ever delivering a crop to any of the farmers markets in the surrounding towns. Tink Owens was never seen at the Grange Hall or at any county fair. Jack Hardy, the tractor dealer just a few miles down the road made it his business to know all local farmers by name. “Just good business sense”, he was often heard to say. But Hardy so rarely saw Tink Owens that when it was ever mentioned to him, it was awhile before he even remembered the name. “Kind of an ordinary looking guy”, said Hardy, “Didn’t say much and couldn’t grow a lick of corn“.

As a matter of fact the only official county record of Tink Owens lies in the bankruptcy proceedings brought about by a small bank, in the next town over, that held the mortgage on his farm.

When the small farm of Tink Owens was seized, the bank, needing a way to describe the land during foreclosure used the name Owens Farm as a description of the property. Tink Owens packed his remaining belongings and left, gone from history and gone from the valley holding Owens Farm.

Now banks do not like foreclosures for they do not make money owning land. Banks make their money off of other people owning land. In the case of Owens Farm, the land was immediately put up for sale. Months passed and offers for Tink Owens Farm were few. “Too hilly”, claimed a farmer from over the ridge to the South. “Soils a little thin”, stated a farmer from the next valley over. By the first winter of it vacancy, Tink Owens Farm was looking like it would remain a liability to the bank for some time to come.

This was soon to change. The country was on the verge of a short golden age, the “Roaring Twenties”. Industrial output soared and with it, the need to power and feed the engines of the great factories, oil and coal.

It was now that the hills around Tink Owens farm attracted the attention of several folks in New York City, with too much cash and credit and looking to seize any money-making opportunity.
Coal was the business opportunity the New York men decided upon. They knew nothing of mining but they knew how to hire lawyers. These lawyers hastily formed a mining company, hired a consultant or two and poured over descriptions of real estate in areas where coal was plentiful. Inquiries were quietly made and Tink Owens Farm fit their needs perfectly.

So the men in New York had their lawyers, sign some papers, file them with the proper governmental authorities and the Eastern Mineral and Mining Associates was formed.

More than just a mining company, the New York men decided to build an entire town around their mines to control not only the coal stripped from the ground but also to control the goods purchased by their miners and families. It was decided that the most profit could be gained by creating a “company town”.

Construction was quick and workmanship often shoddy but the houses went up anyway, repeating the same design over and over: small lot, brown siding, small porch and nothing expensive or fancy.

With the lure of a new mine, people flooded into the little town being built by the Eastern Mineral and Mining Company. The company town of Owens Farm was born.

Nature though had played a cruel trick on the owners of the Eastern Mineral and Mining Associates and the folks it employed. While there lay abundant seams of coal in the hills just over the valley around Owens Farm, Mother Nature deposited little with in the area where their strip mines were actually planned.

The owners of the Eastern Mineral and Mining Associates had no knowledge of this for they were not mining men and the consultants hired by their lawyers were not mining men either but just someone’s cousin or uncle who was secretly put on the payroll.

The employees of the Easter Mineral and Mining Associates, now residents of Owens Farm, also had no knowledge of the lack of coal in the lands they were mining. They assumed that the owners knew what they were doing.

The bank selling Tink Owens Farm to the men from the Northeast did not care about coal, miners, or mine owners. They were simply happy that the large liability was now someone else’s problem.

Quickly though, the owners of the Eastern Mineral and Mining Associates realized that there was no money to be made. Mining operations were shut down, the equipment sold and shipped away. Business that had sprung up to supply the mine and its miners disappeared as if they were never there. Eventually, only several hundred people remained in Owens Farm. It was their home and there they would stay.

# # #

1 Year Ago

Maybe seventy years had passed since the closing of the Eastern Mineral and Mining Associates and Owens Farm continued on, changing little as time went by except perhaps only in a slightly negative way.

Every now and then a family left Owens Farm but rarely did one come to take their place. Businesses closed but seldom did someone take the chance to open a new one. It was always good enough to go just over the hill to the mall on the interstate to do business there.

