|
Post by eyeseetwo on Jan 13, 2024 21:53:14 GMT -6
This story has been in my brain rattling around for spell.
And no, it has not undergone much editing and is being typed on an IPad, so there may be some fumbles, bumbles and errors.
And so the grand adventure begins.
Copy Write ya da ya da eyeseetwo 2024, please do not post this elsewhere. Truly not sure how to protect this piece of work.
Part One
Patty Marie Clarey was sitting in her old Dodge panel truck pondering her next steps.
Patty was just shy of sixty-seven years old. A tad under 5’6”, mostly grey haired, a solid 150 pounds and had brown eyes and wore prescription eye glasses. Her dear Tom said he loved her wrinkles and sass.
Sitting beside her was her Rhodesian Ridgeback Thelma. The back and top of the Dodge was packed full with dregs of her former life.
She had packed up her plastic totes with her reference books and binders, important documents, food preservation tools and supplies, camping gear, EMT gear, Bible, assorted electronics, Buleti multi-Fuel generator, small gas chain saw and electric chain saw, fuel cans, a small solar panel array, winter and summer clothing, paper maps and print out of foreclosed properties. She had her Bible, weapons, food stores and scant precious metals hidden deep in the back of the Dodge.
She patted the small cardboard box with the ashes of her late husband nested between her and Thelma. She told Thelma “Well this is it. Ready?”
Thelma quietly barked and circled a few times, releasing a little stink bomb and was soon asleep as Patty began her drive.
The last two years were a world of suck for Patty.
Her beloved husband of forty three years was diagnosed with a high PSA level four years prior.
He chose to not do surgery or chemo therapy. He vowed to not give the evil medical system a dime. He tried diet interventions and to live out his life on their tiny piece of heaven along the Trinity River in far Northern California.
He loved falling trees, milling up lumber, gardening, toking up the magic herb, complaining about the ass hats in power, grooving to Sade, Reggae, Blues, late forties tunes, watching the rain and snow fall. He stoped fishing when his good long time friend had passed on.
As the last two years passed Patty and her step son did all they could to support Tom’s choices, his declining mental and physical health, and to keep up on the growing pile of bills. Even though Tom did not want heroic interventions he still had minimal medical care as he declined. Tom would increasingly become somewhat off kilter. To be honest severely off kilter. Then he died in early spring falling face first in the newly turned soil of the garden he so much loved and tended to his end.
The off kilter was the why Patty was in the Dodge heading off to the unknown.
The off kilter along with cascading events of Tom making piss poor investments, the imminent domain confiscation by the local tribe of their property for decolonization and rewilding, the rescinding of Prop 13 causing their property taxes skyrocketing and demise of her state teachers retirement fund meant that life was quickly and irrevocably dire for Patty.
But Patty had a plan. She turned the ignition key, turned on the CB and Shortwave, checked that her rear, side, front and rear cameras were recording and she turned on the 299 heading East. The sun was rising and rain a falling. She sipped her coffee as she navigated the miles of curving river road practicing her canned speech for the TSA road block in Weaverville. It would be the first of ten such stops before she reached the corner of far Northern California in Modoc county.
Her Dodge had valid Iowas plates, registration and insurance was in her new name. She had identification in the new identity as well. Her story was that she was returning to Iowa after visiting her sick great aunt in Eureka and was taking back with her junk from her aunt’s home.
Saying a prayer she more than hoped there would be no snafus.
Having the Iowa registration meant she did not have to pay the tax on moving out of California. Her original identification and documents were tucked away in a small bag duct taped in the roof lining of the Dodge. Along with her spare cash, burner phones, and 1911.
As she approached checkpoint she said, “Oh gopher guts, Lord help me!”
|
|
|
Post by prepguy on Jan 13, 2024 21:59:11 GMT -6
Curious to see where this goes. That is a very realistic scenario especially in today's society
|
|
|
Post by eyeseetwo on Jan 13, 2024 22:04:08 GMT -6
Thank you! I wrote an outline and am basing the story on a multitude of folks and personal experiences. Catching the auto correct errors is tricky.
|
|
|
Post by eyeseetwo on Jan 13, 2024 23:03:00 GMT -6
The 299 runs from the west in Humboldt County near the coast clear to the east and the Nevada border.
