Zoa’s Arks

By William M. Trently

Despite their longing for a better world, people aren’t trying hard enough. If you’re distressed by that, Zoa’s Arks offers a place to share rage, and may nudge a few people to try harder.

Bilal, whose family is tragically affected by a racial hate crime, becomes disillusioned with slow social progress. A college friend muses that humans might expedite change by embracing “some sort of bigger education” that evokes oneness based on science and history. Initially skeptical, Bilal adopts her idea.

He is later touched by an account of a man who aids a wild animal hit by a car. Bilal wonders how the world would be if more people acted with such compassion. He travels globally and is heartbroken by how people mistreat each other and other animals. He sees these oppressions intersect.

Bilal works hard advocating for all lives, but folks remain sluggish to reform. Dismissing his friend’s warnings, he resorts to helping a mysterious individual named Zoa carry out an apocalyptic scheme that expedites change by force. This alters life on Earth and creates unexpected hardships, but delivers an immediate victory to animals and an opportunity for humanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781663257031

William M. Trently

William M. Trently received a bachelor's degree in biology from the University of Scranton in 1982 and D.M.D. from the University of Pittsburgh School of Dental Medicine in 1986. He served twenty years in the U.S. Navy Dental Corps, achieving the rank of Commander. Doctor Trently maintains a solo practice in Farmington, New Hampshire and is a member of the American Dental Association, New Hampshire Dental Society, and Seacoast Dental Society.

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ZOA’SARKS

Copyright © 2023 William M. Trently.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6632-5704-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-5703-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023919415

iUniverse rev. date: 10/19/2023

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter One

Although Bilal had always found a way to see rainbows in people, he finally admitted the colors were now slipping away. It was like streaks of broken hair dye running down oily, pimply, wrinkled cheeks. This sad acknowledgement happened during an otherwise satisfyingly wonderful road trip north. That’s also when he accepted the burden of repairing this unbearable situation.

The adventure began on a day in August of 2012 infiltrated by temperatures in the mid-nineties, the sun’s harpoons of heat fully unleashed, uninhibited, into a cloudless azure summer sky. Wearing a headband to wick the sweat, Bilal rolled down the car’s front windows and drove without air-conditioning, preferring the rush of the breeze from the open road. He wrapped sunglasses around his eyes to tame the glare and would travel about three hours from his seacoast home to reach his destination.

He stopped to fuel up.

It’s a hot one today, said a hefty man who was finishing pumping gas adjacent to the fuel dispenser Bilal was using.

Yes it is, Bilal said.

The man waited for a receipt. When it failed to print, the man who looked like he enjoyed an occasional brawl sighed loudly and jabbed his oversized thumb several times into the touchscreen as if that would get it to work.

You gotta be kidding…out of paper again, he said and began forcefully and repeatedly punching the machine with his enormous hand, now to punish it.

Hey, buddy, settle down. You’re a good guy. You don’t want to break something. That won’t fix it, Bilal said.

This happens way too often.

I hear you. It happens to me, too, and it’s frustrating, Bilal said to the stranger, intentionally laughing to try to deescalate the tension. Next time, it’ll be my turn to get jerked around.

Okay, okay. The man calmed down and even chuckled. He walked toward the store, shaking his head, and looked back and waved before entering to get his cash register-generated receipt.

Bilal thought, what a pleasant surprise—I just acted more like my old self, something I haven’t been lately.

He finished pumping.

The man returned, now smiling, still shaking his head. As he was getting into his car, he yelled over to Bilal, Thanks. I was so mad I think I would of broke my hand.

Probably not, Bilal said, looking again at the man’s hands, but maybe the machine.

Bilal drove off. Having felt useful, he smiled contentedly, but then had to laugh because, although serious, the brief encounter was a little comical, too.

Were it a person, Bilal’s trustworthy BMW would likely feel the same as he did, that this relaxed journey heading north was a respite from the rigors of the more demanding work commute to and from Boston. In addition to being hard on the engine and other parts, that risky ride they endured together five days a week required the operator to frequently veer clear of distracted drivers swerving unpredictably, a nail-biter ordeal for the car, which was obviously always wishing to keep itself together in one piece. It would keep its fingers crossed, hoping Bilal employed undivided attention and sharp reflexes as they maneuvered across lanes of wall-to-wall traffic to get to highway exits. And the car would petition the gods that the driver be sure to watch for suddenly-appearing emergency vehicles and not become exhausted from the repetitive braking whenever they were trapped in stop-and-go traffic jams. It would also knock on any wood it could find, begging that the windshield be spared from vision-impairing, wiper-challenging splat dropped by patrolling seagulls.