Eventually, stability came to Owens Farm. The population didn’t grow but then it didn’t shrink either. Businesses didn’t leave but Main Street wasn’t thriving. The plain brown sided houses lining Elm, Oak and Main stayed plain brown sided houses, never changing.

While this would have been disappointing to other folks in other towns, the inhabitants of Owens Farm took little notice. They went on with their lives. Most worked in distant towns and quietly returned home at night.

The citizens of Owens Farm liked their quiet world. They were content in knowing that there was no surprise around the corner and up the next street. There was a comfort in knowing what would come today, tomorrow or next week and it would be quite like what had already occurred yesterday, last week or last month.

Now in a place like Owens Farm, where it seemed that nobody ever sold a house or even moved away a change was about to come. A new person was about to arrive and settle in Owens Farm and when a new person came to town the citizens noticed but just slightly and with a wary eye.

It was into the town of Owens Farm that Mr. Cleophus Carlyle came just about one year ago.

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Coming next week...
The Traveler's Log: 2650 B.C. - I Will Travel Onward

Chapter 1: I Really Prefer BD. It Will Save a Lot of Trouble

Present Day

“Get up. Get up so I can hit you again”, screamed Luke. “This ain’t over”.

Ben, bruised and curled up on the ground trying to protect those areas of his body not already beaten had to almost smile at Luke’s demand. “What an offer”, Ben thought. “How could I resist”?

Well Ben couldn’t resist because he had recently told himself that the only way to stop a bully was to confront a bully. And this bully, Luke Nelson, had made Ben his personal target since the fourth grade

From the time Luke started kindergarten at Owens Farm Elementary School he was overly large for his age, in body but not in intelligence. Struggling with schoolwork and with few friends, he quickly carved his niche as a school bully. In his early years at school, Luke was what could be called, an equal opportunity bully. For the first few years he pushed, shoved and generally tormented the boys and girls in his grade equally.

Then Luke Nelson started to become more selective. First he targeted the boys only and then finally he narrowed his list of bullying victims to those with some trait or ability that made them unique, something that set them apart from the usual elementary school crowd: The fat kid, the smart kid, the kid with a funny name.

It was this last item, the kid with the funny name that had brought Luke Nelson to where he was today, the number one tormentor and bully of Ben.

When the Owens Farm fourth grade class had to write an autobiography and then of course read it in front of the class, Luke Nelson realized who should be his prime, number one target. In Luke’s feeble mind, Ben’s autobiography gave him the perfect reason to bully Ben.

Ben’s name was now the reason he would get more grief and physical pain from Luke’s beatings for years to come.

A few years passed and Ben was now in high school, the ninth grade and Luke still made it his personal duty to torment and bully him at every turn. And this was why Ben was determined to get to his feet and confront Luke Nelson.

“Chicken, ain’t you gonna get up so I can finish you”, screamed Luke hysterical and wide eyed with rage.

Rising to his knees, Ben looked up at Luke standing over him with fists clenched and eyes glaring with anger. Sarcastically, Ben said, “Ain’t? Luke, you just used the word ain’t again. Didn’t you learn that just using that word shows your ignorance?”

Then a swift hard punch sent Ben head first into the ground.

# # #

Ben’s parents Eleanor and Albert had never really considered the consequences of naming their son Benjamin. Ben’s mother’s maiden name was Warner and it was a Warner family tradition that the name Benjamin be given to the first born male child in every generation. It was this way as far back as the family roots could be traced.

The family legend says that there was a Benjamin Warner, who traveled on the sailing ship the Ark and helped to settle Maryland about three hundred years ago. Talented and quick to learn, Benjamin Warner rose to prominence in the government of the colony.