As Patty was coming down the mountain grade into the small hamlet of Weaverville she could see that the check point that had been located at the east side of town was now on the west side. She pulled up to the hardened checkpoint noticing the back log of folks heading west. She was second behind a beer distributor truck and a Brinks Armored truck was behind her
She unsnapped the head liner to pull out her California identification, her forged travel permit to drive to Redding and Thelma’s vet certificate of shots, licensee, tags and service animal card. Patty made sure she had cash handy for the county toll, her own shot record and the highly suggested hundred dollar bill to gift the overworked TSA employee for his/they/she dedication in protecting the populace from banned people. Gag me with a spoon thought Patty.
She had a uneasy feeling because of the moving of the check point. And made sure she had out the bogus letter from the probate court in Humboldt with authorization to travel round trip to Redding to liquidate her fake great aunts belongings at the reparations sale held every Tuesday and Thursday at the fairgrounds.
The reparations court was set up a year ago to take back assets of the supposed wealthy person’s estate and assets to fund the basic needs of those who are descendants or are present victims of the colonizers/oppressors. The oppressor is basically the lower to middle class working folks. The reality is that if you were wealthy your assets were never taken. Much like the IRS auditing only those who earned $20,000 to $200,00 a year.
She had worked the 2020 Census in Weaverville as an enumerator and knew there were a lot of roads that led out of Weaverville to avoid going on through the 299. She had two local contacts if she were to get in a bad spot in Weaverville.
It took thirty minutes for the beer truck to be searched by two TSA goons and then the Highway patrol officer and her contraband sniffing dog.
Patty averted her gaze as she saw the goons and officer pop open some beer, drink it, then taking a piss in front of God and the good citizens waiting in the ever increasing line of vehicles.
She saw the exchange of cash and a quick check of the beer truck driver’s papers.
After beer truck was waved through Patty carefully drove up to the barricade and turned off the engine.
She breathed in and out calming herself. Waiting for the goons to approach the truck.
Thelma stirred, got up, did a few turns and laid back down knocking the box of ashes to the floor. Patty kicked the box under the passenger side of the truck.
The goons went to the westward direction side of the barrier and then quickly went car to truck to car rapping on windows and taking travel papers in hand, checking off items on clipboards, taking cash from a few vehicles and then slapping a bright triangle sticker on windshields.
The stickers were blue, lime green, black or purple. A few of the rigs got a rainbow sticker. Patty thought hmmm, that is new.
Up until today she thought folks got temporary 5”x5” bright orange cards to show at the next checkpoint. Not a vehicle was searched.
The goons let forty-five rigs through. The highway patrol officer got in her rig following the west moving line of cars and trucks. Looking through her side mirror she saw Officer flip on her lights and sirens pulling over a passenger car that had gotten a black triangle sticker.
A loud thump hit her door and one of the TSA goons snarled “Pay attention, why you got I Oh Way plates. You ah terrorist bitch?”
Patty softly spoke, “Honorable officer, I am sanction to bring the dregs of my ole white oppressor great auntie’s life to the auction, sir/ma’am.”
The Officer then said with disdain, “And?”
With a cowering soft demeanor Patty replied, “I am a grateful resident on Chilcoot ancestral land, soon to be restored to the rightful people, I humbly hand to you all documentation needed to attend the auction.”
Patty handed him the substantial stack of documentation to the officer who said, “f*** this, too much to read.”
The Brinks truck honked his truck horn, tapping his wrist watch.
The officer slapped a green triangle sticker on the Dodge’s windshield and said, “You got thirty minutes in town and the sticker will turn blue.Get your grub, gas and get the f*** out of my town. Here is your bite wipe docs hag, f*** you old Boomers. Where my gift!”
Patty handed him the $100 and slowly drove through town.