But those problems were pleasantly missing during this trek up north, the shiny, clean automobile heading in the opposite direction from all that chaos and physical abuse.

Bilal was thoroughly relaxed, taking in the surroundings while quietly listening to Blood On the Tracks with the volume low so the music sounded muffled and distant, as if coming from somewhere in another room in a large building. After that album concluded, he was in the mood for sax, so he switched to Germfree Adolescents and raised the volume. The rest of the time, he left the music off and bonded instead with the bouncing, rolling mechanical sounds of a vehicle navigating over a river of pavement.

After passing through the Lakes Region, Bilal was absorbed into scenic mountains and notches and valleys, and the scent of pine and other evergreens was almost everywhere. And in this peaceful setting, he could finally begin catching up with his racing thoughts, which had started to overwhelm him, ideas he chose to keep bottled up entirely to himself.

The car passed through a long stretch of a no-house-for-miles road before reaching an incessantly-winding slow-your-life-down-now thoroughfare. It did not involve speed but, to Bilal that day, it was better than riding a hold-on-to-your-hat roller-coaster. What an enjoyable drive, he thought.

Forty-eight-year-old Bilal was not a multi-talented hyphenate like some amazing people he knew. Still, he was a conscientious individual who worked in the corporate world and was successful there, selling ideas and managing personnel. He knew how to play the game and had built a productive career. He constantly strived to sustain his moral ideals and characteristic optimism. He went out of his way for clients, coworkers, and anyone else who passed through his zone of activity. He worked hard, got things done, and was well-paid for his efforts.

Earlier in the year, one of his newest coworkers, hired just out of college the year before, found himself on hard times. For a few months, Bilal observed him working diligently and competently on a very important high-level, time-sensitive project. This particular assignment demanded that the associate persistently work late hours. He was achieving steady, significant progress, but then, suddenly, not only did he lose most of his belongings when a fluke microburst rolled through the neighborhood to destroy his apartment, but he also had to deal with the untimely death of his mother from a rapidly-progressing pancreatic cancer.

To make matters even worse, these tragic personal circumstances occurred during the final two weeks of the work project, at the end of which stood its absolute and unforgiving deadline. This unfortunate timing would force him to be apart from his family in a time of great misfortune; he had no choice but to continue working overtime.

Bilal approached the distressed individual, offering to tie up all loose ends personally.

Go home early, be with your family. At four each day, I’ll stick around for as long as it takes and get this wrapped up for you, Bilal said. The young man at first politely refused, not wanting to be a burden, but Bilal insisted, saying, Please, please let me do this for you. I don’t mind. He talked him into allowing him to do it. Bilal stayed to work late into the night for several days.

The evening before everything would be due, it took Bilal three hours or so to render the finishing glaze to the project. A feeling of great satisfaction filled him and he said a short prayer for his coworker.

Before turning off all the lights, he glanced at his watch and realized he had enough time to get to the public library where a panel discussion would be held. He’d read about it in the morning newspaper and figured that as long as he was still in Boston and the topic interested him, he might as well check it out before driving home.

Upon arrival at the program, he was pleasantly surprised to discover that an old college friend would make up one-fourth of the panel: Ramona Santagato, whom he had not seen since graduation decades ago. At the University of Scranton, they were together in several classes. He remembered Sister Joan’s classical music course that required what many declared an inordinate amount of time and effort for a mere elective course. However, Ramona and Bilal disagreed with that sentiment, as they spent countless hours thoroughly enjoying themselves in the special room listening to Beethoven, Haydn, and Mozart recordings. They traded laughs and bounced ideas off each other as they plodded through the voluminous assignments.

They were amused by Sr. Joan’s entertaining style and passion for teaching. She would drop the needle down several times onto a vinyl record as she attempted to locate a specific point in a musical composition, producing explosions of sound and unsettling scratches until she found the desired spot. She would ask the class, What’s going on here with this music? What do you hear? She would get everyone involved, and they would comment about brass instruments, a coda, something innovative, or whatever else was significant. And when the orchestra really got going, she’d insist everyone tap their feet. It was a demanding course, but she made it fun and memorable.

