Story Hunter Ridge
- Thread starter ncsfsgm
- Start date
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Nine
Don stored the heavier woodworking machines in the garage building until he could install the dust-collection system and determine the best layout. He wanted a smooth workflow—moving a rough piece of lumber through the shop without backtracking. Rip saw, rough miter saw, planer, finish miter saw, router, shaper, drill
press, band saw, sander. Each machine would have its own duct to pull away sawdust and shavings. That material would find plenty of uses, starting with the chicken coop he planned to build once the shop workbench and shelves were finished.
He intended to repurpose the recovered lumber the carpenters hadn’t used in the library, along with much of the pine siding. Larger dimensional stock and posts he would buy new at the building supply. Don found a solid chicken-coop plan online, printed the materials list, and began gathering what he needed.
He waited for Sarah’s call. When it came, he told her he was nearly ready to start planting. “I’ll be down Friday.”
“Great!” she said. “I’ll have a skid steer with tree spade and a telehandler positioned at your place. They’ll be delivered tomorrow.”
Sarah had explained the process: trees dug at the nursery, root balls wrapped and burlapped, netting secured over the tops to protect leaves and branches. Deliveries would come in loads of six to eight trees. By the time one batch was planted, the next would arrive—seven or eight loads total. It would be a long Friday.
Down in the basement, they had finished power-troweling the floor. The concrete was smooth as glass. Next came shelves and cabinets.
One pleasant surprise had turned up during the downstairs demo. On the right side of the fireplace they found plain built-in bookshelves and a small 3x3-foot cabinet door. Behind the door was a manual dumbwaiter an earlier owner had used to bring firewood upstairs from the basement. Don had noticed wood bark on the basement floor the first time he explored there but hadn’t thought much of it. George later sourced a Warn winch from a wrecked UTV at the junkyard, rigged it with a remote, and replaced the old wooden capstan system. Now Don could store firewood in the basement and haul it up without stepping outside. Next to the cellar door was a chute where split wood could be dropped straight into a bin next to a wood rack—or simply piled on the floor. The old place kept revealing clever secrets.
Furniture came next on the list. Don had no idea where to begin, so he called an interior designer. Joan Walker was competent and professional. Her assistant, Eric Du Bois—Really? Who has a name like that?—struck Don as flamboyant in the extreme, complete with a lisp that set Don’s teeth on edge. Still, Joan knew her business. They toured the house room by room while Don described how he intended to use each space and what he liked. Then they headed out to source pieces, starting with the upstairs to allow Don to move in quicker.
To ease congestion inside, the painters had moved to the outbuildings. The staircase railings had been stripped and refinished off-site and were now being reinstalled. These last few weeks had been a whirlwind; Don was ready for the chaos to end.
He had hoped to plant a garden this year, but the renovation schedule made it impossible. Still, the idea of home-canned food and a well-stocked larder appealed to him deeply. In his daydreams of a self-reliant life, nothing beat rows of jars filled with the year’s harvest. He would improvise and be ready for next spring.
Research on the area had already shown him its rich history. This stretch of Missouri had been a major jumping-off point for westward expansion in the 1800s. From St. Louis, people, goods, and supplies moved up the Missouri River and beyond—explorers, settlers, merchants outfitting thousands for the dangerous trek. Don liked the thought of growing at least some of his own food, even if it was partly for the romance of it. After a lifetime in cities, he had rarely paused to consider where a can on the shelf had come from. People who stopped to think about that chain, he believed, would appreciate the country more. Of course there were always those who wanted to remind everyone of past sins—the displacement of Native peoples, the conquest of the continent. Don understood history was rarely gentle; every nation and culture on earth had its chapters of subjugation and survival. That didn’t diminish what later generations had built.
He paid another visit to the County Agricultural Extension Agent and came away with solid advice on local gardening. A folder of designs and variety lists grew on his desk. Talking with neighbors who kept market gardens or backyard plots introduced him to heirloom seeds; several offered saved stock. Don gratefully accepted and went online for more varieties. The research was hard work, but he was enjoying himself.
Sarah’s crew planted the trees with impressive efficiency—an assembly line in motion. Trees arrived, holes were dug precisely, netting and burlap were removed or slit to free the roots, and the root ball was soaked with water laced with anti-shock additives. A drip irrigator was inserted, the hole backfilled and tamped. Don ran his tractor with a landscape blade to level the excess soil. The work moved quickly, yet it still took most of two days to set all fifty trees. The Carpathian walnuts went in just as smoothly. When the final black walnut settled into place, Don let out a long breath of satisfaction. He paid Sarah and managed to avoid any extra conversation. She clearly knew how to use her charms, but they weren’t affecting Don. If all went well, he would be harvesting nuts in three years—something to look forward to at holiday gatherings.
Working from Extension pamphlets and his own notes on companion planting, Don sketched his ideal vegetable garden to scale, drove stakes at the chosen spot, and turned the tough sod. A soil test guided amendments: composted and raw cow manure tilled in deep. He laid out irrigation lines and began building an heirloom seed vault—seeds sealed in quart jars and stored in the cool basement.
Joan and Eric steadily delivered furniture, starting upstairs so Don could move in as soon as possible. House painting continued more slowly than the outbuildings. The barns and garage had mostly been sprayed, tarps protecting the ground. The main house required more brushwork. Brilliant white with dark-gray trim, the place no longer resembled something out of Poe. On sunny days the fresh paint was so bright Don had to wear his wraparound sunglasses.
He also invested in wireless soil-moisture monitors—the kind large California operations used—and placed
them along each row of trees according to the manufacturer’s guidelines. Pecans were thirsty, especially when nuts were forming, and he wanted the system ready. The monitors rarely alarmed; the drip irrigation kept evaporation low and the trees healthy.
Don stored the heavier woodworking machines in the garage building until he could install the dust-collection system and determine the best layout. He wanted a smooth workflow—moving a rough piece of lumber through the shop without backtracking. Rip saw, rough miter saw, planer, finish miter saw, router, shaper, drill
press, band saw, sander. Each machine would have its own duct to pull away sawdust and shavings. That material would find plenty of uses, starting with the chicken coop he planned to build once the shop workbench and shelves were finished.He intended to repurpose the recovered lumber the carpenters hadn’t used in the library, along with much of the pine siding. Larger dimensional stock and posts he would buy new at the building supply. Don found a solid chicken-coop plan online, printed the materials list, and began gathering what he needed.
He waited for Sarah’s call. When it came, he told her he was nearly ready to start planting. “I’ll be down Friday.”
“Great!” she said. “I’ll have a skid steer with tree spade and a telehandler positioned at your place. They’ll be delivered tomorrow.”
Sarah had explained the process: trees dug at the nursery, root balls wrapped and burlapped, netting secured over the tops to protect leaves and branches. Deliveries would come in loads of six to eight trees. By the time one batch was planted, the next would arrive—seven or eight loads total. It would be a long Friday.
Down in the basement, they had finished power-troweling the floor. The concrete was smooth as glass. Next came shelves and cabinets.
One pleasant surprise had turned up during the downstairs demo. On the right side of the fireplace they found plain built-in bookshelves and a small 3x3-foot cabinet door. Behind the door was a manual dumbwaiter an earlier owner had used to bring firewood upstairs from the basement. Don had noticed wood bark on the basement floor the first time he explored there but hadn’t thought much of it. George later sourced a Warn winch from a wrecked UTV at the junkyard, rigged it with a remote, and replaced the old wooden capstan system. Now Don could store firewood in the basement and haul it up without stepping outside. Next to the cellar door was a chute where split wood could be dropped straight into a bin next to a wood rack—or simply piled on the floor. The old place kept revealing clever secrets.
Furniture came next on the list. Don had no idea where to begin, so he called an interior designer. Joan Walker was competent and professional. Her assistant, Eric Du Bois—Really? Who has a name like that?—struck Don as flamboyant in the extreme, complete with a lisp that set Don’s teeth on edge. Still, Joan knew her business. They toured the house room by room while Don described how he intended to use each space and what he liked. Then they headed out to source pieces, starting with the upstairs to allow Don to move in quicker.
To ease congestion inside, the painters had moved to the outbuildings. The staircase railings had been stripped and refinished off-site and were now being reinstalled. These last few weeks had been a whirlwind; Don was ready for the chaos to end.
He had hoped to plant a garden this year, but the renovation schedule made it impossible. Still, the idea of home-canned food and a well-stocked larder appealed to him deeply. In his daydreams of a self-reliant life, nothing beat rows of jars filled with the year’s harvest. He would improvise and be ready for next spring.
Research on the area had already shown him its rich history. This stretch of Missouri had been a major jumping-off point for westward expansion in the 1800s. From St. Louis, people, goods, and supplies moved up the Missouri River and beyond—explorers, settlers, merchants outfitting thousands for the dangerous trek. Don liked the thought of growing at least some of his own food, even if it was partly for the romance of it. After a lifetime in cities, he had rarely paused to consider where a can on the shelf had come from. People who stopped to think about that chain, he believed, would appreciate the country more. Of course there were always those who wanted to remind everyone of past sins—the displacement of Native peoples, the conquest of the continent. Don understood history was rarely gentle; every nation and culture on earth had its chapters of subjugation and survival. That didn’t diminish what later generations had built.