Whew…..now onto her first rest stop. Ten miles out of town Patty turned at rough gravel road barely wide enough to get between two gnarly fire damaged pines. She engaged her four wheel drive and bumpy steep road jostled Thelma enough to finally wake up. Thelma began to softly whine. Patty told her, “Hold on girl we are almost there. .
|
|
|
Post by cashless1 on Jan 13, 2024 23:24:03 GMT -6
oh good, more great reading
|
|
|
Post by techsar on Jan 13, 2024 23:49:35 GMT -6
....and that's why goons need to be shot without remorse or reservation.
|
|
|
Post by eyeseetwo on Jan 14, 2024 1:11:15 GMT -6
The disused Forest service road wound up a through a landscape of fire ravaged hills and mountains.
The wildfire season of 2022 was especially destructive in this section of the national forest.
There were once a handful of private holdings scattered throughout the area.
Most private land holdings were allowed to be burned over especially if they were owned by folks without the power to be a squeaky wheel raising their voices to have assistance in wild fire season.
But if the land was owned by the rich and powerful they got awesome protection. Large parcels held in conservation trusts were also protected for the good of the world.
Patty made her way up the dirt road going slow and easy to keep the dust down, pausing now and again to look back and see if she had been followed. She finally reached a section of road that progressively became more choked with brush, downed tree limbs and deep ruts.
She got to a spot in the road with a logger choke chain gate sporting a huge decrepit rusty looking pad lock. It was daisy chained with a Forest Service lock and a much newer lock used by biologists who were studying sudden oak death virus.
Sudden oak death was one of the newer plant viruses killing off the mixed deciduous and evergreen forests. Hanging on the gate was one sign for the Sudden Death Oak disease and a much older Covid Quarantine sign. Both had been shot up.
There was a pile of desiccated human feces and strands of toilet paper by the padlock post.
Patty pulled out her gate key ring. It held a key for the landowner (now deceased), the universal Forest Service Key and the newer key for biologists. She had paid for the Forest Service key and biologists key via a complex barter two years previously.
|
|
|
Post by eyeseetwo on Jan 14, 2024 1:42:50 GMT -6
Patty parked her rig, set the emergency brake and let Thelma out to pee, then took a squat as well.
She leashed her dog to the bumper of the Dodge with a long lead and first tried the biologist key.
Dang it did not fit. Then she tried the universal key. It worked. She reset the padlock. Then she tried the hermit’s key. It also worked. She reset that padlock and then opened the universal Forest service padlock, dropped the choke chain on the ground, put Thelma back in her rig, drove through the opening and relocked the gate.
She then got out a diaper wipe and small bottle of Windex glass cleaner and thoroughly wiped down the padlocks. She took a leaf rake from the top of her rig and walked down the road a piece then walked back up the road scuffing up the forest debris on the road. Good enough she thought.
She then remembered about the game camera. Looking above the closed gate she saw that the game camera was blasted to pieces. Most likely by the same person who shot up the quarantine signs. The game camera was put up by the Forest service years before when the land confiscations and wild land purge began.
The Hermit had dutifully paid his yearly road access permit over the decades. He was grandfathered in due to his great grandfather getting the original mining and homesteading permits long ago for the twenty acres Patty was on her way to. The land rights could only be passed down to blood kin and the great grandfather had a 120 year lease on the parcel. The lease was set to expire in 2030.
At one time there twelve such parcels on this particular road system. As the old folks died out, all mining made illegal, cattle leases using Forest service land were discontinued, trapping and hunting was severely restricted then out right banned and permits were cancelled.
Patty had come across the Hermit in 2020 while working for the Census. He was gobsmacked that she even found his place. And royally pissed off that the Census had his GPS coordinates, name and basic particulars already noted in the system. In typical crazyville or sensible fashion he pulled out a shot gun when he heard Patty honk her truck horn as she came down the road toward his small abode.
He was shocked when she pulled up, then pulled a nine point turn to head back out, then she had the audacity to step out and yell, “Hey there old timer, two questions then I leave. Do not shoot. I do not get paid enough for that. One, is this 11 USFS Road 27 N 52 West and what is the number of humans here. Do not add in the hound at your feet. Thank you.”
