Human history had been an eternal struggle between hope and hopelessness.
Somewhere in the 20th century hope finally won.
Letters from Eden - Postscript of an American Century chronicles the remarkable crusade of Adam, an Indiana hero who returned from war to create an energy empire. His story is superimposed on an extraordinary place and time where 10,000 years of human struggle finally paid off: 20th century America. Enduring brutal thugs, pompous bureaucrats, and the absurdities of a culture of fashionable correctness, he ultimately shatters all barriers with inexhaustible optimism and humor. Adam’s journey is the story of America.
Like "The Big Fish" but better
...full of surprises and suitable for all ages. "Letters from Eden" is destined to become a cult classic. Mrs. C.S. Sorensen, history teacher
This is an amazing and moving book. I'm glad I stumbled upon it. It tells the 'tall' tales of Adam McCasoway and it leaves you wondering if they're fact or fiction... anonymous
Brilliant and Funny
In this volume Daniel McCasoway takes us through the despair of an earlier America to the hope of today. Sounds like a single topic doesn't it? It isn't. Where else will you find in one book an intelligent treatment of: Fear in America during the influenza epidemic of 1919. How to approach, shoot and prepare a squirrel for consumption. How the Burr Cut conquered communism. How the energy of coal, oil and gas are taken for granted by the current generation. And what one needs to know about the six kinds of hitchhikers. There is more—much more that is, by turns, enlightening, funny or both. The stories of the author’s resilient and brilliant father, Adam McCasoway, are for me the best part of all. I want to imagine that there are many others like this father and son. If so, we have much reason to hope. Splendid. Bill Kennedy, a reader of tech books and fiction, September 30, 2005
Magnificent teaching resource
In his book Letters from Eden, Daniel McCasoway uses an imaginative fusion of the poetic and the narrative to lure the reader into an enchanted (and inescapable) universe. It is a place so remote that time and space do not exist. Yet it is a place with limitless potential, a realm he describes as: ”…an outlying reach of the unfathomable achievable…”
...I have laughed and I have cried. This book is extraordinarily good...I intend to use ideas and passages from this book in my classes... M.L. Seib, Ph.D., college professor, June 1, 2005.
Humorous, Eclectic Story Of Eternal Hope & Optimism
I just finished reading this book for the second time. It blurs the line between fact and fiction in a most delightful way. Although some of the tales are improbable, the reader gets the impression there is a kernel of truth at the heart of each. Without spoiling the read, I can say the seemingly detached vignettes weave about and unite in a magical and most satisfying manner. The portrayal of progress, hope and humanity during the 20th century tells us (without telling us) why we should enter the new century with unbridled hope. Highly recommended. Fred Bosco, an environmental administrator, May 19, 2005.
Vivid and Unforgettable
This reminiscent account of one man’s journey through life is vivid and unforgettable. Daniel has introduced a truly wonderful culmination of people using both science and humor. His father's voyage is a perfect depiction of progression. Honestly, I've never encountered anything quite as entertaining and educational. Farrah Foster, truck driver, March 23, 2005.
A hilarious & heartwarming story...
America has found its next great storyteller in Daniel McCasoway...in Letters From Eden, he's written a touching and amusing recount of his father's life...a truly wonderful book. Anita, an avid reader of American history, March 11, 2005.
Brilliant work, McCasoway
This book combines honesty and tall tale to form the picture of a time period that is rapidly departing from the memories of a generation. McCasoway is a lush oasis in the drought of literary genius we have today. I look forward to seeing more of his work. Richard Spencer, February 1, 2005.
America the Good
A masterful expression of the American mind. Sarah Crane Travis, teacher, January 27, 2005.
Random Bits:
A PG-13 Movie Waiting to be Made
Flying rats, burning Cadillacs, possessed waitresses, sadistic nurses, hitchhiking nimrods, one-armed barbers, mutant chiggers, Frenchmen pissing in plastic bags. Finally, someone has come along with the guts to tell the truth about growing up in Kentucky during the sixties. With superlative craft and unique wit, McCasoway reveals the shocking history of a misunderstood generation. Clyde H.W.S. Dowding, software designer, April 11, 2005
I Don't Get It
This is the stupidest book I ever read. But the pictures are really cool. The part about the lady cop in tight pants was pretty good. Nestor Fouts, sheep herder, May 20, 2005
My father was born on this day and in this place. Considering the backdrop described above, it is little wonder that he seldom spoke fondly of his childhood days. There was a fundamental shortage of goodness everywhere. People were mean to each other. Races were mean to each other. Hope was a luxury beyond the reach of most of the citizens of the world, including millions of Americans, the nameless farmers of Indiana being no different in this regard.