He paid another visit to the County Agricultural Extension Agent and came away with solid advice on local gardening. A folder of designs and variety lists grew on his desk. Talking with neighbors who kept market gardens or backyard plots introduced him to heirloom seeds; several offered saved stock. Don gratefully accepted and went online for more varieties. The research was hard work, but he was enjoying himself.
Sarah’s crew planted the trees with impressive efficiency—an assembly line in motion. Trees arrived, holes were dug precisely, netting and burlap were removed or slit to free the roots, and the root ball was soaked with water laced with anti-shock additives. A drip irrigator was inserted, the hole backfilled and tamped. Don ran his tractor with a landscape blade to level the excess soil. The work moved quickly, yet it still took most of two days to set all fifty trees. The Carpathian walnuts went in just as smoothly. When the final black walnut settled into place, Don let out a long breath of satisfaction. He paid Sarah and managed to avoid any extra conversation. She clearly knew how to use her charms, but they weren’t affecting Don. If all went well, he would be harvesting nuts in three years—something to look forward to at holiday gatherings.
Working from Extension pamphlets and his own notes on companion planting, Don sketched his ideal vegetable garden to scale, drove stakes at the chosen spot, and turned the tough sod. A soil test guided amendments: composted and raw cow manure tilled in deep. He laid out irrigation lines and began building an heirloom seed vault—seeds sealed in quart jars and stored in the cool basement.
Joan and Eric steadily delivered furniture, starting upstairs so Don could move in as soon as possible. House painting continued more slowly than the outbuildings. The barns and garage had mostly been sprayed, tarps protecting the ground. The main house required more brushwork. Brilliant white with dark-gray trim, the place no longer resembled something out of Poe. On sunny days the fresh paint was so bright Don had to wear his wraparound sunglasses.
He also invested in wireless soil-moisture monitors—the kind large California operations used—and placed
them along each row of trees according to the manufacturer’s guidelines. Pecans were thirsty, especially when nuts were forming, and he wanted the system ready. The monitors rarely alarmed; the drip irrigation kept evaporation low and the trees healthy.
sssarawolf
We're just plugging along.
Many Thanks.
223shootersc
Veteran Member
Thanks
feralferret
Veteran Member
Makes me wish I was 30 years younger and had money. I'm already in Missouri.
Thank you.
Thank you.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Ten
Joan and Eric had done a wonderful job selecting furniture for Don’s home. They’d blended styles that suited him perfectly—solid, practical pieces with a warm rural charm. Don was especially pleased with the restored oak Hoosier cabinet he’d requested. He’d seen one in a museum years ago and always thought it would bring a touch of old-fashioned hominess to his otherwise modern kitchen.
All the appliances were installed, and he had finally moved out of the motorhome for good. Sophia came over to help him empty it, then immediately started cleaning. Don hesitated for half a second before falling in beside her. Together they scrubbed every surface until the rig was spotless, ready for a spontaneous weekend getaway if the mood struck. They even stocked the pantry with non-perishables. Don flushed the holding tanks, then eased the motorhome behind the woodworking shop and ran a power cord out to it. He’d originally planned to build a shelter himself, but in the end he hired a local handyman crew to put up a proper cover to protect it from the sun and weather.
Tom returned a few days later for a full inspection of the solar array. He ran load tests and confirmed the battery bank was handling everything without issue. Don felt a quiet satisfaction watching the system perform exactly as designed.
Sophia had shifted her attention to preventive care for her apple trees, spraying for fungal diseases. Don walked over twice to lend a hand, enjoying the easy rhythm of working beside her in the orchard.
The normal summer temperatures had been hovering in the low eighties, but on July 20th the thermometer spiked to 95º. The heat itself wasn’t the worst part—it was the humidity. Breathing outside felt like sticking your head in a fish tank. Even sitting on the porch after dark brought little relief.
One muggy evening, while half-watching the TV, a commercial came on showing a family laughing in a sparkling inground pool installed by Deluxe Innovations. The next morning Don was on the phone.
He found a contractor whose credentials checked out and got a quote for a 20-by-40-foot inground pool. The two-and-a-half-month timeline nearly made him balk, but Sophia assured him the weather stayed warm well into late October. That tipped the scales. Don gave the go-ahead.
The very next day an excavator was carving a massive hole behind the house. Don had the crew position it close enough that he could later connect the pool to the house with a generous patio.
While the pool crew worked, Don finished roofing the chicken coop with rusted, but serviceable tin roofing. He stepped back and smiled. It looked downright cute. He was going to leave it the grey color of the weathered wood and not paint it. Armed with pages of internet research on small-scale chicken keeping, he then drove to the nearest Tractor Supply.
With help from a knowledgeable store associate, he gathered chicken waterers, feeders, nesting pads, two bales of bedding, dusting bowls, a dust bath area, grit, oyster shell, and feed. He loaded everything into the truck and headed straight home. He’d talk to Sophia later—she knew a neighbor who sold good layers and roosters.
Back at the house, the pool crew had trimmed the excavation and was laying rebar, preparing for the first concrete pour. Don used the lull to set up the chicken area. He dug shallow holes and sank the wallowing pans flush with the ground, then positioned the dust bath. He filled the waterers and feeders, placed fresh nesting pads, and scattered bedding. Once his woodworking shop was running, he’d use the shavings and save on bought bedding. He stored the feed bags in the small attached feed room and stood back, pleased with the tidy setup.
After a quick sandwich and two tall glasses of iced tea, Don climbed into the Honda Pioneer and followed the woodland trail Sophia had shown him over to Freja’s place.
They welcomed him warmly. Freja was at the kitchen table hulling strawberries. When she started to rise, Sophia gently pressed a hand to her mother’s shoulder. “I’ve got it, Momma.” She poured iced tea for everyone and rejoined Freja at the table.
“Sophia is making one of her famous four-layer strawberry cakes,” Freja said with pride. “She puts fresh berries and a little juice between each layer, then covers it all with that wonderful cream-cheese icing.”
“Sounds like heaven,” Don replied.
“So how have you been keeping busy?” Sophia asked.
“Monitoring the trees, mostly. Oh—and I finished the chicken coop. You mentioned a lady who sells layers?”
“Mrs. Harrison. We get our eggs from her.”
“Some of them will be in this very cake!” Freja added.
“I’m also putting in a swimming pool,” Don said.
“A swimming pool!” Freja’s eyes widened.
Don chuckled. “Figured if I have to breathe this soup every day, I might as well do it underwater in my own backyard and actually cool off.”
Sophia snickered.
“Sophia was quite the swimmer in high school,” Freja noted.
“Well, you two are welcome anytime,” Don said. “It’s not Olympic-sized, but there should be room for some short laps.”
“When will it be finished?” Sophia asked.
“About two and a half months, they say.”
Sophia nodded. “Perfect timing for those warm-water nighttime swims—pool warm, evenings finally cooling down.”
“Yes,” Don said, his gaze drifting toward the kitchen sink for a moment.
“Oh, look at me,” Sophia said suddenly. “Momma, can you finish the strawberries? I’ll ride with Don over to Mrs. Harrison’s and help him get set up with some chickens.”
“Of course. You two go on.”
Sophia hopped in the Pioneer and they drove back over to get Don’s truck. Mrs. Harrison greeted them with the easy warmth of longtime country neighbors. Once Sophia explained the reason for the visit, the older woman nodded and led them out to her chicken house.
“How many layers do you need?” she asked.
Don described the coop he’d built for up to ten birds.
“Why don’t I sell you six layers—four pullets and a good rooster. That’ll give you plenty of eggs right away, plus four young hens still coming into full production.”
“Sounds perfect,” Don said.
They loaded three wire cages, caught the birds, and were soon heading back to Hunter Ridge. At the coop they released the chickens into the run. The birds immediately began exploring, scratching, and investigating the feeders. Don and Sophia returned the empty cages to Mrs. Harrison on the way back to Freja’s.
As they pulled up, Don felt a deep sense of satisfaction. The house was coming together, the solar system was solid, the chickens were settled, and the pool would soon be underway. For the first time in a long while, life felt like it was moving in the right direction—steady, purposeful, and rooted right here in the hills.
Joan and Eric had done a wonderful job selecting furniture for Don’s home. They’d blended styles that suited him perfectly—solid, practical pieces with a warm rural charm. Don was especially pleased with the restored oak Hoosier cabinet he’d requested. He’d seen one in a museum years ago and always thought it would bring a touch of old-fashioned hominess to his otherwise modern kitchen.
All the appliances were installed, and he had finally moved out of the motorhome for good. Sophia came over to help him empty it, then immediately started cleaning. Don hesitated for half a second before falling in beside her. Together they scrubbed every surface until the rig was spotless, ready for a spontaneous weekend getaway if the mood struck. They even stocked the pantry with non-perishables. Don flushed the holding tanks, then eased the motorhome behind the woodworking shop and ran a power cord out to it. He’d originally planned to build a shelter himself, but in the end he hired a local handyman crew to put up a proper cover to protect it from the sun and weather.
Tom returned a few days later for a full inspection of the solar array. He ran load tests and confirmed the battery bank was handling everything without issue. Don felt a quiet satisfaction watching the system perform exactly as designed.