He started cackling and he invited her in for a spot of water and they jabbered all afternoon. He gave her the grand tour and she got the information she needed. They became snail mail pen pals over the next few years.
Kindred spirits who saw the freight train roaring down their country’s neck.
|
|
|
Post by feralferret on Jan 14, 2024 2:15:30 GMT -6
Eyeseetwo, wonderful start. Looking forward to the rest. Thank you.
|
|
|
Post by eyeseetwo on Jan 14, 2024 2:39:35 GMT -6
Patty was lost in thought as she drove her truck up, down and through the rugged Trinity mountain range.
She could see the high Trinity Alps and wilderness still covered in deep snow pack. As well as pockets of snow under the ever increasing verdant second growth trees along the road she traveled.
The Hermit’s place was nestled in a deep drainage that was spared from the last catastrophic wild land fire.
The Hermit, one known by the Shasta county coroner as Kermit Owen Cole, Junior had died six months ago at the Mercy Medical Emergency Room in Redding. The only identification he had was his expired drivers license with a San Diego address.
He had bled out after presenting with symptoms of the latest novel virus.
In his tattered wallet was worn photos of young woman and baby, ten dollars in old US currency, a Veterans Administration card and a scrap of paper with PC P.O. Box 175 Salyer CA written on it.
Patty had gotten a post card stating Mr. Cole, deceased, the date of death and that his remains cremated and were buried at Shasta County indigents burial ground.
Patty got the card two days after her dear Tom had passed.
Already reeling from Tom’s death Patty was struck deeply with news of the death of the Hermit. She pondered her next steps. Facing losing her home, her pension lost and no kin except her beloved step son she knew she had to get her life in order.
Her step son had already moved out of state and he offered her refuge at his new home. He had bailed out after his father’s memorial service and snuck out of state before the exit tax was put into place.
Patty had tarried far too long.
She had been busy trying to save her homestead, get her money out of the bank, dividing up all of her and Tom’s vast array of possessions, deal with the probate, deal with both the state and federal taxes and gather her alternate identification documents.
All the while the state was implementing more and more draconian measures in all aspects of life.
Factor in what the federal government was doing made her life that much more precarious.
The push for aged euthanasia was the latest most pressing threat.
The far northwest of the state had been a medical desert for a long while.
Death doulas and government adult social service were increasingly in your face to “do the right thing” and encouraging folks over sixty-five to unalive themself.
Patty pretty much to most folks appeared to acquiesce to the rhetoric.
She determined to act like she was into doing the right thing.
She acted docile.
She signed away her property rights to imminent domain by the tribe.
She slowly drained her bank account.
She took her final medical exam and her Physician Assistant scheduled her transition appointment.
She paid for her cremation and scattering of her ashes, she wrote bad checks to pay off her debts.
She dug up the weapons her beloved Tom had buried long ago.
She cut down her fruit orchard and poured old fuel oil over her garden.
She gave away her tractor, fire wood trailer, household gear and trimmed down her possessions significantly.
The final day at her sweet little home along the river was peace filled.
Her final chore was to light the road flares, toss them into her gasoline soaked home and get in her rig and drive east.
She thought they have my land but not my home.
Like my momma said home is in your heart.
As she drove down the highway she kept up with the mantra docile, calm, no sass.
She knew that in time she would need to get her sass back, but for now she needed to tuck away, rest, grieve, heal and regain her strength.
And she was on her way to that hidden refuge the Hermit once had.
It would be her refuge for a season.
End Part One
|
|
|
Post by eyeseetwo on Jan 14, 2024 2:40:29 GMT -6
I will start Part 2 soon. Dealing with a wee bit of flooding this weekend. Yowsers has it been pouring elephants and alligators.
|
|
|
Post by feralferret on Jan 14, 2024 3:53:26 GMT -6
Eyeseetwo, thanks!
|
|
|
Post by gipsy on Jan 14, 2024 8:09:34 GMT -6
Hope you get dry soon. We can wait till you are able to post some more of this fine tale.
|
|
|
Post by eyeseetwo on Jan 14, 2024 19:23:52 GMT -6
Part 2
Patty slowly navigated the dirt very carefully scanning for the tiny markers the Hermit had nailed to tree trunks. The markers indicated tire poppers lightly covered with forest debris in the road. The were spaced out every quarter to half mile up to the next gate.