Still hope is irrepressible. It will not be kept down. It springs up in places where we think none should be. Like life, it tends to assemble itself by trial and error from the available elements of its surroundings. It is self-generating. And it appears to follow life, particularly new life. Curiously, children do not seem to know they are not supposed to have it. So with each child born, a fresh chance for hope is put upon the land. The clocks are reset. Assumptions, prejudices, and dogmas are discarded and optimism is renewed.
Babies are miniature hope reactors. They generate hope and their families absorb it like a narcotic. The result is similar to a nuclear reaction. A trace of fuel produces a truly exponential output. The reaction is automatic. Simply provide a little sustenance, upkeep, and protection. It helps to jiggle it around a couple of times a day. The reward for this is an enormous output of hope that can be harnessed by the operators of the reactor, the nameless farmers of Indiana being no different in this regard.
Children seem to be able to wrest hope out of about anything, even dirt. Give a child a stick and he will use it to pry hope from a hole in the ground. Take the stick away and he will mold the dirt into a stick. His mind will become the lever. The creativity of a child is an X-ray of the immutable hope that smolders deep in the latticework of our genetic code. Obscured in layers of irreducible mystery, hope continually pulses, clicks, and roars in the boundless highland pastures of our nuclei. Two-trillion scintillating points weave into some emergent thing. Call it Hope. And this hope telescopes upward, spiraling outward, like the X-ray in reverse. It explodes from our cells, animating our bodies and illuminating the universe. Babies are our natural defense against a hostile universe. Children are the guns of hope. They are our letters from Eden.
Every child finds something in their surroundings upon which they can fix their hands and minds. The object grasped becomes their lever for prying hope from the world. This is our way. This is our instinct. It works for us. It saves us. It gives our lives meaning. The Universe has molded us to be this way for its own purposes. Perhaps we are the lever that the Universe uses to find its hope. Perhaps we are the thing that gives the Universe its meaning.
My father’s reputation as a master squirrel hunter was well known among my mother’s family. One day when Dad came home with a bushel basket heaped full of freshly harvested squirrels, my grandmother, Ellen Leaping Fawn, started referring to him as Dead Squirrel. It was a big joke at the time, but the name stuck. After that, any time we would go to reunions on my mother’s side of the family, people with names like Roy Floating Beaver and Sally Muddy Buffalo would make fun of my father and call him Dead Squirrel and obnoxiously laugh about it. The children would form a daisy chain around him and sing the name out loud:
"Uncle Dead Squirrel...Uncle Dead Squirrel...nanna–nanna, na na."
He just smiled. Dad’s charisma and germane skills actually made him extremely popular at these reunions. Many of my uncles and cousins consulted with him on the intricacies of squirrel hunting. Dad conducted safety demonstrations, weapons drills, and gave one-on-one marksmanship tips. He planned and carried out a complex series of skinning seminars with breakout sessions on field hygiene and cooking techniques. He gave scholarly lectures on supersonic ballistics and squirrel biology. Scores of my mother’s relatives would attend these presentations, many taking notes. Afterwards, lively discussions would often erupt. The participants would ask sophisticated questions and freely offer their opinions. A genuine rapport would develop between Dad and his audience. He received standing ovations at the conclusions of many of these programs. Dad became so popular that eventually even members of the public at large started attending.
Dad was what can only be described as the Mozart of squirrel skinning. He had mastered its subtleties with the fervor and intricate craft of a seasoned artist. It was a ballet of manual dexterity beyond the reach of most people. That is, it was an expressive symphony of precisely choreographed movements and subtle nuances of articulation arguably lying outside the observational sensibilities of all but the most impassioned practitioners. There truly was no conventional standard by which to measure his talent.
He was a squirrel-skinning statement. His was a revolution of style and form so express and admirable that an audience became instantly entranced by the effortless fusion of movement, the fluid interplay between sheets of viscera, nebular outlays of blood, and fleeting veils of hide. They would watch in rapturous awe as the elements of the base and corporeal were transcended by the superlative essence of graceful motion and the stunning purity of human determination.