The How To Simplify Your Life presentation commenced at the Boston Public Library. One panelist explained how to set up a smart house that would spare you from pushing so many buttons and switches and coordinate all your house’s gadgets so everything could work together to be totally efficient and controlled by simple voice commands. Another spoke about finding simplicity by getting closer to nature by rowing her strawberry shortcake-shaped boats while attending her summer camp program. A third presenter was an organic cannabis grower who ran a dispensary and touted the benefits of his wide array of products.

Ms. Santagato reached for larger ideas. Featuring books she authored, one entitled The World is Around You but You are in Your Own Nightmare, she said life on Earth is already complicated and dangerous because of natural forces such as hurricanes, earthquakes, asteroids, and other perils, but humans made it significantly more complex and precarious than it needed to be because of the nightmare we have created: our hyper-selfishness. She deemed it hyper, to highlight an outrageously extreme degree of selfishness that went far beyond what we normally define selfishness to even be. She suggested that we can simplify life by getting rid of this nightmare, a destructive flood of our own making.

Ramona Santagato, with her deep voice and calm delivery, explained, "You can’t be hyper-selfish and cause no harm. Hyper-selfishness complicates life. We want more and more things—cars, a boat, freedom, food, shelter, love, comfort, a heated cordless deep-tissue foot massager with multicolored flashing lights, and so on—and this is okay. But a healthy quest to attain these has devolved into an over-the-top selfishness that leads us to do whatever it takes to get what we want while paying little regard to the harmful consequences we inflict, often unknowingly, upon others as well as upon ourselves.

"We become aloof and lose sight of a team mission and camaraderie in a world where people are not loved, valued, respected, or treated with kindness. We’re not concerned enough to seriously take all the steps to ensure every person—no matter what race, gender, ethnicity, sexual orientation, immigration status, income level, disability, et cetera—has the opportunity to achieve personal goals and develop unique abilities to the fullest, free from discrimination, exploitation and oppression.

"We find ourselves isolated from reality as we become more comfortable in our plush living rooms and luxury cars, unaware or apathetic to what is going on outside where other living beings suffer the harm brought on by our relentlessly selfish actions. The deficiency of self-restraint opens the door to a habit of casual disposal of things, people, animals, and moral principles when these get in the way of what we want. When we discard our values by lying, we cause harm to people and other creatures, and the earth, adding to the complexity of modern life and obstructing society’s progress. When we dispose of fairness, people suffer in the talons of injustice and other atrocities.

And as we acquire more perks, a sense of superiority begins to surround us and we then work only half-heartedly, if at all, to end the atrocities brought on by our selfishness lest we rock the boat which might threaten to divest us of our acquisitions and status. And the sheer abundance of such an extreme level of systemic selfishness forces society to counter our poor behavior by relying on the more expedient external restraints like laws and regulations, threat of punishment, tamper-proof packaging, and expensive security systems to try to rein in and regulate people’s behavior, all while neglecting the more desirable cultivation of internal restraint whereby each individual would self-regulate his or her own behavior, a remedy less expensive and less cumbersome that would promote initiative and innovation…and simplify life.

She urged people to read her books for more detailed development of these central ideas.

"You really have to think big to see how getting rid of hyper-selfishness from the larger world around you would make your own life less complicated. As you can tell, I’m not much of a public speaker, so it is better to read what I have written to get that big picture—I promise you it is not as verbose and tangled; it just explains it better, I think.

Now, to be sure, I think humans throughout the world are, in general, good people, but our character is gradually being tugged and twisted downward as we are all, to varying extents, sucked together into this whirlpool of ultra-selfishness, often in subtle ways of which we are not even aware.

She suggested various things people could do to resist this so the doors to human progress could be fully opened.

Simplicity in life would be nice. It would be the opposite of everything that super-selfishness represents. Simplicity would exist when everyone had the freedom to pursue personal dreams; when everyone was truly happy, confident, and at ease; when everyone was healthy and safe; when everyone exercised self-restraint, abandoned selfishness, and became mindful to cause no harm; when everyone was free from discrimination and injustice. Simplicity would exist because everyone would feel loved and significant in a world infused with respect and kindness.

And then, in a stunning bit of performance art, she offered a poignant encore.