She would stop at each marker, walk twenty paces and check for the poppers. The first ten were actually tossed off into the brush. She assumed the Hermit had been in a hurry getting to the Emergency room when he was sick with the virus.
After she would pick up the popper (sharp home made caltrops about the size of her palm), she would hop in her truck, drive a guesstimate of twenty five paces, hop out and walk back to the marker point, walk toward her rig twenty paces, place the popper, cover it, then continue on her way.
By now it was getting late into the day and she needed to get through the next gate before dark.
She finally made it to the second gate which had been left open.
The gate was constructed of five closely spaced barbed wire lines which attached on both sides to fencing and it had no padlocks.
She drove through the opening, got out of her truck and reset the gate, got back in her truck and continued down into the creek canyon soon arriving at the homestead.
The twenty acres were enclosed with both split rail wooden fencing, a few stretches of barbed wire fencing and nearest the small cabin and outbuildings was a mismatch of both twelve foot chain link and twelve foot hog wire fencing.
She parked the Dodge under the log sided and metal roofed vehicle carport structure that was tucked under the second growth pine trees. She could hearing the roaring creek that formed the western edge of the property.
Yawning she turned off the truck, set the brake, and woke up Thelma. Put on the leash and they got out of the truck. Both old ladies stretching and feeling their achy hips.
She walked Thelma a round and the sniffed and peed, then they walked to the gate and went into the overgrown front terrace and yard. All the while both taking in the sights and smells of the historic property.
She latched the gate and took the leash off Thelma who took off smelling and marking her territory.
Patty was pretty amazed at how over grown the kitchen garden and herb garden were. The Hermit had written that he did not plant a summer or winter garden the previous year due to drone activity the previous year. Many plants from the previous years garden came back as volunteers.
The four strands of clothes line were off the metal T posts and she saw they were coiled neatly in a disintegrating five gallon bucket at the base of one of the T posts.
She wondered the one acre yard around the cabin. The cabin looked to be in good shape once you realize that it was purposefully made to look old and funky, but was a solid thickly insulated structure. The solar array and Star Link dish were both in their stowed position and covered with two layers of tarps. The top tarp looked tattered, while the bottom tarp was in pristine condition.
She called Thelma to her and they walked up the metal ramp installed by the local Veterans of Foreign War chapter for the Hermit’s father Kermit Senior. The Hermit said it was a replacement for the home made wooden one that his granddaddy built for Kermit Senior when he returned from that darn waste of time and life police action in the sand box.
His daddy lost half of his left arm and both of his lower legs. His daddy needed to use his wheel chair when his leg stumps hurt too much to carry his weight.
Kermit’s great grandparents, grand parents and parents had been buried in the family burying spot at the top of bluff above the cabin. Their graves marked with large rocks inscribed with their name, rank in the military and birth and death year.
The cabin looked tiny from the outside which is how the Hermit’s great granddaddy intended it to be. It was set into the east side of the property with rocky bluff behind the house. A full eighty percent of the living and work space was set into the bluff. Solar tubes were strategically hidden in the bluff face above the roof line of the cabin.
Patty noticed that the vents along the top of the cabin were cracked half open. The heavy Dutch door was unlocked and she and Thelma entered into the tidy front room. It was a bit dusty and moderately cool. She drew the drapes back and opened the artfully designed metal shutters on the two large windows and cracked them open to let in a bit of fresh air.
The wood stove was full of ashes and the garbage bin was full of washed out plastic containers. The sink had a pan of dirty dishes soaking in scummy water. She saw that the compost bin had been emptied and rinsed out.
The 1940’s Servel refrigerator and companion chest freezer were humming along. Next to them was a very old Sun Frost refrigerator. She sighed a huge sigh thankful the appliances were running. She hoped the food inside was not too spoiled. She needed to get her eskies (ice chests) in and unloaded into the refrigerators and freezer.
She checked the propane stove and it lit up just fine.