Sophia had shifted her attention to preventive care for her apple trees, spraying for fungal diseases. Don walked over twice to lend a hand, enjoying the easy rhythm of working beside her in the orchard.
The normal summer temperatures had been hovering in the low eighties, but on July 20th the thermometer spiked to 95º. The heat itself wasn’t the worst part—it was the humidity. Breathing outside felt like sticking your head in a fish tank. Even sitting on the porch after dark brought little relief.
One muggy evening, while half-watching the TV, a commercial came on showing a family laughing in a sparkling inground pool installed by Deluxe Innovations. The next morning Don was on the phone.
He found a contractor whose credentials checked out and got a quote for a 20-by-40-foot inground pool. The two-and-a-half-month timeline nearly made him balk, but Sophia assured him the weather stayed warm well into late October. That tipped the scales. Don gave the go-ahead.
The very next day an excavator was carving a massive hole behind the house. Don had the crew position it close enough that he could later connect the pool to the house with a generous patio.
While the pool crew worked, Don finished roofing the chicken coop with rusted, but serviceable tin roofing. He stepped back and smiled. It looked downright cute. He was going to leave it the grey color of the weathered wood and not paint it. Armed with pages of internet research on small-scale chicken keeping, he then drove to the nearest Tractor Supply.
With help from a knowledgeable store associate, he gathered chicken waterers, feeders, nesting pads, two bales of bedding, dusting bowls, a dust bath area, grit, oyster shell, and feed. He loaded everything into the truck and headed straight home. He’d talk to Sophia later—she knew a neighbor who sold good layers and roosters.
Back at the house, the pool crew had trimmed the excavation and was laying rebar, preparing for the first concrete pour. Don used the lull to set up the chicken area. He dug shallow holes and sank the wallowing pans flush with the ground, then positioned the dust bath. He filled the waterers and feeders, placed fresh nesting pads, and scattered bedding. Once his woodworking shop was running, he’d use the shavings and save on bought bedding. He stored the feed bags in the small attached feed room and stood back, pleased with the tidy setup.
After a quick sandwich and two tall glasses of iced tea, Don climbed into the Honda Pioneer and followed the woodland trail Sophia had shown him over to Freja’s place.
They welcomed him warmly. Freja was at the kitchen table hulling strawberries. When she started to rise, Sophia gently pressed a hand to her mother’s shoulder. “I’ve got it, Momma.” She poured iced tea for everyone and rejoined Freja at the table.
“Sophia is making one of her famous four-layer strawberry cakes,” Freja said with pride. “She puts fresh berries and a little juice between each layer, then covers it all with that wonderful cream-cheese icing.”
“Sounds like heaven,” Don replied.
“So how have you been keeping busy?” Sophia asked.
“Monitoring the trees, mostly. Oh—and I finished the chicken coop. You mentioned a lady who sells layers?”
“Mrs. Harrison. We get our eggs from her.”
“Some of them will be in this very cake!” Freja added.
“I’m also putting in a swimming pool,” Don said.
“A swimming pool!” Freja’s eyes widened.
Don chuckled. “Figured if I have to breathe this soup every day, I might as well do it underwater in my own backyard and actually cool off.”
Sophia snickered.
“Sophia was quite the swimmer in high school,” Freja noted.
“Well, you two are welcome anytime,” Don said. “It’s not Olympic-sized, but there should be room for some short laps.”
“When will it be finished?” Sophia asked.
“About two and a half months, they say.”
Sophia nodded. “Perfect timing for those warm-water nighttime swims—pool warm, evenings finally cooling down.”
“Yes,” Don said, his gaze drifting toward the kitchen sink for a moment.
“Oh, look at me,” Sophia said suddenly. “Momma, can you finish the strawberries? I’ll ride with Don over to Mrs. Harrison’s and help him get set up with some chickens.”
“Of course. You two go on.”
Sophia hopped in the Pioneer and they drove back over to get Don’s truck. Mrs. Harrison greeted them with the easy warmth of longtime country neighbors. Once Sophia explained the reason for the visit, the older woman nodded and led them out to her chicken house.
“How many layers do you need?” she asked.
Don described the coop he’d built for up to ten birds.
“Why don’t I sell you six layers—four pullets and a good rooster. That’ll give you plenty of eggs right away, plus four young hens still coming into full production.”
“Sounds perfect,” Don said.
They loaded three wire cages, caught the birds, and were soon heading back to Hunter Ridge. At the coop they released the chickens into the run. The birds immediately began exploring, scratching, and investigating the feeders. Don and Sophia returned the empty cages to Mrs. Harrison on the way back to Freja’s.
As they pulled up, Don felt a deep sense of satisfaction. The house was coming together, the solar system was solid, the chickens were settled, and the pool would soon be underway. For the first time in a long while, life felt like it was moving in the right direction—steady, purposeful, and rooted right here in the hills.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Eleven
Don drove down to Troy and the main offices of Cuivre River Electric Cooperative. He had them pull the meter and haul away the transformer. He no longer needed them. A quiet sense of power and relief settled over him. He was no longer tethered to a faceless utility that could cut his power on a whim.
To celebrate, he stopped at the Dairy Queen and ordered a Strawberry Angel Food Cake Blizzard. It wasn’t as good as Sophia’s strawberry cake, but it was cold and sweet, and he savored every spoonful.
The electrician arrived later that morning, disconnecting the lines from the meter to the transfer switch and installing the new cables for a future generator hookup. Don watched the work with satisfaction, then headed out to check his trees.
He drove the rows in the Pioneer while the air was still cool, scanning the leaves for any sign of stress. Keeping the root zones moist was clearly helping. Later, he stood by the swimming pool and watched the concrete crew inlay decorative tile along the coping. It was going to be beautiful.
At Home Depot he stocked up on wood and deck screwsber, then lingered over the paving stones and patio displays. He grabbed several magazines on outdoor living and took them home. That evening he sat at the kitchen table, flipping pages and jotting notes: cushioned seating, a fire pit, soft lighting. Something like this would be perfect.
He had kept the future garden plot irrigated and finally worked it again—plowing, harrowing, then seeding the entire area with red clover using the grain drill. The clover would fix nitrogen, build biomass, and boost microbial life in the soil. In late summer he would turn it under, reseed before the first frost, and let it overwinter. That was about all he could do this year. In a few weeks he planned to no-till red clover into the tree lanes as well.
With the pool nearly finished, Don called a reputable local landscaping company and showed them his dream-patio sketch on a legal pad. The rep came out, took photos and measurements, and promised they could deliver exactly what he wanted. The pool company offered to truck in water to fill the pool, but Don declined. He preferred to fill it slowly from the well.
That morning the chickens gave him his first four eggs. He had bought a pack of a dozen egg cartons at Walmart; the treasures went straight into one and into the refrigerator. He would fry a couple for breakfast tomorrow. Sophia had given him a pretty rattan egg basket with a handle for gathering them fresh.
Filling the pool took several days with a single hose. The well pump cycled often, but the massive battery bank
—charged by solar panels and Tom’s bladeless wind generators—handled it without complaint. When the water finally reached the right level, Don invited Sophia over for the inaugural swim.
The water was still a little chilly, but it felt wonderful after a sweltering day. They floated and laughed, letting the tension of the week melt away. Afterward, Don spread out his crude patio drawings on the poolside table.
“Oh! Hanging ferns would look beautiful along the edges,” Sophia said, tracing a finger over the sketch.
Don wrote “Hanging Ferns” in the margin.
“You could cook an entire dinner in an outdoor kitchen like that,” she added.
“That’s the idea. With a nice indoor kitchen already, I figured I should have one outside too. Keeps the host with the guests.”
Sophia’s eyes sparkled. “So are you already collecting names for these outdoor dinners? Has Sarah been coming around again?”
“Bite your tongue, woman.” Don grinned. “I’m very selective. So far the only names on the list are a certain beautiful woman next door… and her mother.”
“My, my. You are a silver-tongued devil.”
When her suit had dried enough, Sophia stood and pulled a cover-up over her head. Don’s heart did a slow
flip as the fabric settled into place.
“I should be going,” she said, slipping on her sandals. “The pool is wonderful, Don. Thank you.”
“S-Saturday night… um, w-would you… like t-to, uh… go out to d-dinner?" Don stammered.
Sophia grinned. “Yes! Could we have Italian pasta? I love Italian food.”
“Of course. I’ll pick a nice place.”
Don slipped on a T-shirt and his deck shoes and walked Sophia home in the gathering dusk.
“The pool felt perfect after the heat,” Sophia said as they reached her porch steps.
“You’re welcome to use it anytime.”
“Thank you. You’re so sweet.” She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek.
Don watched her climb the steps, then quickly turned away to hide the flush creeping up his neck before heading home.
The next morning Don followed his new routine: tree inspection in the Pioneer, then gathering eggs, feeding and watering the chickens. When he returned from the rows, Sophia was waiting by the coop.
“I wondered where you were,” she said.
“Just doing the morning tree check.” He opened the feed-room door, took down the rattan basket, and began
collecting eggs. Six today—his best haul yet.
“Have you eaten breakfast?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Come on, then. I’ll make you something special.”
They walked to the house together and pulled off their boots at the kitchen door—a habit Don had picked up after his first visit with the Anderssons.