But today our lives are not bestowed with simplicity. We remember Vincent Chin and his family and friends; Matthew Shepard and his family and friends; Addie Mae Collins, Cynthia Wesley, Carole Robertson, and Carol Denise McNair and their families and friends; Victor Jara and his family and friends; Balbir Singh Sodhi and his family and friends; Dr. Chee Long Tong, Wong Chin, Wing Chee, and the sixteen others and their families and friends; Rami Arafat Rajabi and twenty-eight others killed and one-hundred twenty-five who were wounded, some left paralyzed, at the Cave of the Patriarchs; we also do not forget their families and friends; Trayvon Martin and his family and friends; Big Foot and the nearly three-hundred other people killed and fifty-one wounded, some who died later, at Wounded Knee; we also do not forget their families and friends…

Santagato, while continuing to recite names of victims of bias-motivated violence to highlight the darkest side of systemic hyper-selfishness, stood up from her seat on stage and began distancing herself from the mic, her voice trailing off in the distance the farther she moved away from it.

Genevieve Bergeron and the thirteen other young women murdered, and the fourteen other people wounded in Montreal, and their families and friends.

Entirely out of the microphone’s range, she continued slowly walking offstage while raising her voice to acknowledge more names.

Anne and Margot Frank and the others hidden behind the bookcase, and their families and friends; the people from the Cheyenne and Arapajo tribes, mostly women and children, killed and mutilated at Sand Creek, Colorado, and their families and friends; Truganini and her family and friends…

As these uncomfortable minutes continued, she eventually returned to the stage, still calling up from memory names of individuals badly treated on this Earth. No less than sixty incidents were enumerated. She finished in a whisper at the microphone, out of breath as if drained and disgusted by such a huge list bleeding out, reminding everyone of situations that happened, and apologizing for not being able to finish the recitation, which would likely take me fifty years.

Bilal found it intriguing how Ramona made a point of including family and friends as victims too. He was fascinated by her leaving the microphone and stage while continuing to try to make her way through all the names, as if indicating the list is so long that an allotted time to present onstage would never be adequate, the task instead incessantly ongoing, following you everywhere you go.

He listened to the entire discussion and Q&A session, thinking to himself, wow, I see my old friend has a lot to say. That is not how I remember her; she was always taciturn.

By the conclusion of the program he was visibly affected, recognizing that Ramona had just evoked many of the same issues with which he too had become particularly concerned.

He made his way to the stage where people were greeting the presenters. He looked younger than his age. His hair was short, neatly-trimmed, and black, as it was years ago, although now with a few grays showing up, and he had a three-day stubble on his chin. Ramona instantly recognized him. It was a serendipitous reunion, an opportunity to rekindle an old friendship.

We lost touch completely since the university. And I had no idea you were an author, Bilal said.

Haha, a philosophical author of no known particular significance, Ramona said as she chuckled.

Bilal gazed at Ramona and recognized the same thin lips and full eyebrows that he always admired, and she looked flattering in her black wrap dress.

In their ensuing conversation, Bilal learned that Ramona lived in the same small state of New Hampshire as he, yet neither had heard anything about the other over all the years. In addition, Bilal discovered they both collected anthracite coal.

My friend from coal cracker country, Ramona said, agitating her straight, shoulder-length black hair as she tipped her head back to laugh. They grew up with the coal mining legacy of Northeastern Pennsylvania, where the abundant sedimentary rock was used to fuel the Industrial Revolution.

Bilal smiled. It was always said if we were bad we would get coal in our stocking hung by the fireplace. It was supposed to be a bad thing. No one wanted dirty coal for Christmas.

Except me—I would not have minded. Does that make me bad? Ramona joked.

Yes, then we’re both bad. Bilal said. I once gave my younger brother a beautifully shiny chunk of coal that I sincerely thought was a very nice birthday gift. I meant well, but he got angry and cried and returned it back to me by rolling it on the floor. I was crushed. Very sad and disappointed that he rejected my gift.

Two audience members sauntered over to meet Ramona, so now Bilal had to move on. But before he did, he told her, What you said in your presentation was very interesting to me.

We should get together some time. Why not come to my house to talk more and see my coal collection? Ramona said.

And this is where Bilal was headed on that hot summer day in New England—to visit his friend up north.

