The text you are about to read was not written by me. I did some editing where I thought there was need, but essentially, Derrick Sadasky deserves all the credit. He had arranged that I should be given his entire collection of personal journals, and I hope I’ve done some justice to his story.
One day, while at home, there was a knock on my door, and a man stood bouncing nervously in the cold while I decided if I felt like answering the door. Having nothing better to do, I opened up enough to see he held a three-part form and kept checking his truck.
“Can I help you?” I always make my voice sound deeper when I don’t know the person.
He held up the papers and smiled. “You Polsz? D. R. Polsz?” He snuck a peek at the name again when I didn’t respond. “I’ve got a delivery.”
I opened the door wide and leaned out. “Who’s it from?”
He shrugged and held out the paperwork. “You can look it over while I get it off the truck.”
I scanned for anything that would tell me what I was getting or from whom it was sent. Before I learned anything, the driver was launching himself up my steps, hoping to get the two boxes onto my porch so he could go get the third. He returned and handed me the last box. I put it down and balanced it between my feet while I signed my signature as proof of delivery.
“Enjoy the day,” the driver said as he vaulted down my steps and drove away hastily.
I noticed there was a sticker on each box that identified them as one of three, two of three, and three of three. One of three was the last one delivered, so I picked it up, closed the door, and went inside to see what I had received. The label was handwritten and did not look familiar. I got a pair of scissors to slice the generous tape that sealed the package. Opening the flaps, I saw a piece of paper with a simple note that read,
D. R. Polsz,
Enclosed is my entire life’s work. Do as you please.
Derrick Sadasky
Under the note was a set of twenty-five black-and-white-speckled composition books with his name, a beginning date, and an ending date on each cover. Scraps of paper jutted out oddly as did other bookmarks and mementos. Little doodles and words wrapped the paper’s edge. Flipping through a few different books, I noticed the handwriting improved steadily until it switched to printing only for the remainder. The second and third boxes also contained the same things, bringing the total to seventy-five similar books all filled by someone I had never met.
I looked up the name on the Internet, and it came back with nothing relevant. A few phone calls to friends and family yielded nothing. No one had ever heard of him. He wasn’t my friend or even a friend of a friend and definitely not a relative, even a long-lost one. If it had been one or two books, I would have chalked it up to someone messing with me, but seventy-five! I had to at least read a few.
A few turned to all, and as I learned more, I had to do a lot of research to confirm what he wrote. It turns out that it would consume a year of my life to get through it all. In the end, I have to say it was worth the effort. People, dates, conversations—it all checked out. His life became my own, and I’d like to personally thank all those who let me have this experience.
To be honest, the following text is only the highlights of Derrick Sadasky’s later life. I sometimes arranged the text to be a little more thematic than linear. However, the opinions and worldviews, even the often-preachy parts, are all presented like he wrote them.
In the bottom of the third box was the last book, and it had a sealed envelope stapled to the inside back cover. I actually read it last when I finished the books in order. I wish that I had found it earlier, so I will present it first as a prologue. It really does help to set the tone for Derrick Sadasky’s life and writings.