She checked the water taps and toilet and they functioned fine. She turned up the propane water from low to B. She was savoring to have a warm shower or bath in the morning.
She got the Hermit’s hand cart from the corner of the food prep area, went to her rig and unloaded multiple duffle bags layered over the eskies.
Loaded up the eskies and made multiple trips into the cabin. Patty pulled out her head lamp and went out a final time to get her sleeping duffle, her shot gun, her personal hygiene and go bags and was ready to tackle the refrigerators.
By now it was full on dark. She called Thelma in and she closed the windows and drew closed the black out curtains. She closed the front door and started a small fire in the wood stove and set to tackle the refrigerators. Whew! The only thing in them were large quart bottles of water, and a puddle on condensation on each shelf.
She quickly put her fresh foods and frozen foods in their proper place. She ate cold left overs she had brought from her place, fed Thelma, popped open a bottle of Mad River Brewery Stout beer and took Thelma out for her evening constitutional. While Thelma did her business Patty lit up a cigarette and sat in the old lady rocker on the front porch.
After a bit Thelma settled at her feet and they sat out under the clear cool starry night. She rocking and Thelma snoring and having doggie dreams.
Patty was not what one would consider happy, nor anxious, but resigned and thoughtful as to what her coming days would be.
|
|
|
Post by misterjimbo on Jan 14, 2024 19:36:50 GMT -6
Darn good start to a promising story. Thanks
|
|
|
Post by eyeseetwo on Jan 14, 2024 19:50:56 GMT -6
Satiated with the having a cold supper of a roast, lettuce and mustard sandwich and beer she got up and went into the cabin with Thelma , barred the door, brushed and flossed and set up her sleeping gear on the ancient Davenport (couch) by the wood stove.
Changed into her nightwear and put her boots and shot gun by the head of her makeshift bed.
She had set the dog’s bed by the wood stove and Thelma circled three times and settled into her comfy spot and was soon asleep. Patty covered Thelma up with her blanket then she switched off her headlamp, laid down and said her prayers. She practiced her breathing exercises and was soon asleep exhausted by her long and traumatic day.
Early the next morning on her second day of her grand adventure she awoke achy and urgently needing to pee. She got Thelma up and out the door and then went to the bath to do her own business. She washed up, brushed and flossed and then set about making coffee and breakfast.
Taking a Griswold cast iron skillet down from the rack above her head she set it on the propane flame and fried up three eggs and two home made sausage rounds. She grated some jalapeño jack cheese to cover the eggs and then plated up the food. Thelma was whining at the door so to be let in. She filled the dog dish with kibble and a bit of her eggs and she let Thelma in. Thelma went right to her dish and ate it up. As Patty was finishing up her meal Thelma sat by her quietly moaning for Patty to give her a bit of her breakfast.
Patty told her “Nope you got yours!” Patty put the dog out. She got a cig and a cup of coffee and went out to the porch to watch the day awaken. She brought with her the binder with her notebook planner that she used to write everything important she needed to do.
She sat outside in the coolness of the early morn jotting notes, praying, cried a wee bit, more notes and after she snubbed out her cig she got up to go inside to dress. That is when she notice the envelope pinned to the cork board on the side of the Servel.
On it was written to PC.
She took the envelope down and placed it on the scarred and battered farm table.
She finished getting dressed then sat down and opened the envelope.
Inside was a thick packet of handwritten notes on binder paper. Judging from the precise and compact printing she knew it was from the Hermit. From the date at the top of the first page she saw it had been written two years earlier.
The Hermit wrote………
|
|
|
Post by gipsy on Jan 14, 2024 20:02:10 GMT -6
|
|
|
Post by eyeseetwo on Jan 14, 2024 20:40:34 GMT -6
Dearest PC,
I have pondered and fretted over what to include in this letter to you.
You and your dear ole coot of a life partner have become my family and and I want to reiterate that this Cole legacy is now passed to you. But alas with all the bull crud rules and legal mumbo jumbo and changes in our once great nation I fear that you have no legal standing to officially take over running this piece of heaven I was so blessed to have been born on, lived on, returned from a hell of a war to heal on.
