I Am the Land
Knarf Sabud Productions presents “I Am the Land”, a fictional memoir of the Garden of Cedar, a community park/garden located in Scranton, Pennsylvania.
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Written and produced by Frank Dubas | Narrated by Richard Wilber
I am the land. In the beginning I was host to a vast forest of vegetation providing nourishment to gentle creatures who, at times, fell victim to stronger predators seeking to nourish themselves. I took joy in the sound of birds and insects in flight above my surface. I sheltered all sorts of life forms who burrowed beneath my ground cover. I was happy.
On occasion humans with red skin traversed my ground, leaving only footprints in their wake. They were called Delaware, Susquehannock, Iroquois and Shawnee. They hunted game. They never stayed. They did no harm. I am the land, and I was safe.
Over a short span of time natives who walked upon my surface were replaced by men and women with light skin who had crossed a vast ocean to start a new life in a New World. Unlike their forebearers, they remained. They cut my trees and plowed my surface. They built a small cabin with logs cut from my forest. They planted an apple tree. The apple tree flourished, and bore delicious fruit, enjoyed by those who now made their home on my surface. I grew content in my new environment.
Soon more men, women and children came. They occupied parcels of land adjacent to my small cabin and apple tree. Of necessity they established borders and paths of commerce. I was soon confined by boundaries in every direction. My western border became a thoroughfare lined with evergreens called cedar. The thoroughfare came to be known as Cedar Avenue. The small settlement they created was called Slocum Hollow. I am the land. I became a neighbor.
One day two important men arrived. They were brothers with big plans for Slocum Hollow. The brothers would forge iron using anthracite coal hidden deep beneath my surface and cool water cascading from nearby Roaring Brook. The brothers built huge iron furnaces of stone with smokestacks reaching toward the sky. They shipped their iron to a rapidly industrializing nation called America. I came to know industry.
Many skilled men were required to produce the vast quantities of iron needed by the expanding nation. Proximity to the iron furnaces was critical. Of necessity my small cabin was torn down and replaced by a much larger house. But, my apple tree remained. A family with many children moved into my house. They planted a garden of fruits and vegetables in my back yard. They picked my apples. The children played. In late September the whiff of apples baking in pies filled the air. The family enjoyed my home. I enjoyed hosting those who inhabited my domain.
The two brothers were successful. The small town grew rapidly. Henceforth Slocum Hollow would take upon the name of the brothers – Scranton.
But all was not well in the young American nation. A vast conflict ensued where men in blue fought men in grey to preserve a Union and free a race of dark-skinned people held in bondage. War requires weapons. Weapons need industry. As Scranton flourished I came to know conflict.
One summer’s day Johnny did not come marching home to his family at my house on Cedar Avenue. Rather he limped back from a place called Gettysburg with a gangrenous wound at the stump where his right leg used to be. They buried him six days later. Never again would Johnny taste my sweet apples. I am the land. Sadness introduced itself to me.
The value of coal deep beneath my surface came to outweigh the iron produced in Scranton’s furnaces. Iron was soon replaced by steel. Pittsburgh, with its river of transportation to the West, was more suited for producing steel than Scranton. The iron furnaces closed. New generations of men were sent deep into the earth to harvest precious anthracite necessary for the production of steel. Against a sky darkened by flourishing industry my apple tree continued to bear fruit. In late September faces encrusted in coal dust enjoyed apple pie – their teeth rendered whiter in contrast to their dirty countenances.
A new century dawned and soon a Great War was followed by an even greater war. I know not of the foreign soil upon which millions fought, but I knew well the path of the young boy in a messenger’s uniform. As he walked along Cedar Avenue he carried small paper messages on Western Union letterhead. He was observed by everyone. He was welcomed by no one. Expressions of relief were seen on faces of those whose houses he passed by. I came to know fear.
One day the boy ascended the steps of my house, knocked on the door, and delivered a telegram to a women with tears in her eyes. In block capital letters it read:
THE SECRETARY OF WAR DEEPLY REGRETS TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SON PRIVATE FIRST CLASS JOHN SMITH WAS KILLED IN ACTION ON THE 23RD OF MARCH 1945 ON AN ISLAND IN THE PACIFIC.
As my family wept, a branch weakened by rot fell from my apple tree and crashed to the ground. I am the land. I began to know pain.
When the soldiers returned home to welcoming arms and parades of triumph they soon discovered coal was no longer their king. Scranton’s economy faltered. The Greatest Generation begat a generation of a different sort. Empowered by flowers and disheartened by the assassination of a young president, they found themselves unwilling to surrender precious lives in a far-off land for a war undeclared and undefined. I came to know doubt.
My apple tree continued to bear fruit, but the taste of my apples began to sour. And so did the American Dream on Cedar Avenue. Businesses began to fail and families began to leave in search of opportunities elsewhere. Cedar Avenue became home to drugs and crime.
My house began to deteriorate due to neglect. Eventually it was condemned and torn down. Only my apple tree remained, but it was forgotten. It’s bitter apples rotted on the ground. No one cared. No one thought to cut it down. One day it simply fell over and died. No one noticed.
I became a vacant lot. Of use to no one. I came to know despair.
At the turn of the most recent century I began to notice change. New people walked along Cedar Avenue. Different people. They came from Mexico, Ecuador, Nepal, Bhutan and the Middle East. They were poor. They, along with those who chose to stay, worked hard. They started new businesses – restaurants, grocery stores, landscaping services, on and on.
Still, I remained unproductive. A vacant lot no one cared about. I am the land. Despair is worse than death.
In 2017 a sign was placed on my surface. It read “For Sale”. People walked by. No one noticed.
Then one afternoon a man walked along Cedar Avenue. He stopped. He saw the sign. He walked upon my uncut weeds. He took his cell phone from his pocket and made a call. Then he left. Sometime afterward the man returned with other men and women. He talked and they listened. I learned to hope, as I desperately longed for the opportunity to be productive once again. I am the land. I want to give.
In February 2018 Frank Dubas purchased the vacant lot at 715 Cedar Avenue. The first thing he did was plant an apple tree. In May 2022 construction commenced on development of a community park/garden at site. He called it the Garden of Cedar. The Garden of Cedar is now complete. The land is productive once again. The story of the land continues.
AFTERWORD
It is impossible to know the exact history of a small parcel of land on Cedar Avenue in South Scranton, Pennsylvania and the precise stories of the people who resided on it over the years. However, it is possible to reflect upon the history of a rich neighborhood and the lives of its inhabitants as they may have been. In his story Frank Dubas chose to personify the land and use the symbolism of an apple tree as witness to events that could have taken place. He took the liberty of letting his imagination put forth this story about the rich heritage of a small parcel of land now called the Garden of Cedar.
Welcome to the Garden of Cedar. You are invited to walk the Garden’s maze-like pathways; to observe the planting efforts of many, as the Garden turns green during the planting season with vegetables, fruits, herbs, spices and flowers. And, come September, enjoy its delicious apples. For, if this land could speak, it would say “I am the land, and I am fulfilled.”
“I Am the Land” was written and produced by Frank Dubas and narrated by Richard Wilber.
All rights reserved, August 8, 2023.
