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Chapter 11 - Here Today, Gone Tomorrow All that exists in the cosmos belongs to God. But man imagines that he is the owner of various things and is a prisoner of the conception of “mine” and “thine.” In reality, all are only trustees of the property belonging to the Divine. This means that everyone has to consider himself as a trustee of the world’s goods. A bank cashier handles an enormous amount of money. None of it belongs to him. He cannot use it for himself, but has to ensure its safety and right use. Likewise, all are trustees, responsible for the proper use of the goods entrusted to them. No one can claim ownership. —SSSB Our home was a beautiful two-story
building situated on a hill overlooking the valley, the town of Falmouth, its harbor and the ocean. It had been built near the end of the eighteenth century by a former governor for his personal home. It boasted an exquisite view of groves of Poinciana trees—especially beautiful when in bloom—as well as the harbor, with all the activity of the sailing boats and canoes. The ships could be seen in the port taking on their cargo of sugar, bananas and spices destined for England. The home was an old great house with an impressive mahogany staircase that was winding and wide and had handrails crafted in the most beautiful work. Each of the eight upstairs bedrooms had a view of its own and were large enough to house today’s average apartment. The windows, of which there were many, were the old antique glass pane sliding windows that had to be pushed up or down to open or close. The four-poster beds, dressers, wardrobes and other furniture were a mixture from the
Elizabethan and Edwardian period. There were many original paintings and some huge, framed murals adorning the walls. Other trinkets, gifts and pieces were in their respective places, very much like a museum. The driveway was a single lane dirt track situated one mile from the main road on top of the picturesque hill. The cellar was another story, having its own unbelievable character. It housed prison cells where slaves had been placed as punishment when they became old, tired, weak, under nourished, sick and demoralized. The former governor ensured that the large iron balls, each with its own length of chain with ankle clamps attached to the other end, were left in each cell as a reminder of an atrocity to humanity called slavery, so that the world should never forget. The cellar—or dungeon,
as we kids called it—covered the whole area of the house and was high enough for an adult to walk upright. An area was allocated to the distillation of our own wine in conjunction with a friend of dad’s who was a chemist from Czechoslovakia. So there were at least a dozen drums of wine, some of them fermenting, slowly maturing and waiting to enliven someone’s palate. Of course, on occasion, we kids would sneak a sip or two to tickle our palates—never enough to make us high, but just enough to be defiant and mischievous. Grandma and Grandpa, my mom’s parents, lived with us, along with my aunt, who was Mom’s sister. My elder brother, Derrick, my younger brother, Max, and my older sister, Joanie (who spent most of the time away at boarding school), and I were the young members of the family. Mother and Dad, both partners in business, were at work every day except Sunday, unless they went to visit my sister at boarding school. We had five household helpers—a washer, a cook, an ironer/cleaner, a nanny and a gardener.
Yes, we were one big, genuinely happy, close family, each member complementing the other as we were brought up to respect our elders. It was a system and principle that was passed from one generation to another, and it worked harmoniously and beautifully. We kids were very happy living on this two thousand-acre farm filled with a variety of animals, including our pet dogs and goats, sheep, cows, horses, mules, donkeys, chickens, turkeys, ducks, bees and pigeons. The farm was actually a sugarcane plantation with the most wonderful workers who treated me delightfully and were, to me, my
extended family members. I remember clearly…it was a Sunday afternoon and my parents had left early that morning to visit and spend the day with Joan, whose boarding school was some distance away. At Springfield, as the property and home were called, the other members of the family were about their normal Sunday chores. Suddenly, my grandma came running downstairs to say she smelled wood burning and saw smoke coming from the direction of the roof, into the bedroom, through the opened window. At this comment all talking and movement ceased, as everyone assimilated that frightening statement. In an instant the house...
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