As I wrote you earlier I had to sell off my herd of Dexter cattle five years back due to losing my grazing permit. I do not remember if I wrote you about losing the water and road access permit as well.
If you come in off the 299 you will see and feel how I let it the road go to heck these past years. As you know the Forest service road system has not been maintained these past five years district wide.
Do not be dismayed as the old logging road, way back out the north section is in much a better condition. I and my old buddy Sean brought in his grader on a Sunday a few times, well more than a few times to grade, install a few culverts on the sly like. Sections open to the sky still are rough but most of the road is as smooth born babes hind end.
Be alert if you end up going out that back way, specially if yah end up using Sallie Mae my mule, the mountain bike God forbid, the tractor or your rig. If you have to walk it be very, very alert for both two and four legged beastie boys! Hah, like my puny pun.
Not quite knowing if the mule will still be here or not. Got an offer for her and may end up selling her.
This home place is still set up as I showed last time you visited and with all those wierd ass man made viruses and our aging old bodies I am not sure if you and your man kicks off before me.
If I die before you put me up on the bluff, you know the spot.
If you die before me and I know I am not making it I will scorch earth the place.
But I wanted you to have first dibs for this redoubt.
Most my old war buddies have died off, I have no blood kin left on this blue marble. No exes to fret over.
After my beloved Donna and my baby girl got kilt by that dammed forever piece of crap illegal Guatemalan sack of shit drunk driver over in Redding I had no room not desire to open my home, heart or mind just for a bit of bed roaming and warming.
I did work on paying ahead three years of those high lease and property taxes. I added on an additional 500 gallon buried propane tank to join its sister tank to the north of the cabin. The intake is in the rose bed. With those in place the two of yours should last five years.
Got the septic tank emptied out last summer.Since my old man was so frugal he had never ever had it serviced in all the decades he lived here. You know the drill the only thing flushed is your crap. I keep the small metal trash can in the bath for butt wipe and such. Burn it the wood stove.
Granddaddy did a fine job burying the water intake to the cabin. The sinks, bath tub and laundry sink grey water all are run to the herb garden beds.
If you have to vacate be sure to get your cuttings from the medicinal beds and the seeds in the Sun Frost before you bug out. Crap, having to bug totally out means you need your crap together. Be sure to read the INCH binder.
Iffin you do bug out please scorch earth the place like we talked about. You know I would do the same if I end up at your place. The big crate in the powder cave has the toys to do the job just fine. Sean passed to me more of the forest service flares.
If you brought strays or sheep with you ins then be very, very, times a thousand times very careful what you share with them. Regretfully more than a handful of the folks I have known for nigh on forty years, have turned out to be collaborators with the government minions. That is why I pulled back into my shell. And why I stopped selling and bartering my skills and the honey, beef, goat and venison.
Way back on that day you bold as brass came into my yard was on one of my bad, pissed off and ready be one of the 23 a day. I had found out that my supposed good buddy had turned me in to Fish and Game for falling a hazard tree on the road. I caught a fricking fine, my name in the paper and that government game cam at the gate. Thank God the eco warriors could not locate my physical address.
I still chuckle over how many times you had to turn your rig around that morning…..
to be continued
Sure hope you are enjoying the story.
|
|
|
Post by feralferret on Jan 14, 2024 21:04:13 GMT -6
Eyeseetwo, wonderful story. Looking forward to more.
|
|
|
Post by cashless1 on Jan 14, 2024 21:09:58 GMT -6
am watching and waiting for moar
|
|
|
Post by gipsy on Jan 14, 2024 21:32:46 GMT -6
MOAR please
|
|
|
Post by eyeseetwo on Jan 14, 2024 22:19:41 GMT -6
Patty wiped away her tears and set the bundle of papers to the side. Enough of that for now she thought.
She got a small fire going in the wood stove. Then pulled out a frozen package of venison to make stew. She browned up the cubes of meat and they thawed out right quick. She pulled the Hoosier cabinet out from the wall of the cabin and stepped through the door hidden behind it and switched on the solar powered lights.
