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Old Fagan's Farm, officially, "Top O' The Hill" Farm, was the largest, most fertile property in the community.  Nearly one hundred acres stretched and sprawled as green as an emerald and the prettiest in the county.   It had been in the Fagan family for five generations.  Old Fagan was proud that Washington's troops had passed by his farm on their way to Fort Monmouth.

The enormous faded red barn, filled with stacks and stacks of drying hay and grain was reminiscent of an old postcard.  To the right of the barn was a smaller stable where Old Fagan kept his six horses, bay geldings mostly.  

Their farmhouse stood at the center front of their property.  It was a two-story white frame with dark red shutters, a wrap-around front porch and long double-hung windows.   Two wooden rockers with a painted wooden table between them, sat on the west end, while a large log swing for two sat on the east side of the long porch.

Old Fagan arose every morning at four.  He walked to the stable and allowed his horses to roam free over the expanse of farmland.  Then, he did the same with his chickens.  Old Fagan had a single rooster, a Rhode Island red that served as the small farming community's reliable alarm clock.  He called his favorite horse "TR" which he pronounced like "teeyar".   Then, he would head out to tend the expanse of corn fields that meandered as far as the eye could see.

Mrs. Fagan, in her colorful calico daydress and ever-present white apron, kept a small vegetable and herb garden by the side of their long driveway, nearest their weathered garage.  She grew everything she needed to prepare her simple, but healthy, meals:  tomatoes, peppers, celery, lettuce, rhubarb, parsley, garlic bulbs, eggplant, squash, onion and even potatoes.  Her herb garden had feathery strands of dill, small tree-like plants of rosemary, bright green stalks of sage, chive and thyme.   From a distance, the colors seemed painted by an artist.

Everything about Old Fagan's Farm was neatly arranged in checkerboard fashion.  A cement walk led up to the front porch and was lined on both sides with strawberry plants.  In late spring when the strawberries were ripe, the scent of this lucious fruit was as tempting as Eve's apple.  Mrs. Fagan loved flowers too.  So, she kept a flower garden on the west side of the house where the morning and afternoon sun provided the warmth needed to blossom spectacular floral display of scarlet dahlias, pink and purple petunias, orange, white and yellow gladiolas, coral, white and red four o'clocks and deep indigo delphinium.  And her most favorite flower:  Sweet William.  A whole area of the garden was dedicated to them.

The Fagan's children had long ago grown and left the farm for the city.  But, there remained a rope swing in the huge chestnut tree that stood between their house and the huge barn. 

Year after year, Old Fagan and his wife tended their farm.  Their pleasures were simple:  cool breezes on a summer evening while sitting in their rocking chairs or on their swing, waving to neighbor farmers as they rode by, or just  enjoying strawberry rhubarb pie and a cold glass of lemonade. Mrs. Fagan's homemade elderberry ice cream was a special treat on the hottest summer evenings.  

Old Fagan seemed to walk more slowly as days went by.  And Mrs. Fagan bent ever more slowly over her gardens.  They seemed to fade like an old photograph.  Old Mr. Fagan hoped one of his three sons or son-in-law would come and take over their family farm.   Sometimes, it seemed as if it would never happen. 

One autumn afternoon when Fagan's farm was ablaze in orange, crimson and yellow foliage, a man dressed in a natty blue suit and a grey felt hat waved to Old Fagan.  He walked down his driveway toward the stranger.  "Somethin' I can help you with, mister?", Old Fagan said.  "Well, I hope so.", the stranger replied.  "I'm Howard Kadish.  I'm a  developer.  I buy up old farms and give farmers a good price for their land.", he said.  "Not for sale.", Old Fagan said turning back toward his driveway.  "Wait.  I'm offering a good price....How does $50,000 sound to you?", he continued.  " I say....Not for sale.", Old Fagan repeated.  "Look, you and the missus are getting on in years.  You can't possibly take care of this huge place all by yourself.  And, you'd be making it possible for others to have the home of their dreams once your land is subdivided.", Kadish said.  "I told you....I'm not selling.", Old Fagan said adamantly, his annoyance growing.  "Now, get off my land."  "You'll be sorry you didn't take me up on my offer.  Your neighbor, Mr. Redmond, he's already signed the papers to sell his farm just next to yours, up the road a little.", Kadish continued.

"Nothing more to talk about.", Old Fagan said.  He turned and walked away, shaking his head.  That evening he told his wife that the Redmond farm was sold to "that wiry little developer who's been buying up community farmland."  Mrs. Fagan shook her head sadly.  "We have a letter from Joe.  He thinks he wants to move back here to the farm to help you out.", she said.  Their son, Joe, the eldest of their children, now married and with two children of his own, had moved to the city.  He found that city life just wasn't for him.  Now, he wanted to return to the peace and harmony of farm life.  What good was a bigger salary if it all went to taxes, utilities and rent?  Besides, Joe recognized that his parents were aging and soon would be too infirm to care for their farm. 

Old Fagan and his wife were thrilled.  There was plenty of room upstairs for their grandkids and they would love the chickens and horses. 

A month before Joe and his family were to move back home, Kadish appeared again.  He tried to convince Old Fagan to sell.  "What are you going to do?  Be the last farm in the community?", Kadish asked.  "Construction of more than seven hundred homes is going to start on the old Redmond Farm very soon.  They're all city people who want to live in the country too, you know.", Kadish continued.  "I said my farm isn't for sale.  And next month, my son and his family intend to move back here and help out.", Old Fagan said.  "That's not going to help.  Your property taxes are going to go through the roof. You won't be able to sustain an affordable living.", Kadish taunted.  "How do you figure?", Old Fagan asked.  "Once the new homeowners move in, your community will have to increase municipal services.  The township is already planning to pave that road out there.  Then, there's the cost to pick up their trash, snow plowing in winter, the additional lines to supply water and sewerage.  All that is going to be a burden on those in the community with the largest acreages." Kadish said.  "This property's been in my family for five generations, six now that my son is going to take it over.", Old Fagan said angrily.  It's not for sale. Now, get off my land!", Old Fagan bellowed. 