Chapter Two

Bilal and his wife, Laura, had always enjoyed taking their two children, now grown up and on their own, on road trips throughout New England, especially to their favorite destination, Vermont. He remembered those sweet days now. They would pack a few things, start driving, and make a day of it, sometimes sleeping over and heading home the next morning after breakfast, other times staying longer.

On one of those overnighters in a remote campground, they forgot to bring toothpaste. Bilal insisted he find a store and drove all over the countryside by himself. Laura and the kids just laughed and shook their heads in disbelief when he finally returned three hours later after stumbling upon a place that sold something called Toms of Vermont Gingermint Toothpaste. Bilal would find it to have the best flavor he ever tasted, and it did not sting his tongue. It would become his go-to and, as he discovered, was actually available in stores around his home; he had just never noticed it before.

But after a few years of paradise, it was more difficult to obtain. He would drive from store to store in search of it. One time, when he turned the corner into the dental products aisle in Rite Aid, he was immediately jolted by the sight of a tall, athletic woman with a similar look of desperation—as well as what he perceived to be the longest arms in the world. She entered the aisle from the opposite end while peering intently at, yes, the one remaining box of gingermint on the shelf. His heart sunk when he realized that, despite their equidistant positions from the target, she would likely snatch it before he could, owing to her well-endowed reach.

Surprising even himself, he then made an uncharacteristic, shameless, last-ditch effort to propel himself toward it, to grab it before her fully-extended extremity could. But as he tactlessly lunged forward, he tripped and fell to the floor.

The startled woman, box of toothpaste gripped firmly in her hand and raised high above her head as if it were a trophy, looked down at him.

Are you all right? she asked.

I’m fine, he mumbled. Must have lost my footing.

He quickly picked himself up, wondering how it was possible for him to have acted so dastardly, and brushed the dust off his clothes as he watched her stride to the checkout.

His eyes returned to the shelf, where he inserted his hands into the now-empty slot, reaching behind, between, and under other products in the vicinity, hoping that a gingermint might have been displaced away from immediate sight. Unlucky at that, he exited the store. His luck further tumbled when he arrived home unsatisfied and spent two hours online and on the phone, finally contacting a half-congenial customer service rep at Tom’s, who explained that, for some reason of which she was unaware, the company had made the decision to cease production of that particular flavor.

Laura, who never really cared for that brand, just rolled her eyes. You’re crazy. When you want something, you just don’t stop until you get it. She laughed.

He smiled when recalling that story while driving north on that boiling hot summer day on the way to Ramona’s house.

There were not many vehicles on the roads. A truck hauling felled trees passed him on its way to the lumber mill. A large contingent of bicyclists moved along the southbound side of the road. He figured they were with a group traveling from the northernmost reaches of New Hampshire at the Canadian border south through the mountains and lakes regions all the way down to the seacoast. He read about it online. Because he was accustomed to personally riding shorter, twenty-mile jaunts, he appreciated that pedaling a bike two-hundred fifty miles over three days across the state would be an ominous challenge for him, but potentially a fun way to more intimately get to know New Hampshire.

Laura had been a high school basketball star and always kept herself in great shape. She competitively ran 5ks regularly throughout the year. She had a daily stretching regimen first thing every morning; if she missed it for some reason, she tended to be grumpy throughout the rest of the day. Bilal chuckled to himself. He always made it a point to never interrupt her morning exercises.

He drove past a general store, which retailed a wide variety of goods, supplies, and equipment to this sparsely populated district. A large bus was stopped at a McDonald’s parking lot and throngs of tourists were in line to get on, probably having just finished eating a meal during a brief pause before continuing to their next sight-seeing destination. Further down the road was a popular attraction where a chainsaw artist cut wooden sculptures of bears and other animals and displayed his wares on the grassy yard in front of his workshop.

Ten years had elapsed since, while on a business trip to North Carolina, Laura entered a convenience store to buy orange juice when a short guy with scruffy facial hair, wearing a T-shirt with the words White Supremacy stamped on it, walked in and began demanding all the money at the cash register. He kept waving around a handgun. Laura asked him to stop what he was doing. He told her to mind her own business.

When he got his loot, he turned to leave but then stopped to point his gun at Laura and said, And you, such a piece of crap, I hate your incompleteness—you animals took form so far below ourselves. Far below us.

He swiveled around to look at everyone else in the store, all caucasians, and said, So incomplete and far below us… as if attempting in his own perverse way to seek their sympathy and a justification.