Even today at Warner family reunions and other gatherings of family member, the old folks would reminisce when the food and drink flowed freely, and their tales would often turn to that first Benjamin Warner and how he help conceive and draft the Maryland Toleration Acts way back in 1649. At some point during these gatherings, the grandmothers, grandfathers, great uncles and aunts of the Warner clan would raise a glass of beer or wine and in unison and proclaim “The free men have assented”, that famous ending of that famous document. Whether true or not, all good Warners believed that it was the first Benjamin who penned that famous line.

Then they would inevitably give a knowing nod toward the children and say, “that is why we have so many Benjamins in our family tree, to honor the first”.

# # #

Twenty Years Ago

Eleanor Warner met Albert Dover in their last term at a small community college just outside of her hometown. At first, there were just nervous nods of hello towards each other as they shared classes, then short conversations in the hallways and finally dinners, movies and attending the schools basketball games together.

Friends noted how, when together, Eleanor and Albert seemed much more ready to take on the world after school than when they were apart, “Perfect couple”, “Lovely” said just about everyone they knew.

Not considered particularly pretty or even an outstanding student, Eleanor often wondered why Albert was attracted to her. Albert said that he just loved Eleanor because… well just because.

After graduation Eleanor and Albert got married. Not a grand marriage ceremony, but a good one.

For the time being, Eleanor and Albert moved back to her home town and into the house her family had owned for almost one hundred years now. Work was scarce and Albert was content to live there for a while until he could start a real career. Eleanor though was never comfortable living in her old family house, too many memories.

It seems that Eleanor’s father, named Benjamin of course, was quite a hero in the small town. Several years before, he died saving others in a mining disaster that occurred just outside of town. The story of his heroism had grown with the passing years and now nearly everyone in town had a story of a husband, son or cousin saved that tragic day by the heroics of Benjamin Warner. All in all about thirty miners did die that day but it was Benjamin Warner who was chosen by the town council to be honored with a statue in the town square. Living in this shadow of her family’s and the town’s tragedy had always made Eleanor uneasy.

Soon after settling into the home, Eleanor convinced Albert that it was time to change the luck of her family and a move to another town or state was in order. She explained how memories of her father’s death still haunted her and how she could never escape the terrible memory of that terrible day while living in the town where the terrible events had occurred.

“I have no identity of my own”, Eleanor would say to Albert, “To everyone in this town I’m still only Ben Warner’s daughter, not Eleanor. Why even when I walk by that statue of dad, I don’t think him, but of the other families who lost folks that day. I loved dad but, Albert, I’ve got to move on”.

Albert Dover put the old Warner house up for sale the next day.

Packing up their few belongings, Eleanor and Albert Dover moved to the quiet town of Owens Farm, just across the state line, next county over and in a fine valley.

“I hear its quiet and well off the beaten track”, Albert told his young wife. Eleanor whispered to herself, “Nothing will ever happen to us there”, and she smiled.

Days later, Eleanor and Albert Dover purchased a small house in Owens Farm. And looking back, nothing ever did happen to them, there.

# # #

Twelve Years Ago

Several years after their move, Eleanor and Albert Dover had become typical residents of Owens Farm. Their house was the same as others on the block. Their clothes were not too flashy, not too colorful. Their car was a simple and black, not too new.

Every morning, Albert would kiss Eleanor and walk to his black sedan parked by the curb. If a neighbor or two were out he would offer a hearty “Mornin’” and head to work in the next town over.

With Albert gone, Eleanor would head for the Owens Farm School where she volunteered as the librarian and sometimes be a substitute teacher when one was needed.

Their life was uneventful and they liked that.

Soon their lives were to change forever. They became the parents of a baby boy born in December, a Christmas baby was just what Eleanor and Albert wanted.

Holding their newborn baby boy, there was no doubt in Eleanor’s mind about what the child was to be named, for her family had a long tradition.

“Of all the traditions in my family, this is the one I want to keep”, Eleanor told Albert as the baby slept in the crib in the corner of what was now his room in the small brown house in Owens Farm.