He took the egg carton from the fridge, rotated the older eggs forward, and tucked the fresh ones in back. Then he poured Sophia a cup of coffee. She settled at the island to watch him work.
Don melted butter in his Smithey 10-inch cast-iron skillet, then mixed a simple crepe batter. While it rested, he mashed soft butter with strawberry jelly until smooth. He sprayed the hot skillet, ladled in batter, and swirled it thin. Golden edges formed quickly; he flipped the crepe with a thin spatula.
“Have you had these before?” he asked, sliding the first one onto a plate.
“Yes—in Sweden they call them pannkakor.”
Don’s face fell theatrically. “And here I thought I was impressing you. Guess I’ll have to bring out the big guns.”
Sophia laughed. “Oh, I’m impressed. Not many men cook well. Most just burn ribs or burgers and call it a feast.”
“Nothing wrong with good grilling,” Don said, smiling. “In fact, I’m putting a Santa Maria grill with Brasero and smoker in that outdoor kitchen. Get me on that, and I know I can impress you.”
Sophia’s twinkling eyes met his over the rim of her coffee cup. “Call me anytime.”
Don drove down to Troy and the main offices of Cuivre River Electric Cooperative. He had them pull the meter and haul away the transformer. He no longer needed them. A quiet sense of power and relief settled over him. He was no longer tethered to a faceless utility that could cut his power on a whim.
To celebrate, he stopped at the Dairy Queen and ordered a Strawberry Angel Food Cake Blizzard. It wasn’t as good as Sophia’s strawberry cake, but it was cold and sweet, and he savored every spoonful.
The electrician arrived later that morning, disconnecting the lines from the meter to the transfer switch and installing the new cables for a future generator hookup. Don watched the work with satisfaction, then headed out to check his trees.
He drove the rows in the Pioneer while the air was still cool, scanning the leaves for any sign of stress. Keeping the root zones moist was clearly helping. Later, he stood by the swimming pool and watched the concrete crew inlay decorative tile along the coping. It was going to be beautiful.
At Home Depot he stocked up on wood and deck screwsber, then lingered over the paving stones and patio displays. He grabbed several magazines on outdoor living and took them home. That evening he sat at the kitchen table, flipping pages and jotting notes: cushioned seating, a fire pit, soft lighting. Something like this would be perfect.
He had kept the future garden plot irrigated and finally worked it again—plowing, harrowing, then seeding the entire area with red clover using the grain drill. The clover would fix nitrogen, build biomass, and boost microbial life in the soil. In late summer he would turn it under, reseed before the first frost, and let it overwinter. That was about all he could do this year. In a few weeks he planned to no-till red clover into the tree lanes as well.
With the pool nearly finished, Don called a reputable local landscaping company and showed them his dream-patio sketch on a legal pad. The rep came out, took photos and measurements, and promised they could deliver exactly what he wanted. The pool company offered to truck in water to fill the pool, but Don declined. He preferred to fill it slowly from the well.
That morning the chickens gave him his first four eggs. He had bought a pack of a dozen egg cartons at Walmart; the treasures went straight into one and into the refrigerator. He would fry a couple for breakfast tomorrow. Sophia had given him a pretty rattan egg basket with a handle for gathering them fresh.
Filling the pool took several days with a single hose. The well pump cycled often, but the massive battery bank
—charged by solar panels and Tom’s bladeless wind generators—handled it without complaint. When the water finally reached the right level, Don invited Sophia over for the inaugural swim.The water was still a little chilly, but it felt wonderful after a sweltering day. They floated and laughed, letting the tension of the week melt away. Afterward, Don spread out his crude patio drawings on the poolside table.
“Oh! Hanging ferns would look beautiful along the edges,” Sophia said, tracing a finger over the sketch.
Don wrote “Hanging Ferns” in the margin.
“You could cook an entire dinner in an outdoor kitchen like that,” she added.
“That’s the idea. With a nice indoor kitchen already, I figured I should have one outside too. Keeps the host with the guests.”
Sophia’s eyes sparkled. “So are you already collecting names for these outdoor dinners? Has Sarah been coming around again?”
“Bite your tongue, woman.” Don grinned. “I’m very selective. So far the only names on the list are a certain beautiful woman next door… and her mother.”
“My, my. You are a silver-tongued devil.”
When her suit had dried enough, Sophia stood and pulled a cover-up over her head. Don’s heart did a slow
flip as the fabric settled into place.“I should be going,” she said, slipping on her sandals. “The pool is wonderful, Don. Thank you.”
“S-Saturday night… um, w-would you… like t-to, uh… go out to d-dinner?" Don stammered.
Sophia grinned. “Yes! Could we have Italian pasta? I love Italian food.”
“Of course. I’ll pick a nice place.”
Don slipped on a T-shirt and his deck shoes and walked Sophia home in the gathering dusk.
“The pool felt perfect after the heat,” Sophia said as they reached her porch steps.
“You’re welcome to use it anytime.”
“Thank you. You’re so sweet.” She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek.
Don watched her climb the steps, then quickly turned away to hide the flush creeping up his neck before heading home.
The next morning Don followed his new routine: tree inspection in the Pioneer, then gathering eggs, feeding and watering the chickens. When he returned from the rows, Sophia was waiting by the coop.
“I wondered where you were,” she said.
“Just doing the morning tree check.” He opened the feed-room door, took down the rattan basket, and began
collecting eggs. Six today—his best haul yet.“Have you eaten breakfast?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Come on, then. I’ll make you something special.”
They walked to the house together and pulled off their boots at the kitchen door—a habit Don had picked up after his first visit with the Anderssons.
He took the egg carton from the fridge, rotated the older eggs forward, and tucked the fresh ones in back. Then he poured Sophia a cup of coffee. She settled at the island to watch him work.
Don melted butter in his Smithey 10-inch cast-iron skillet, then mixed a simple crepe batter. While it rested, he mashed soft butter with strawberry jelly until smooth. He sprayed the hot skillet, ladled in batter, and swirled it thin. Golden edges formed quickly; he flipped the crepe with a thin spatula.
“Have you had these before?” he asked, sliding the first one onto a plate.
“Yes—in Sweden they call them pannkakor.”
Don’s face fell theatrically. “And here I thought I was impressing you. Guess I’ll have to bring out the big guns.”
Sophia laughed. “Oh, I’m impressed. Not many men cook well. Most just burn ribs or burgers and call it a feast.”
“Nothing wrong with good grilling,” Don said, smiling. “In fact, I’m putting a Santa Maria grill with Brasero and smoker in that outdoor kitchen. Get me on that, and I know I can impress you.”
Sophia’s twinkling eyes met his over the rim of her coffee cup. “Call me anytime.”
sssarawolf
We're just plugging along.
Thank you.
feralferret
Veteran Member
Thanks.
223shootersc
Veteran Member
Thanks!
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Twelve
Don had come into possession of four ten-gallon casks of some of the best whiskey he had ever tasted. A local moonshiner with decades of hard-won experience had filtered the newly-made spirit through sugar maple charcoal before barreling it, then aged it for eight years in charred ten-gallon oak casks in a cool cellar beneath his barn. A final pass through hickory charcoal imparted a subtle, smoky finish that lingered on the back of the tongue, reminiscent of an Islay Scotch. It quickened the senses without the harsh bite of younger spirits.
Don had sworn off drinking during the worst of the troubles in New York, but he was easing back into it now—one careful pour at a time. As Mark Twain once said, “Too much of anything is bad, but too much good whiskey is barely enough.”
The landscapers excavated the patio area down six inches, laid a compacted gravel base, and set tumbled limestone pavers in a random pattern that reached all the way around the pool. They swept polymeric sand into the joints and misted it lightly. The foreman recommended letting it cure for three full days before heavy use, so Don’s evening dips had to wait. Once the surface was ready, the crew extended the pavers into graceful borders around the planting beds.
The landscaping designer brought samples and a list of options. Don chose evergreen gardenias for their clean lines and sweet summer blooms, with perennials layered between them to provide color from spring through fall. A semi-transparent privacy screen would enclose the pool and patio, letting cooling breezes through while offering a welcome sense of seclusion.
With the patio cured, materials for the covered outdoor kitchen arrived. The team installed the fire pit first, demonstrating its adjustable features. Reproduction steamboat oil lamps went up on sturdy posts—Don could burn citronella in them to keep the insects at bay. He stayed away from the main construction so the finished space would reveal itself each evening like a gift. The result exceeded his expectations: white granite countertops, a compact refrigerator, ice machine, wine cooler, Santa Maria grill with brasero and smoker, wood-fired griddle and pizza oven, two side burners, and a divided farm sink with a butcher-block cover for extra prep space. Synthetic slate tiles on the roof tied the kitchen visually to the house, while the rich stain on the beams and posts created its own intimate world at the back of the property.
Sophia arrived one afternoon while the landscapers were finishing the flower beds. She presented Don with two four-person settings of Port Gaia stoneware dinnerware from Portugal—durable, elegant pieces that would weather the outdoors beautifully. That evening Don stocked the cabinets with a full set of double-walled, insulated bar glasses and mugs.
The Missouri evenings had grown kinder. Hot air seemed to rise and drift away at dusk, leaving cool, comfortable air that meant he rarely needed the mini-splits anymore.
All that remained was patio furniture. Then he would be ready to impress Sophia properly.