Kadish had friends on the governing body of the township.  He decided that he would just have to take matters into his own hands.  He had lunch with the director of zoning and planning, Tom Kaiser.  "Tom, look, that old man, Fagan,  won't sell.  Is there anything you can do?", Kadish asked.  "No.  Nothing that zoning or planning can do.  Why not give Ken Zirpolo a shout?  He's running for mayor come November, you know.  For the right amount of money, he might come around to see your plight.", Tom said.  Tom was right.  Zirpolo was more than willing to accept a few thousand dollars for his campaign for a little flexibility.  Zirpolo had been a career politician with a political pedigree that went back to his grandfather's run for County Freeholder. 

But, Kadish and Zirpolo were no match for Joe Fagan.  When the first complaint came in that their rooster was annoying the neighbors in Kadish's new housing development, Joe called a few people he knew at the state level and Kadish's first line of attack was thwarted.  The Fagan land was supremely important to Kadish because it was the largest in the community and meant millions of dollars to him.  He was losing Zirpolo's support now that he was mayor.  If he had to, Kadish would use the most extreme means to get that land.  This was a small, unsophisticated community.  If a blaze should occur that took out most of the barn, all of the Fagan's profits would be lost and they'd be unable to pay their taxes., Kadish reasoned.

Big money buys many things.  Kadish knew he could buy an arsonist's silence.  All he had to do was wait out the year and come autumn when the last harvest of corn crop and grain was in, make sure the barn was completely destroyed and everything in it.  And, the beauty of it was that if he made himself invisible until then, Old Fagan wouldn't suspect any foul play.  Eight months was worth it if it meant profitting millions.  Besides, he had his own wife and family to think of.  He and his wife planned a trip to Europe next spring if everything worked out .

Old Fagan and Joe, were delighted with the summer crop.  The season had just enough rain and sun to bring in the best crop the Fagan farm had ever produced.  In September, they would be able to sell much more grain than they had in the past.  Joe's help was a blessing., Old Fagan thought. 

By October, autumn's first chill came.  The grandkids were all ready for their first Halloween party.  It would still be another week or so till first frost.  Joe and Old Fagan prepared the farm for winter just as generations of Fagans had done before them.  They even saw to the maintenance on the roof of the house and the stable to keep the elements from getting a hard toe hold. 

Three days before first frost, the day dawned windy and gray.  Old Fagan sniffed the air as he turned and saw smoke coming from the eaves of the barn roof.  He raced back into his house and woke Joe.  "The barn's on fire, Joe.  Hurry.  Tell Mother to call the fire department.  We'll try to contain it as best we can.", Old Fagan said, running down the stairs.

The barn, with all of the dried hay and grain was already ablaze within the few minutes Old Fagan had run back to the house.  Everyone in the house was outside on the cement walk now, with stunned expressions.  The grandkids looked scared as their mother bundled them against the morning cold.  Joe and Old Fagan knew the barn was gone.  By the time the fire company arrived, most of the roof was ablaze.  The smoke spewed out like a gushing mountain stream into long black clouds that went skyward.

Four hours later, with exhausted firemen shaking their heads and the remains of the barn still smoldering, the acrid smell of ash and smoke was everywhere.  The huge chestnut tree lost more than half of its foliage and stood there like a saddened victim of some horrible accident. 

Six months after the fire, Kadish once again walked up the driveway.  "Oh my gosh.  What on earth happened?", he asked.  "Bad fire.  They think it might have been an arson.   But, this is a small community.  No way to prove it.  "Look, uh, Mr. Fagan, I know that this isn't a good time to mention this right now.  Maybe, you'd want to rethink my offer?", Kadish asked.  This land belongs to my son now.  You'll have to deal with him.  He's not here right now.  He should be back in a few days.  Kadish fairly skipped down the driveway to his car.  Sounds like a possibility, he thought. 

When Joe returned, he had bad news.  He wasn't able to broker a new mortgage on the farm to pay off the debts they owed from the lost crop or to rebuild their barn.  "Dad, we're going to have to sell.  Without a loan and the guarantee of a crop next season, we won't make it another year on this land.

Old Fagan's heart sank lower than an anchor at high tide.  He knew it was true.  They'd be able to hold out till spring. But without money, they couldn't afford to buy what they needed to put in a new crop.  He knew there was only one thing left to do. 

Joe started searching for a smaller, more manageable farm out of state.  He found one in a neighboring state to the south of their soon-to-be former homesite.  He moved his family and parents there. 

Old Fagan was never the same man.  Joe could see his father's heart was broken.  His mother wore an wistful expression; but, she made the best of the situation.  Joe tried to interest his father in farming the small ten acre farm.  Old Fagan rose every morning at four, put the coffee on to brew and read the newspapers.  When the sun rose, he sat by the long bay window in the kitchen with his coffee cup in hand and looked up at the sky.  One year after Old Fagan's Farm was sold to Howard Kadish, Old Fagan's heart gave out.  The funeral was held at the Fagan gravesite in their former community grave yard. 

Joe, his family and his mother decided to go around to where their old farm had been.  When they reach the top of the hill, some seven hundred homes were located on what had been Old Fagan's Farm.  A small white sign at the entrance to the suburban development read:  Kadish Homes....A private community.