"This is magnificent,” exclaimed Patrick Calhoun. He sat crosslegged on a park bench, under a large tree of course. Too idyllic. An extensive cemetery—Lake View Cemetary—surrounded him, capitalized by the immense (understatement) stone cylinder in front of him. Inside rested the body of James A. Garfield. “I’d love nothing more than for the people of this fine city to come and experience the tremendous beauty of the landscape,” he added, huffing and puffing. Every syllable with an “oh” sound almost sent him tumbling backwards off of the bench. Everything else sounded like he didn’t say it. Calhoun’s twenty-one year old son stood in front of him, recording every word his father uttered on a notepad. “I’ve been thinking, and the more I’ve thought the better my thoughts become, you see?”
“Yes, sir.” His son nodded his head.
“Now, I’ve been thinking about this city and its people, and my meditations have lead me to an image of a vast, connected system of trains and street-cars, which could offer its passengers—even those who live three dozen miles from the city, perhaps—an indubitable and quick method of transportation. Now, my conversations with several like-minded, hardworking citizens have revealed a key social element in this particular equation: situated on the border of this fine city is a displeasing niche, a pocket of dirt-poor Italian immigrants. Those who I’ve talked to have told me to avoid placing a stop on this geographically-ideal location. However, my studies of the landscape have brought me an alternative. On the Mayfield Road, just past this cemetary, is a small intersection with Coventry Road. It’s nothing more than an insignificant dirt road, but there’s room to grow, comercially I mean.” He stood up and surveyed the area. “Yes, I feel I’ve birthed a tremendous idea.”
His son, with furrowed brow, finished his recording, looked up at his father, and closed the notebook.
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