For a test run of the Santa Maria grill, Don picked up a small beef tenderloin at Baumann’s Fine Meats and treated himself to an Argentinian-style lomo. He seasoned it simply an hour before cooking—light olive oil, kosher salt, black pepper, and garlic powder—then built a good bed of coals in the brasero. Ten minutes before the meat hit the fire, he lowered the adjustable grate for a hard sear. Once crusted, he raised it to finish the tenderloin to a perfect medium-rare (130–135°F). While it rested, he fried potatoes in the FryDaddy, pulled a fresh salad and chimichurri from the fridge, and took the first bite under the new string lights. It was everything he had hoped for. For the upcoming Chateaubriand, he planned a lighter hand with seasoning—just kosher salt—and a final baste of garlic butter.
The next day he returned to Baumann’s for a full five-pound tenderloin, already stripped of silverskin, along with fresh asparagus, small potatoes, and salad fixings. At the best wine shop in St. Louis he selected two bottles of Schrader Monastery Block Cabernet Sauvignon—rich, structured, and worth every penny for the occasion. They rested in the new cooler.
The warm evening air, cooled by gentle currents, wrapped around Sophia like a secret as she stepped onto the limestone pavers. Fairy lights twinkled along the garden borders, casting a golden glow over the simply set table with its Portuguese stoneware for three, the chilled wine sweating in the humid twilight, and a vase of wildflowers—daisies and black-eyed Susans—Don had clearly picked himself from the fresh beds. The scent of grilling meat and herbs drifted from the outdoor kitchen, mingling with the earthy forest and distant honeysuckle.
Her heart raced with a flutter she hadn’t felt in years. She had chosen the sundress on a whim—the one that skimmed her curves, the soft fabric brushing her thighs with every step. A first real date at a man’s house would normally have her guard up, polite goodnights at the door, safe boundaries drawn from past disappointments. But tonight felt different.
Don turned from the grill with that easy, lopsided smile that always made her knees unreliable. He poured her a glass of wine, his fingers brushing hers just long enough to send a spark racing up her arm. Her mother Freja had been invited too—Don’s desire to impress extending to family. They talked easily over dinner: his latest homestead projects, her stories from the farm customers, the way his eyes lingered on her lips when she savored the perfectly seared tenderloin. Laughter flowed like the wine, warm and loosening, until the plates were empty and the stars sharpened overhead. Dessert brought coffee and delicate flan drizzled with dulce de leche.
Sophia’s excitement thrummed—nerves and thrill tangled together—but Freja’s presence tempered it. Understanding the moment, her mother stood. “I’m tired,” she said. “Don, may I borrow the Pioneer UTV to head home?”
Don gave Freja that special smile he reserved for her and handed over the keys. Sophia watched her mother disappear into the flickering shadows of oil lamps and candles, then turned back to Don. Every shared glance now felt charged, every accidental touch electric. She helped him clear the dishes into a bus pan from Sam’s Club, imagining those strong, land-worked hands sliding along her waist.
The possibilities hung thick in the air like the fireflies at the wood’s edge. What if she didn’t pull back this time? What if she let the night unfold—kisses deepening, clothes whispering away, boundaries giving way to something raw and real? She was tired of playing it safe. Here, with crickets singing approval and Don’s steady gaze making her feel truly seen, she wondered if tonight was the night she would surrender to the current.
She met his eyes as he lifted the bus pan, a shy smile playing on her lips. The door to more stood wide open, and for once, she had no desire to close it.
Don had come into possession of four ten-gallon casks of some of the best whiskey he had ever tasted. A local moonshiner with decades of hard-won experience had filtered the newly-made spirit through sugar maple charcoal before barreling it, then aged it for eight years in charred ten-gallon oak casks in a cool cellar beneath his barn. A final pass through hickory charcoal imparted a subtle, smoky finish that lingered on the back of the tongue, reminiscent of an Islay Scotch. It quickened the senses without the harsh bite of younger spirits.
Don had sworn off drinking during the worst of the troubles in New York, but he was easing back into it now—one careful pour at a time. As Mark Twain once said, “Too much of anything is bad, but too much good whiskey is barely enough.”
The landscapers excavated the patio area down six inches, laid a compacted gravel base, and set tumbled limestone pavers in a random pattern that reached all the way around the pool. They swept polymeric sand into the joints and misted it lightly. The foreman recommended letting it cure for three full days before heavy use, so Don’s evening dips had to wait. Once the surface was ready, the crew extended the pavers into graceful borders around the planting beds.
The landscaping designer brought samples and a list of options. Don chose evergreen gardenias for their clean lines and sweet summer blooms, with perennials layered between them to provide color from spring through fall. A semi-transparent privacy screen would enclose the pool and patio, letting cooling breezes through while offering a welcome sense of seclusion.
With the patio cured, materials for the covered outdoor kitchen arrived. The team installed the fire pit first, demonstrating its adjustable features. Reproduction steamboat oil lamps went up on sturdy posts—Don could burn citronella in them to keep the insects at bay. He stayed away from the main construction so the finished space would reveal itself each evening like a gift. The result exceeded his expectations: white granite countertops, a compact refrigerator, ice machine, wine cooler, Santa Maria grill with brasero and smoker, wood-fired griddle and pizza oven, two side burners, and a divided farm sink with a butcher-block cover for extra prep space. Synthetic slate tiles on the roof tied the kitchen visually to the house, while the rich stain on the beams and posts created its own intimate world at the back of the property.
Sophia arrived one afternoon while the landscapers were finishing the flower beds. She presented Don with two four-person settings of Port Gaia stoneware dinnerware from Portugal—durable, elegant pieces that would weather the outdoors beautifully. That evening Don stocked the cabinets with a full set of double-walled, insulated bar glasses and mugs.
The Missouri evenings had grown kinder. Hot air seemed to rise and drift away at dusk, leaving cool, comfortable air that meant he rarely needed the mini-splits anymore.
All that remained was patio furniture. Then he would be ready to impress Sophia properly.
For a test run of the Santa Maria grill, Don picked up a small beef tenderloin at Baumann’s Fine Meats and treated himself to an Argentinian-style lomo. He seasoned it simply an hour before cooking—light olive oil, kosher salt, black pepper, and garlic powder—then built a good bed of coals in the brasero. Ten minutes before the meat hit the fire, he lowered the adjustable grate for a hard sear. Once crusted, he raised it to finish the tenderloin to a perfect medium-rare (130–135°F). While it rested, he fried potatoes in the FryDaddy, pulled a fresh salad and chimichurri from the fridge, and took the first bite under the new string lights. It was everything he had hoped for. For the upcoming Chateaubriand, he planned a lighter hand with seasoning—just kosher salt—and a final baste of garlic butter.
The next day he returned to Baumann’s for a full five-pound tenderloin, already stripped of silverskin, along with fresh asparagus, small potatoes, and salad fixings. At the best wine shop in St. Louis he selected two bottles of Schrader Monastery Block Cabernet Sauvignon—rich, structured, and worth every penny for the occasion. They rested in the new cooler.
The warm evening air, cooled by gentle currents, wrapped around Sophia like a secret as she stepped onto the limestone pavers. Fairy lights twinkled along the garden borders, casting a golden glow over the simply set table with its Portuguese stoneware for three, the chilled wine sweating in the humid twilight, and a vase of wildflowers—daisies and black-eyed Susans—Don had clearly picked himself from the fresh beds. The scent of grilling meat and herbs drifted from the outdoor kitchen, mingling with the earthy forest and distant honeysuckle.
Her heart raced with a flutter she hadn’t felt in years. She had chosen the sundress on a whim—the one that skimmed her curves, the soft fabric brushing her thighs with every step. A first real date at a man’s house would normally have her guard up, polite goodnights at the door, safe boundaries drawn from past disappointments. But tonight felt different.
Don turned from the grill with that easy, lopsided smile that always made her knees unreliable. He poured her a glass of wine, his fingers brushing hers just long enough to send a spark racing up her arm. Her mother Freja had been invited too—Don’s desire to impress extending to family. They talked easily over dinner: his latest homestead projects, her stories from the farm customers, the way his eyes lingered on her lips when she savored the perfectly seared tenderloin. Laughter flowed like the wine, warm and loosening, until the plates were empty and the stars sharpened overhead. Dessert brought coffee and delicate flan drizzled with dulce de leche.
Sophia’s excitement thrummed—nerves and thrill tangled together—but Freja’s presence tempered it. Understanding the moment, her mother stood. “I’m tired,” she said. “Don, may I borrow the Pioneer UTV to head home?”
Don gave Freja that special smile he reserved for her and handed over the keys. Sophia watched her mother disappear into the flickering shadows of oil lamps and candles, then turned back to Don. Every shared glance now felt charged, every accidental touch electric. She helped him clear the dishes into a bus pan from Sam’s Club, imagining those strong, land-worked hands sliding along her waist.
The possibilities hung thick in the air like the fireflies at the wood’s edge. What if she didn’t pull back this time? What if she let the night unfold—kisses deepening, clothes whispering away, boundaries giving way to something raw and real? She was tired of playing it safe. Here, with crickets singing approval and Don’s steady gaze making her feel truly seen, she wondered if tonight was the night she would surrender to the current.
