― Arundhati Roy
Willow Grove
After Ella left I had a long rainy night out in that tent―time to take stock and assess where I've been and where I'm heading.
Taking inventory of your being sometimes isn't very pretty―there's some ugly stuff that always turns up and it's always the crud you're trying to forget but are never quite able to bury.
She said Willow Grove wasn't the idyllic town I imagined it to be, but based on where I've been, it looks pretty tame to me.
Besides, I've closed the deal on the land so like it or not, the Randall place is now part of me.
"So you bought the Randall spread just outside town? Guess you're now part of the community."
I stop and put my groceries in the bed of my truck. "Yeah, loved the land at first sight. I'm Scott Reynolds―been living here a few weeks in a short term rental."
The man smiles and shakes my hand. "Harold Franklin," he says, "I own Heritage Trust and Realty. Used to list that property but didn't get much action on it. What made you choose Willow Grove?"
"I don't know," I laughed, "I was driving around the county and spotted the sign. It just seemed to draw me."
"So, where you from originally?"
"Not here―The Big Smoke. Grew up in Toronto and went to university before I enlisted."
"Whoa! You telling me you were in Afghanistan?"
"Two years, until we withdrew and I ended up back here."
"You're lucky you came back and weren't shipped express down that 'Highway of Heroes'.
"Well, some of my friends were―and believe me they were heroes."
Harold was taken aback a bit―his jowls quivered as if he was going to say something and then thought better.
"Guess you're right, son―can't take our freedom for granted."
"No sir." I said, closing the tail gate of the F150. "Got to get going―you have a nice day."
"You too boy, and by the way―if you need a realtor, I'm your man. Call or drop by any time."
I nodded but thought that won't be happening.
I was beginning to get the lay of the land. This was farm country—Tory, conservative.
I realized old Harold had asked a lot of questions about me but I learned practically nothing about him other than the fact he was your typical business man.
Me? I guess I’m your typical left-leaning son of a hippie—what did one of my profs call me at university? Oh yeah, a typical North American liberal.
Why do these guys always class me as some kind of socialist when I don’t accuse them of being members of The John Birch Society?
Now, Harold Franklin, I’m not sure.
I’ll bet he flies a Confederate flag on his property, but that’s not based on prejudice or stereotypes—just a gut feeling about the kind of man he really is.
As for me, I guess I’ve become my dad. But I kind of think he’d be proud of me.