Before her was a long four foot wide hallway that ran forty feet into the bluff. The walls were composed of hand hewn old growth fir timbers squared off and mortised in the old world Danish style. They rested on hand stacked rocks as a base. Ten doors were set into the walls and an assorted array of tools and clothing hung from wood pegs in the wall.
The first Kermit Owen Cole had settled in this little canyon in 1899. He brought with him the skills he learned as a youth. And he had built the front cabin and hand dug out the hall way and the first two rooms off the hallway.
The original wall light sconces were still in place with brass oil lamps and reflector pans behind them. You can see the soot markings above the tops of the lamps. Four solar tubes had been added in the early two thousands by the Hermit.
The first Kermit had immigrated west after being born in Brooklyn New York. Left on the steps of the local Catholic Church as a baby.
He was taken in by parishioners John Kermit Cole and his wife Ruth. Their daughter Mayzee had died a week before at the age of four months from the diphtheria scourging the city. His new mother Ruth was able to breast feed the tiny newborn boy.
No one knew who his birth mom was. He was named after John’s grandfather back in Scotland.
Kermit was loved deeply, educated and had been set to begin an apprenticeship when he turned ten.
Tragically both his adopted parents died right before his tenth birthday from the pox out break.
Kermit was sent off on the Orphan Train to an isolated farm outside of Musselshell Montana.
At the farm he worked hard and was always seen as a field hand and not a son.
He was not physically abused nor starved. He was allowed to continue his studies during the harsh winters.
He was trained up to hunt, fish, trap and log. He learned animal husbandry and how to build a sturdy building.
In 1887 there was a world wide depression. He was seventeen and Mr. Hansen the man who took him in gave him two dollars in silver, a mule, tack, a grub bag, a blanket bed roll and told him to head on out and make his life. Hansen had lost his homestead to a gambler at the saloon and was heading back east hat in hand to his sister, he was hoping to get work in a saw mill out there in Michigan.
Kermit worked his way west and hop skipped from day labor jobs until he ended up in Yreka California. He met an old timer who was in need of drink and the old guy sold Kermit his mining claim, they got the exchange of claim ownership certified at the court and the old man told him what Kermit what he should buy for his grub and stake.
He had the claim but no money. He had a dream and no money to make it reality.
Kermit worked that winter in Yreka as a coal hand on the trains running between the great Sacramento Valley and Medford Oregon.
He ended up working for the rail road till the spring of 1899 he when he felt he had a fair amount of gold and silver in hand and he bought two mules. One to ride and one to haul his meager possessions. He had sold his first mule to tide over while he lived in Yreka. He paid to join a mule train heading south to Weaverville California. From Weaverville he hired a guide to lead him to his claim.
And thus the Cole occupation of the tiny bit of heaven on earth began.
Patty turned to her left and opened the door and entered the cold room. It was stuffed full of root crops, jars of home canned vegetables, fruits, broths, meats, tallow and both dehydrated and smoked fish. She picked out a turnip, carrots and a quart of chicken broth.
Returning to the food prep area she set about to making up the stew and put the combined ingredients into an ancient Dutchy (cast iron stock pot) and added wood to the stove. After the fire got going she put it on the flat top of the stove and mixed up some scratch biscuits using ingredients from the Hoosier cabinet that she had pushed back against the door. She had gotten the cooking gear out of the metal 1950s kitchen cabinets.
She filled a chipped coffee mug with water from the water filter faucet to the right of the ancient two basin enameled sink that had built in drainage boards on both sides which was centered in the metal cabinet.
Taking her mug of water and rousing awake she took the stack of papers and her cigarettes and lighter outside to read some more of the Hermit’s writing.
|
|
|
Post by cashless1 on Jan 14, 2024 22:43:26 GMT -6
one more chapter before bedtime PLEASE
|
|
|
Post by eyeseetwo on Jan 14, 2024 23:03:00 GMT -6
Working on it tee hee.
|
|
|
Post by cavsgt on Jan 14, 2024 23:07:49 GMT -6
This is one of the best things that I have read in a while.
THANKS phill
|
|