She met his eyes as he lifted the bus pan, a shy smile playing on her lips. The door to more stood wide open, and for once, she had no desire to close it.
Griz3752
Retired, practising Curmudgeon
If it's for me, a good steak is always on the list.
Never got into the Surf & Turf combo and not sure I really care for Lobster so much but everything is subject to change but definitely never had any wine like the Schrader . . . . .
Last edited:
223shootersc
Veteran Member
Thanks!
sssarawolf
We're just plugging along.
Thank you.
feralferret
Veteran Member
Thank you.
Lake Lili
Veteran Member
@Griz3752 - unfortunately most of the beef that makes it to the Rock has walked from Alberta and then swum the Gulf of St Lawrence... its as tough as it comes. But lobster, when it is in season, pulled from the pot and cooked right away in sea water on the beach is the finest kind. We usually have it with muscles and scallops... best kind of way to feast on a summer's day. (We used to do it over and open fire but with the fire bans on we stick to a propane stove.) The Newfoundland Distillery makes a Seaweed Gin that makes a brilliant gin and tonic. We serve the whole mess with a Forager's Salad and fresh bannock.
Griz3752
Retired, practising Curmudgeon
Anyone on The Rock should be eating the prime local Moose not poor quality Bouef from any where.
Is that Gin on export or do they keep it local?⁸
We only drink Gin when it cooks here so most of June, all July to about mid August.
Yeah Atlantic Lobster fresh is hard to beat but it's a bit of a jaunt from Memphis.
Last edited:
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Thirteen
Don figured a Tractor Supply was a dangerous place for a man with a credit card and too much time on his hands. Everything on the shelves looked essential. He finally located the 5/8 in.-18 x 5 in. carriage bolt he needed, then wandered into the gardening section and picked up a combination wood hoe and cultivator. The flower beds back home were getting away from him. The landscapers had planted a mix of native prairie flowers, and it was harder than it looked to pull the invaders without damaging the good stuff.
Sophia loved those beds. He wanted them looking nice for her. Being a gentleman farmer had its privileges—and its responsibilities.
The tension between them had been building for weeks, impossible to ignore any longer. Don thought about her every waking minute. She had blended into his life like nothing he had ever encountered before. It was time to make their relationship permanent.
He didn’t know her exact ring size, but he knew the feel of her hand in his. At the jewelry store he’d asked the saleswoman to hold her own hand out while he described the difference in size and shape from Sophia’s. They’d made their best guess. The little velvet box had ridden in his shirt pocket ever since. Apple-picking season had kept Sophia busy, and real time together had been scarce.
Freja sat on the porch rocker, watching Sophia direct the seasonal workers and weekend customers. Most folks who came for the U-pick experience took one look at the ladders and buckets, then bought a peck box instead. The price difference wasn’t worth the sweat.
Freja had observed the slow dance between Sophia and Don with quiet amusement. Their feelings were obvious to everyone but them. She’d stayed out of it, trusting that two strong hearts would eventually pull together like magnets. She remembered her own youth—how desire had churned through her body until she met Sven, then intensified. They had loved hard and worked harder to build the life they’d shared here.
Late that afternoon, after finishing the repair on the grain drill, Don showered, shaved, and changed into fresh jeans and a Carhartt relaxed-fit shirt. He slipped the velvet box into the left breast shirt pocket, gave his hair a couple of useless strokes with a brush, then ruined the effort with his Cardinals baseball cap.
He patted the shirt pocket to reassure himself, climbed into the Pioneer, and followed the well-worn trail to the Andersson place. The customers and temp workers had gone home. As Don climbed the porch steps, the warm, cinnamon-laced aroma of one of Freja’s apple pies drifted through the screen door.
He found Sophia in the kitchen. “Can we take a walk?”
She folded the dish towel in her hands, set it on the table, and followed him outside without hesitation.
Freja’s eyes followed them, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. She turned and tucked the covered bowl of vispgrädde into the refrigerator.
Don took Sophia’s hand and led her down the rows of apple trees until the house was out of sight. He motioned toward one of the garden benches placed for customers. She gave him a searching look but sat.
The late-afternoon sun filtered through the branches of the heirloom orchard the Andersson men had planted decades earlier. The trees hung heavy with ripening fruit. The air carried the scent of warm earth, lingering wildflowers at the orchard’s edge, and faint woodsmoke from a distant chimney. A soft breeze stirred the leaves, accompanied by the low hum of bees and the distant call of a mockingbird.
Don sat beside her, his calloused hand wrapping gently around hers. Her dark eyes sparkled the way they always did when she saw through his half-baked excuses. She still wore her work jeans and faded denim shirt, her nearly white-blonde hair twisted up in a loose bun—the same way she’d looked the first day he’d stumbled upon her on the trail.
He took both her hands in his, thumbs tracing slow circles over her knuckles. For hands that had grown rough from farm work, his touch remained surprisingly tender.
“Sophia,” he began, voice low but steady despite the catch in his throat. “I brought you out here because this place feels like us. Strong roots. Something that grows slow and sure, even through the hard seasons. And I’m sure we’ll eventually face a few of those.”
She smiled softly, tilting her head. “We will. But we’ll come out stronger every time.”
He nodded, swallowing. “When I first met you, I was still carrying a lot of grief—a dysfunctional family, the way my marriage fell apart, all the mess I told you about left a hollow I couldn’t fill. I figured I’d never trust building anything again. Not a house, not a life. But you looked at me like I was still worth something. You became my lifeline. You showed me a man can tear down old walls and build better ones to keep the grief away. You make me want to be better. Every single day.” Don reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the small velvet box. He slid off the bench and dropped to one knee in the orchard grass. The ring caught the sunlight—a simple rose-gold band with a modest diamond flanked by two tiny sapphires, the color of the summer sky over Lincoln County.
“Sophia Andersson, you’ve become my home. My safe harbor after the storms. My reason to get up every morning and keep laying foundations that’ll last. I want to build the rest of my life with you—raising a family here, planting more trees, watching the seasons turn together. Will you marry me?”
Sophia’s hand flew to her mouth, tears glistening. For a moment only the whisper of leaves filled the orchard. Then she laughed through the tears, bright and joyful.
“Yes,” she whispered, then louder as she pulled him up into her arms. “Yes, Don. A thousand times yes.”
He slipped the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly. They stood beneath the apple tree, foreheads pressed together, kissing softly while the sun dipped lower and the orchard seemed to glow just for them. In the distance, the sound of evening traffic and the whine of a jet leaving the airport—but for now the world belonged only to the two of them, roots entwined, ready for whatever came next.
When they finally walked back into the kitchen, Freja had a warm pie cooling on the table. Her sharp eyes caught the glimmer on Sophia’s left hand immediately.
“Give this a few more minutes, then we can have a slice with sweet cream,” Freja said, eyes sparkling with excitement.
“Momma! We haven’t had supper yet!” Sophia protested, laughing.
“Sometimes, dear, we must have the sweet first and let everything else catch up.”
The all sat and had a slice of pie with the whip cream Freja had cooling in the refrigerator. Don had coffee, Freja and Sophia had tea. Don enjoyed the pie and company, but he didn’t want to overstay his welcome. When he left, Sophia collected the dishes and began rinsing them in the sink.
“Well?” Freja said.
“Well what?” Sophia asked.
“You have a man to take care of now….go take care of him!”
Sophia’s eyes widened with understanding, then her mouth broke into a grin.
“Yes Momma. I’ll be back after breakfast in the morning, but before the workers arrive.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday.”
“Oh, yes! Well, perhaps I’ll be back in the afternoon.” Sophia said, smiling widely.
Don figured a Tractor Supply was a dangerous place for a man with a credit card and too much time on his hands. Everything on the shelves looked essential. He finally located the 5/8 in.-18 x 5 in. carriage bolt he needed, then wandered into the gardening section and picked up a combination wood hoe and cultivator. The flower beds back home were getting away from him. The landscapers had planted a mix of native prairie flowers, and it was harder than it looked to pull the invaders without damaging the good stuff.
Sophia loved those beds. He wanted them looking nice for her. Being a gentleman farmer had its privileges—and its responsibilities.
The tension between them had been building for weeks, impossible to ignore any longer. Don thought about her every waking minute. She had blended into his life like nothing he had ever encountered before. It was time to make their relationship permanent.
He didn’t know her exact ring size, but he knew the feel of her hand in his. At the jewelry store he’d asked the saleswoman to hold her own hand out while he described the difference in size and shape from Sophia’s. They’d made their best guess. The little velvet box had ridden in his shirt pocket ever since. Apple-picking season had kept Sophia busy, and real time together had been scarce.
Freja sat on the porch rocker, watching Sophia direct the seasonal workers and weekend customers. Most folks who came for the U-pick experience took one look at the ladders and buckets, then bought a peck box instead. The price difference wasn’t worth the sweat.
Freja had observed the slow dance between Sophia and Don with quiet amusement. Their feelings were obvious to everyone but them. She’d stayed out of it, trusting that two strong hearts would eventually pull together like magnets. She remembered her own youth—how desire had churned through her body until she met Sven, then intensified. They had loved hard and worked harder to build the life they’d shared here.
