It was late one summer over forty years ago when the world had not yet come to know a decadence it has since come to know all too well that my father and I went to see a Mr. Cadness, a man so fabulously rich that he had his own wildcat preserve and helicopter and who journeyed on private safaris throughout the globe. A man who might possibly hold the answers to the money problems that plagued our family farm.
So it was that while I played with one of the big cats and toyed with making a headband out of rags found in the road in the spirit of the age (this was after all the ‘70s) that my father and this very tall, rich man whom I regarded as oh-so cool shook hands on a business deal to be finalized at a later date. And so it was after his wildcat was tied down for the day and all seemed well with all that we knew in this great big world of ours that Mr. Cadness walked off to his heliport for yet another adventure. Another adventure, that is, that was not to be.
“Mr. Cadness!” I called out with awe and wonder at this cool man who’d let me play with his wildcats all as he walked off to the sanctity of that winged bird as dust plumes rose around us.
“Mr. Cadness!” I yelled to this ever so patient man who forbore my playing with rags in the dirt of his estate as his head rose ever so gently, gently forward.
And “Mr. Cadness!” I shouted at this extremely tall man as he rose up past the reach of the helicopter’s whirling silver blades.
So it was then as my father held me tight that the head of this extremely tall, cool, rich, ever so patient man went rolling in the dirt at our feet. All as another heart beat to a close.
By
Will Mayo
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