“Well then”, said Albert turning to the sleeping child, “Welcome to the world Benjamin Dover”.

So twelve years ago Benjamin Dover came into the town of Owens Farm.

Yes that’s right, Ben Dover.

# # #

The Present

The taunts and jokes that began in third grade for Ben Dover escalated yearly and soon included beating by the likes of Luke Nelson. Most kids in the town of Owens Farm had either matured or grown bored of picking on Ben just because of his name. Luke though continued his campaign to make Ben’s life miserable, because in Luke’s dull mind he could imagine doing nothing else.

So it was an attempt to end the daily harassment by Luke Nelson, that now had Ben curled up again on the ground with a new bruise above his left eye.

“Oh God, what am I going to do”, thought Ben.

Luke was screaming, “Get up. Get up. Get up. Get up. Get up”, repeatedly, possessed by an anger too great for his simple brain to think of anything else.

Ben considered rising to his feet again, but quickly realized that staying down was now his best and safest option. He curled up a little tighter into a ball looking for any further protection.

Ever so quietly there was a rustling in the alley where Luke was beating Ben. Spinning quickly Luke shouted, “I can hear you. Get out here now or I’ll… I’ll beat you too. I will, you know it”.

Then from the opposite direction a distinct metallic bang caused Luke to hurriedly spin the other way. “Who’s there”, said Luke now with just a little fear and doubt in his voice.

Having been in enough fights over the years, Luke realized that this days bullying was over. “After all what if people came at him from two directions? This might a problem”, he reasoned. Luke did not like the odds of at least two more people confronting him.

Luke turned toward the cowering Ben and pretended to deliver another kick. Ben instinctively cringed, expecting the blow.

“Ha, you coward, I didn’t even touch you”, yelled Luke.

Climbing onto his bike, Luke delivered on final taunt at Ben, “See you tomorrow and don’t forget to bend over, Ben Dover”.

“How uncreative” mumbled Ben under his breath, for he had heard that line from Luke almost daily since sometime in the fourth grade.

Luke was gone, for now. Ben knew who the other person in that alley was, the person who had stopped this assault. He knew that it was his best, well his only friend in Owens Farm.

“Come on out Mary. I know it’s you”.

Mary Moore slowly peeked out from her hiding space behind some boxes. “Ben, is anything broken”? In the past this question had a variety of answers but today, Ben’s body seemed to be in one piece.

“I’m OK Mary, but I’d bet I’m going to have a beauty of a black eye tomorrow. You know you’ve used that old rock trick to save me from Luke several times before. It’s only a matter of time before he’ll catch on”.

Ben knew that it was Mary hiding behind boxes who threw a rock down the alley on the opposite side of Luke who was standing over the beaten Ben. With luck, the stone hit an old steel garbage can and made far more noise than it should have, easily scaring off the dim-minded Luke.

“Luke couldn’t figure out the sun was coming up if he was looking to the East in the morning”, said Mary. “Let’s go to my house. I have some things that will fix those cuts and bruises just fine”.

Mary had done this before for Ben and in some way they were almost like boyfriend and girlfriend. Though neither spoke of this, inside Mary and Ben knew. Off they walked to Mary’s house.

# # #

Mary Moore was more than just a little prettier than most girls in Owens Farm. In the bland background of the citizens of Owens Farm, Mary stood out, not just with her above average height for a girl her age, but with her shoulder length red hair and skin that showed no blemishes that are often present in the teenage years.

Even as a standout for the way she looked, Mary was not popular in school. While she could have easily had a spot on the Owens Farm cheerleading team, Mary preferred to stay in the background, never joining, never volunteering and trying never to get noticed.

She was content to read, study and in general be at peace with the world around her.

Ben Dover was grateful to have a friend like Mary. They had first noticed each other in fourth grade when Ben was getting his daily bullying from other classmates. Mary towering over the boys, in a way that girls sometimes do at that age, had turned a corner on the playground and accidentally surprised the bullies. Even though Mary was as surprised as the bullies, they dropped their attack on Ben and fled into the school recess crowd. Mary helped Ben to his feet and since that day they had become best friends. Perhaps the only friend each of them had.