Late that afternoon, after finishing the repair on the grain drill, Don showered, shaved, and changed into fresh jeans and a Carhartt relaxed-fit shirt. He slipped the velvet box into the left breast shirt pocket, gave his hair a couple of useless strokes with a brush, then ruined the effort with his Cardinals baseball cap.
He patted the shirt pocket to reassure himself, climbed into the Pioneer, and followed the well-worn trail to the Andersson place. The customers and temp workers had gone home. As Don climbed the porch steps, the warm, cinnamon-laced aroma of one of Freja’s apple pies drifted through the screen door.
He found Sophia in the kitchen. “Can we take a walk?”
She folded the dish towel in her hands, set it on the table, and followed him outside without hesitation.
Freja’s eyes followed them, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. She turned and tucked the covered bowl of vispgrädde into the refrigerator.
Don took Sophia’s hand and led her down the rows of apple trees until the house was out of sight. He motioned toward one of the garden benches placed for customers. She gave him a searching look but sat.
The late-afternoon sun filtered through the branches of the heirloom orchard the Andersson men had planted decades earlier. The trees hung heavy with ripening fruit. The air carried the scent of warm earth, lingering wildflowers at the orchard’s edge, and faint woodsmoke from a distant chimney. A soft breeze stirred the leaves, accompanied by the low hum of bees and the distant call of a mockingbird.
Don sat beside her, his calloused hand wrapping gently around hers. Her dark eyes sparkled the way they always did when she saw through his half-baked excuses. She still wore her work jeans and faded denim shirt, her nearly white-blonde hair twisted up in a loose bun—the same way she’d looked the first day he’d stumbled upon her on the trail.
He took both her hands in his, thumbs tracing slow circles over her knuckles. For hands that had grown rough from farm work, his touch remained surprisingly tender.
“Sophia,” he began, voice low but steady despite the catch in his throat. “I brought you out here because this place feels like us. Strong roots. Something that grows slow and sure, even through the hard seasons. And I’m sure we’ll eventually face a few of those.”
She smiled softly, tilting her head. “We will. But we’ll come out stronger every time.”
He nodded, swallowing. “When I first met you, I was still carrying a lot of grief—a dysfunctional family, the way my marriage fell apart, all the mess I told you about left a hollow I couldn’t fill. I figured I’d never trust building anything again. Not a house, not a life. But you looked at me like I was still worth something. You became my lifeline. You showed me a man can tear down old walls and build better ones to keep the grief away. You make me want to be better. Every single day.” Don reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the small velvet box. He slid off the bench and dropped to one knee in the orchard grass. The ring caught the sunlight—a simple rose-gold band with a modest diamond flanked by two tiny sapphires, the color of the summer sky over Lincoln County.“Sophia Andersson, you’ve become my home. My safe harbor after the storms. My reason to get up every morning and keep laying foundations that’ll last. I want to build the rest of my life with you—raising a family here, planting more trees, watching the seasons turn together. Will you marry me?”
Sophia’s hand flew to her mouth, tears glistening. For a moment only the whisper of leaves filled the orchard. Then she laughed through the tears, bright and joyful.
“Yes,” she whispered, then louder as she pulled him up into her arms. “Yes, Don. A thousand times yes.”
He slipped the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly. They stood beneath the apple tree, foreheads pressed together, kissing softly while the sun dipped lower and the orchard seemed to glow just for them. In the distance, the sound of evening traffic and the whine of a jet leaving the airport—but for now the world belonged only to the two of them, roots entwined, ready for whatever came next.
When they finally walked back into the kitchen, Freja had a warm pie cooling on the table. Her sharp eyes caught the glimmer on Sophia’s left hand immediately.
“Give this a few more minutes, then we can have a slice with sweet cream,” Freja said, eyes sparkling with excitement.
“Momma! We haven’t had supper yet!” Sophia protested, laughing.
“Sometimes, dear, we must have the sweet first and let everything else catch up.”
The all sat and had a slice of pie with the whip cream Freja had cooling in the refrigerator. Don had coffee, Freja and Sophia had tea. Don enjoyed the pie and company, but he didn’t want to overstay his welcome. When he left, Sophia collected the dishes and began rinsing them in the sink.
“Well?” Freja said.
“Well what?” Sophia asked.
“You have a man to take care of now….go take care of him!”
Sophia’s eyes widened with understanding, then her mouth broke into a grin.
“Yes Momma. I’ll be back after breakfast in the morning, but before the workers arrive.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday.”
“Oh, yes! Well, perhaps I’ll be back in the afternoon.” Sophia said, smiling widely.
feralferret
Veteran Member
Thank you.
223shootersc
Veteran Member
Thanks
sssarawolf
We're just plugging along.
Thank you, about time lol he asked.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Fourteen
Don stirred beneath the thin cover sheet as the old rooster’s first raspy crow pierced the predawn hush. The call echoed across the dew-kissed fields, pulling him from sleep. He blinked against the soft gray light seeping through the windows, his skin still itchy from dried sweat. Turning his head on the pillow, he found Sophia beside him. Her golden hair fanned across the faded linen like a radiant halo, catching the faint morning glow and framing her peaceful face in an almost ethereal beauty. For a moment, familial betrayal and broken foundations lifted. In this simple room scented with pine and woodsmoke, the rooster’s summons felt less like an alarm and more like a promise of renewal—a call to quiet labors and a life rebuilt on firmer ground.
He slipped out of bed quietly, padded down the hall to shower without waking her, then dressed and headed to the kitchen. He started the coffee and put water on for tea, in case Sophia preferred it this morning. He moved as if walking on a cloud, the memory of her knocking on his door the night before still fresh: “Momma said I should come take care of you.”
He shook the pleasant fog from his mind and drank a glass of cold water. Soft footsteps shuffled behind him.
He turned to see Sophia wearing one of his dress shirts, her hair loose around her shoulders, eyes still heavy with sleep.
“You left me all alone,” she said, a playful pout in her voice.
Don closed the distance and wrapped her in his arms. “There,” he whispered against her hair. “You’re not alone now.”
Don knew crepes were Sophia’s favorite, so he made them again. She mashed butter and strawberry jelly together while he cooked the delicate pancakes. He prepared a few extras just to watch her savor each bite, her eyes closing in quiet delight.
As they lingered over the plates, he asked, “What about the wedding? You can have it as elaborate as you want. I’ll cover everything.”
“I’d rather have a typical Swedish wedding,” Sophia replied, “Not some gala.”
“And what does that look like?”
She smiled, warming to the topic. “It’s a mix of old customs and modern touches—partnership, community, good food, speeches, songs, and plenty of fun. Nothing too extravagant.”
“Well, you’ll have to teach me the old ways. I come from sturdy Anglo-Saxon roots. Nothing’s simple with us unless it’s coming out of a liquor cabinet.”
She laughed softly. “For starters, during the processional the father—or whoever the bride chooses—doesn’t walk her down the aisle. The bride and groom walk together, side by side. It symbolizes equality and that they enter marriage voluntarily as partners, not that she’s being given away.”
Don nodded. “I can agree with that. Sounds fair. What else?”
“Usually just one bridesmaid and one groomsman, or none at all. We could have flower children if we want. Since you don’t have a best man in mind, we can keep it simple there too.”
“Attire?” he prompted.
“Brides often wear white—modern style, maybe with a veil or tiara. Historically, a myrtle crown or garland symbolized purity. Grooms wear dark suits or tuxedos. And there’s the coin tradition: a silver coin from her father in the left shoe, a gold one from her mother in the right, for prosperity—so she’ll never go without.” She paused, a faint blush rising. “After last night… my purity might be in question. I may skip the garland.”
Don chuckled, reaching for her hand. “It was for a very good cause. You were a most demanding woman.”
Sophia’s eyes sparkled. “The ceremony is often in the afternoon, in a church—Lutheran, usually—with hymns, music, and simple vows. Civil ceremonies work too. Guests sometimes throw uncooked rice as we leave, for fertility and to ward off evil.”
“Are you Lutheran?” Don asked.
“Yes, but a civil ceremony would be fine.”
“It’s up to you. I just want to marry you. I’ll defer to whatever feels right.”
“I’ll talk to Momma,” she said, squeezing his hand.
While Sophia showered and dressed, Don cleaned up from breakfast. She headed home by noon.
The rest of the morning left Don buzzing. He made his usual inspection of the trees, feeling far more hopeful about this marriage than he ever had about his first. He intended to make the rest of Sophia’s life a fairytale.
His garden plans were already mapped to the inch on paper. His goal was the richest soil possible by planting time—richer even than what the first settlers found when they crossed the Mississippi. He relied on natural enhancers, steering clear of chemicals. The area he was amending stretched beyond the final garden plot; he wanted enough enriched soil to fill two high-tunnel greenhouses as well.
When he finished his wool-gathering and inspection, he returned to the house and settled into his Thinking Chair in the library—a comfortably stuffed armchair by the window. He flicked on the illuminated glow globe on its wooden stand, rolled the adjustable laptop table into place, and set up his computer. Research time.
By the end of the day, he had ordered a 30-foot-wide by 96-foot-long polycarbonate greenhouse. Hedging against the unpredictable weather of the region, he specified a higher snow-load rating than typical for the area and enhanced hail shielding. He wanted this structure to last for his grandchildren. While he could still afford it, he also ordered spare panels for future repairs, to be stored in their own dedicated building nearby.
