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In the mid-summer heat of July, I pulled into the Harts Fas Chek parking lot on my bus with the Haley-McCoy grave bearing strongly on my mind. Early the next morning, Billy, Brandon, and I drove over to Presto’s Garden and made our way up the hillside toward Milt’s grave, cringing at the destruction wrought by bulldozers. The land was scarred and brush was everywhere. There was a wide road recently forged into the side of the mountain, which seemed to be sliding gently down the hillside like thick tears or even blood from the earth’s gaping wounds. It led right up to the grave. There was a bulldozer trail leading down below the grave to a pile of scrap wood, a trail cutting beside the grave leading on up into the hollow, and the entire Low Gap side of the grave area was scraped bare. Nearby, a dozer whirred and rumbled, tossing logs in neatly stacked piles. Somehow the grave was safe from destruction, but this special place was violated after one hundred and seven years of peace and solitude.

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