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America's Future is Still on the Farm🇺🇸

Updated: Oct 20, 2023



In the United States of America, you can be whoever you want to be, but a person who plants seeds into the ground to feed the world is a special individual. It is never too late or too early to become the person you aspire to be, but there are specific time frames for commencing or concluding. Time has no rules, and we can either make the best or worst of our lives. I hope you choose to make the best of yours and experience moments that surprise and captivate you. May you stop in your tracks and take notice of special moments, feel emotions you have never experienced before, and ponder them with a warm and happy heart. It is my wish that you encounter individuals with diverse perspectives on life. Ultimately, it is my hope that you live a fulfilling life that makes you proud. If you find that you are not, I hope you have the strength to begin again. This life, this time, is the only one that you have. The front door to Plantation Hill is open, so come on in.



PROLOGUE to the novel PLANTATION HILL


Our home was always bustling with people coming and going. Despite being an only child, I never felt I was the only child, because the house was always filled with people. The family daily conversations often revolved around, how can we help feed the world.


My nickname is Tee, and my legal name is Thomas Ace Hart III. I was named after my late grandfather, Thomas King Hart Sr., and my father, Thomas Jack Hart Jr. The Hart family sticks together like a deck of cards.


My nanny, Ms. Willy May Bell Parker, was my constant companion and caregiver throughout my childhood. She would scold me and warn me to listen up or face the consequences. After school, she would meet me at the front door with a warm smile and cookies hidden in her apron pocket. We would go to the kitchen and talk for hours. Ms. Willy May sharing exciting stories and fascinating facts about life. I affectionately called her the nanny word whisperer because of the way she told stories.


My father always said that nobody could fiddle fart in kitchen quite like Ms. Willy May. She was an excellent cook and knew her way around the kitchen. Although Ms. Willy May is not from our neck of the woods and is not white, I never classified her by race; she was more like a coloring book full of fun. She taught me that it was okay to color outside the lines because it helps build character to question the rules. After doodling and connecting the dots on all the characters in my coloring book, she’d examine it and approve my artwork. And say, that’s as good as fried chicken and mash taters and gravy, alongside all those edible veggies and my delicious Jell-O fruit marshmallow salad. She compared everything to food.


Ms. Willy May's birthplace was North Carolina, and she always painted vivid pictures in my mind of her family's struggles while growing up. Her siblings would travel to the East coast they called down east. They would work all day while their her mother

CC Sugar could buy cigarettes and liquor and sleep all day. They earned a dollar per child, but Ms. Willy May's dream was to see the Atlantic Ocean.


She told me stories about their trips down east in an old Wilcox Motor pickup truck, standing in one spot for hours, packing in the back like sardines. At the end of each story, she would remind me I needed to grow up to be like my father because he was a fine man.



When I was little feller, Ms. Willy May and I would play this game. We’d hold our hands out flat and pretend to read each other’s palms. Her hands were soft—her fingernails snow white. The palms of her hands were a carnation pink color that always smelled of bleach, and the top of her hands was licorice black and glittered with sparkles of gold. I thought her hands were magical. My hands were pale white and small next to hers. She would examine my hands and I remember she’d get serious and point to a line on my palm. She’d say right there is my fortune to do great things with my hands. God made hands for loving and should never cause pain. The hands and eyes can tell a fortune about a person.


Ms. Willy May would rub the palm of my hand carefully. She’d explain that Jupiter is just above my index finger, and under that is the Ring of Solomon. This spot determines if a person can serve others for the better good of mankind and they will live a wealthy life, and reveals the portrayal of the persons character. And if they have the power to give up your worldly riches for the greater good. All those tiny lines crisscrossed on the hand have a purpose. When she read my palm it made me think about my future. And then, I’d tell her; her hand’s fortune is for cooking and fiddle-farting. Then she’d say, boy, go wash your hands.


I’ve lived all my life at Plantation Hill white mansion with a red door. I’m not a traveling man, I’m just an ordinary man who loves to grow the gift of Mother Nature from my hands. I love where God put me. Right here in sunny Florida, in the middle of an orange grove where money grows on trees.


"The miracle of birth is like fruit on a tree. We are conceived by a seed, and squeeze through the body of our mother to bloom and grow.” – Jackie Lynaugh





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