Laura had her empty hands up and calmly shook her head in disapproval. He yelled, Go back to Africa where you belong. Here, I’ll help you… And just like that, he shot her in the head and ran out of the building. Laura hung on for ten minutes, then died. The police chased the shooter down, killing him in the ensuing firefight.

An almost-hidden lake could be partially seen through the densely-situated trees off the road’s right shoulder. Bilal could make out that it was a fair-sized body of water. He could also discern, barely through the trees, small cottages at the water’s edge. It must be nice, he thought, to sit outside in front of one of those isolated summer dwellings for hours at a time, just taking in the solitude; yeah, sitting in a lawn chair overlooking the lake must be nice.

Bilal and Laura had been a team of kindness, their generous actions played out quietly without fanfare, revealing a genuine caring for people and belief in the inherent goodness of society. The biracial couple had been admired by everyone in their community, including other parents they met through their kid’s school activities. More than one person described them and their children as a beautiful young family.

Since Laura’s death, Bilal raised the children and watched them graduate from college, and he mostly kept to himself, leading a quieter life. So incomplete and far below us—North Carolina officials told him what the gunman said, so odd a statement, based on several eyewitness accounts. Those words hurt him deeply every time he remembered them.

A mailbox indicating 124 Bunker Hill Avenue, the destination, was mounted along the wooded country road. Bilal pulled into the paved driveway, which started out flat but then ascended steeply as part of a five-hundred-foot-long, narrow way leading to the top of a hill. At the summit was a magnificent panoramic view of the countryside below. There was a small area for parking and turning around, nestled in between a contemporary house and a detached two-story two-car garage. There were no other dwellings.

He stopped the car and saw a gray flagstone walkway leading to the house’s front door. Two young children, a boy and girl, were sitting on the ground on one side of the pavers, an assortment of toys spread out before them. Ramona sat in a lawn chair, watching over them. She appeared to be completely enjoying herself as she interacted with the children. Looking up at Bilal, who had just gotten out of the car, she smiled and waved, then turned back to the children, issuing directions to them to stay put. She walked over to the visitor.

Hello, Bilal. Nice that you made it up here.

Great to see you again.

And likewise. These are our friends’ children, three and four years old, spending time with us until later in the day. This is the second opportunity I’ve had to be their babysitter. They’re adorable. My husband, Tomas, should be out momentarily.

The children were playing with little plastic dinosaur figures arranged on the mostly dirt ground that had intermittent patches of sparse grass and a few weeds, sprinkled over with fallen pine needles.

Looks like you’re having fun with those dinosaurs, Bilal said to them.

Dinosaurs used to live on Earth but they don’t anymore, the boy replied.

The younger child added, "They went uh stink."

Bilal nodded, even though he did not initially know what she was trying to say, but a moment later laughed when he realized she meant extinct. He knelt down to get closer to the play area and said, Yeah, they’re all gone. Those dinosaurs, they are extinct.

Tomas emerged from inside the small house, which had an exterior of rough-hewn unfinished wood and a porch that began at the walkway and wrapped itself around to the other side of the structure. The house was surrounded by robust, tall pine trees, one whose trunk had even grown into the porch’s wooden railing, forming a unique, intimate contact. Bilal thought, this really is the definition of a forest home.

Welcome, nice to meet you, Tomas said as they shook hands. Bilal observed that they stood at the same height, and Tomas was slim, with moderately-long gray hair and wire frame glasses.

You are very isolated up here on this hill, Bilal replied, noting his professorial appearance and friendly, unassuming demeanor.

Yes, very much so. We have eighteen acres of pristine protected land. There are well-delineated trails that meander through the property, which extends behind the house, down a brief slope and then straight back a bit of a distance before hooking to the right, he pointed behind the house. So it’s an L-shaped piece of land. It’s listed as conservation land and cannot be developed. The adjacent properties are not conservation land but fortunately are currently undeveloped, so there’s lots of wild terrain to hike, snowshoe, and cross-country ski through. And we don’t see many humans passing through here.

Nice.

A group of squirrels were chasing each other around the small yard, scurrying up and down the tree trunks and branches. Bilal looked skyward and was amazed at how high the trees reached. He thought they must be at least a hundred feet tall. Two squirrels leapt directly over his head from one branch to another and he was able to get a great view of their underbellies as they soared across.

Those are our tree creatures, Ramona