Turning on Oak Street, Mary’s simple gray-sided two story house was just ahead. It had been the home to Mary’s family since her father came to Owens Farm many years ago to, as he put it “Find that quite life we all dream of”.

# # #

Mary and Ben came up to the house in complete silence. Mary wished she could help Ben more and Ben, well his wishes did not involve Luke, beatings or anything else bad. His wishes were aimed solely at his friendship with Mary.

Coming up the brick walk, Mary turned to Ben and said, “At this hour of the day nobody’s home, mom and dad are at work so there’ll be no awkward questions to answer about how you look Ben”.

“Mary, from now on call me BD. It will save a lot of trouble”, said Ben as they climbed the porch steps.

“OK BD”, said Mary as she got the first aid kit and tended to his cuts.

________________________________

Coming next week...

Chapter 2: "A More Unexciting Place Could Not Be Found

A look at the Town of Owens Farm

Prologue: We Would Call It Magic

2.5 Billion Years Ago

The beginnings saw an Earth of flame. Molten rock pounded by an endless torrent of comets and meteors. But with this bombardment came riches in the forms of water, metals and organic materials… the stuff that makes us, us.

With the end of these violent early years, the Earth cooled. Mountains grew and mountains were leveled. Seas rose and fell. The great plates of granite that wrap the Earth, drifted slowly on the molten mantle just below. For all its life, yes, life, for the Earth is living, it moved with a slow but persistent rhythm, reinvented over and over on a planetary scale.

And within this rhythm, conditions were right for life. And as this life grew to an ever more complex form, some were instilled with intelligence and self-awareness. And then these became tribes, then societies and civilizations that rose, fell and were ultimately forgotten.

And the planetary rhythm continues, never stopping. Creating, changing, destroying and repeating endlessly as billions of years pass by. And this is what happened in the first two billion years of Earth’s existence.

# # #

It is of no use for us to try to name them for there are no linguistic, cultural or biological links to any life form we know today. It is enough for us to just call these creatures “They”.

They were the first advanced life on Earth. Sharing the same planet we do, but alien and far removed from our existence.

They moved, not as creatures do today with legs, fins or wings, but they could move.

They saw, not as we do with eyes, but they saw the world they lived in.

They had brains, evolved to great complexity. And they had consciousness.

They looked up at their scarlet red sky and wondered, even as we wonder today looking at our blue sky.

They had ancestors rising from the same pools of organic waters as our ancestors, but they evolved more quickly. Adaptation to their environment speeded an evolutionary path into complex forms while our distant ancestors were still single celled organisms living in the green tinted seas.

They thrived in the methane and ammonia atmosphere of Achaean Earth, an atmosphere instantly lethal to most animals living today.

They created societies and cultures, living very much in harmony with the harsh, violent, young Earth that surrounded them.

They had customs and stories passed from generation to generation. Customs and traditions grew as they lived and died under the red skies dominated by a moon that passed much closer to the Earth than it ever does today.

They dominated this early Earth as man dominates the Earth of today.

They grew their civilization on the understanding of the mysteries of the world in which they lived. They learned how symbols and language could possess the power to bend, fold and shape the natural world around them

They knew what words to say to move and shape large rocks that dominated their landscape and with this, they created cities, temples and palaces. They could chant an incantation and the forces of nature would bend to their wishes. With ritual dances and movements they could transform nature around them into sustenance, structure and anything needed for life.

They controlled the mysteries of nature. They controlled the mysteries of time. To them it was common knowledge known to all, to us, we would call it magic.

And their magic will play a large part in this tale.

________________________________

Coming next week...

Chapter 1: "I Really Prefer DB. It will Save a Lot of Trouble"

The tale continues in present day Owens Farm.