Paired with the existing garden, the greenhouse would extend the growing season—allowing early starts, late harvests, and cool-weather crops through winter.
When he showed Sophia the plans that evening, she studied them carefully for several minutes.
“When my family first came here, there were plenty of hands for the work,” she said at last. “With this, it will be just the two of us until we fill our home with sons and daughters. Until then, we’ll need to hire help.”
That set Don thinking. His father’s old company program had favored hiring veterans, and it had worked well. Military service built discipline, work ethic, reliability, and the ability to adapt under pressure. Veterans tended to show strong integrity, lower absenteeism, quick learning, and creative problem-solving. They were mission-oriented team players with excellent retention rates. It was a win-win: steady jobs and good pay for the Vets, loyal and capable hands for the farm. Plus, the VA’s Veteran Readiness and Employment (VR&E) program offered salary subsidies during training, Special Employer Incentives (up to 50% salary reimbursement for up to six months, plus training costs), and other support options. He made a note to research additional state-level incentives for on-the-job training.
With his investments, Don could finance the farm for several years with the dividends, even if the financial situation turned worse. So, Don decided to contact the nearest VA office and find out what was the best way to get four former military personnel to fill out the farm positions.
Don stirred beneath the thin cover sheet as the old rooster’s first raspy crow pierced the predawn hush. The call echoed across the dew-kissed fields, pulling him from sleep. He blinked against the soft gray light seeping through the windows, his skin still itchy from dried sweat. Turning his head on the pillow, he found Sophia beside him. Her golden hair fanned across the faded linen like a radiant halo, catching the faint morning glow and framing her peaceful face in an almost ethereal beauty. For a moment, familial betrayal and broken foundations lifted. In this simple room scented with pine and woodsmoke, the rooster’s summons felt less like an alarm and more like a promise of renewal—a call to quiet labors and a life rebuilt on firmer ground.
He slipped out of bed quietly, padded down the hall to shower without waking her, then dressed and headed to the kitchen. He started the coffee and put water on for tea, in case Sophia preferred it this morning. He moved as if walking on a cloud, the memory of her knocking on his door the night before still fresh: “Momma said I should come take care of you.”
He shook the pleasant fog from his mind and drank a glass of cold water. Soft footsteps shuffled behind him.
He turned to see Sophia wearing one of his dress shirts, her hair loose around her shoulders, eyes still heavy with sleep.“You left me all alone,” she said, a playful pout in her voice.
Don closed the distance and wrapped her in his arms. “There,” he whispered against her hair. “You’re not alone now.”
Don knew crepes were Sophia’s favorite, so he made them again. She mashed butter and strawberry jelly together while he cooked the delicate pancakes. He prepared a few extras just to watch her savor each bite, her eyes closing in quiet delight.
As they lingered over the plates, he asked, “What about the wedding? You can have it as elaborate as you want. I’ll cover everything.”
“I’d rather have a typical Swedish wedding,” Sophia replied, “Not some gala.”
“And what does that look like?”
She smiled, warming to the topic. “It’s a mix of old customs and modern touches—partnership, community, good food, speeches, songs, and plenty of fun. Nothing too extravagant.”
“Well, you’ll have to teach me the old ways. I come from sturdy Anglo-Saxon roots. Nothing’s simple with us unless it’s coming out of a liquor cabinet.”
She laughed softly. “For starters, during the processional the father—or whoever the bride chooses—doesn’t walk her down the aisle. The bride and groom walk together, side by side. It symbolizes equality and that they enter marriage voluntarily as partners, not that she’s being given away.”
Don nodded. “I can agree with that. Sounds fair. What else?”
“Usually just one bridesmaid and one groomsman, or none at all. We could have flower children if we want. Since you don’t have a best man in mind, we can keep it simple there too.”
“Attire?” he prompted.
“Brides often wear white—modern style, maybe with a veil or tiara. Historically, a myrtle crown or garland symbolized purity. Grooms wear dark suits or tuxedos. And there’s the coin tradition: a silver coin from her father in the left shoe, a gold one from her mother in the right, for prosperity—so she’ll never go without.” She paused, a faint blush rising. “After last night… my purity might be in question. I may skip the garland.”
Don chuckled, reaching for her hand. “It was for a very good cause. You were a most demanding woman.”
Sophia’s eyes sparkled. “The ceremony is often in the afternoon, in a church—Lutheran, usually—with hymns, music, and simple vows. Civil ceremonies work too. Guests sometimes throw uncooked rice as we leave, for fertility and to ward off evil.”
“Are you Lutheran?” Don asked.
“Yes, but a civil ceremony would be fine.”
“It’s up to you. I just want to marry you. I’ll defer to whatever feels right.”
“I’ll talk to Momma,” she said, squeezing his hand.
While Sophia showered and dressed, Don cleaned up from breakfast. She headed home by noon.
The rest of the morning left Don buzzing. He made his usual inspection of the trees, feeling far more hopeful about this marriage than he ever had about his first. He intended to make the rest of Sophia’s life a fairytale.
His garden plans were already mapped to the inch on paper. His goal was the richest soil possible by planting time—richer even than what the first settlers found when they crossed the Mississippi. He relied on natural enhancers, steering clear of chemicals. The area he was amending stretched beyond the final garden plot; he wanted enough enriched soil to fill two high-tunnel greenhouses as well.
When he finished his wool-gathering and inspection, he returned to the house and settled into his Thinking Chair in the library—a comfortably stuffed armchair by the window. He flicked on the illuminated glow globe on its wooden stand, rolled the adjustable laptop table into place, and set up his computer. Research time.
By the end of the day, he had ordered a 30-foot-wide by 96-foot-long polycarbonate greenhouse. Hedging against the unpredictable weather of the region, he specified a higher snow-load rating than typical for the area and enhanced hail shielding. He wanted this structure to last for his grandchildren. While he could still afford it, he also ordered spare panels for future repairs, to be stored in their own dedicated building nearby.
Paired with the existing garden, the greenhouse would extend the growing season—allowing early starts, late harvests, and cool-weather crops through winter.
When he showed Sophia the plans that evening, she studied them carefully for several minutes.
“When my family first came here, there were plenty of hands for the work,” she said at last. “With this, it will be just the two of us until we fill our home with sons and daughters. Until then, we’ll need to hire help.”
That set Don thinking. His father’s old company program had favored hiring veterans, and it had worked well. Military service built discipline, work ethic, reliability, and the ability to adapt under pressure. Veterans tended to show strong integrity, lower absenteeism, quick learning, and creative problem-solving. They were mission-oriented team players with excellent retention rates. It was a win-win: steady jobs and good pay for the Vets, loyal and capable hands for the farm. Plus, the VA’s Veteran Readiness and Employment (VR&E) program offered salary subsidies during training, Special Employer Incentives (up to 50% salary reimbursement for up to six months, plus training costs), and other support options. He made a note to research additional state-level incentives for on-the-job training.
With his investments, Don could finance the farm for several years with the dividends, even if the financial situation turned worse. So, Don decided to contact the nearest VA office and find out what was the best way to get four former military personnel to fill out the farm positions.
Last edited:
223shootersc
Veteran Member
Thanks!
sssarawolf
We're just plugging along.
Thank you.
feralferret
Veteran Member
Thank you.
blackguard
Veteran Member
Great story so far
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Fifteen
Craig James shifted in the worn truck seat, trying to ease the hot spots forming on his ass from too many hours behind the wheel. He didn’t dare stop. The old Ford Ranger’s engine had picked up a death rattle, like loose change tumbling in a dryer, and every time he lifted off the gas it felt ready to sigh its last breath on the shoulder. Interstate 64 unspooled ahead, a gray ribbon slicing through flat Missouri farmland. Cornfields blurred into an endless green sea, broken only by the occasional silo or weathered barn. One hand on the wheel, the other fiddled with the radio knob, chasing ghosts of country songs through the static.
At thirty-one, the visor mirror showed a man who looked closer to forty—sun-leathered skin, a jaw locked tight, and eyes carrying the thousand-yard stare earned in the world’s sandboxes. Honorable discharge papers sat folded in the glove box beside a dog-eared map and a half-empty pack of Marlboros. Twelve years in the Army—infantry, then Rangers—had taught him to clear rooms, call artillery, and make split-second calls that kept men alive. Civilian life had no use for those skills. “Proficient in small arms and close-quarters battle” didn’t fill out many job applications. So he’d bounced: driving a tractor through Georgia pecan groves until his back screamed, mending barbed wire on Oklahoma ranches where the wind never quit, slinging hash in greasy diners, and painting houses for crews that saw him as just another warm body.
None of it fit. The killing edge the Army had sharpened had no place on a résumé. When a buddy mentioned Boeing in St. Louis had veteran openings—security clearances, mechanical aptitude, steady pay—Craig packed the Ranger, locked the camper shell stuffed with all his worldly possessions and headed northwest. Air conditioning. Stability. A chance to let his head stop spinning.
The St. Louis skyline finally pierced the haze as the sun dipped low. The Gateway Arch gleamed like a distant promise, but Craig’s gut twisted with dread. He pulled into a truck stop on the outskirts, neon flickering against diesel haze thick enough to chew. The engine coughed twice, then settled into an uneasy idle. He sat listening to the ticks of cooling metal before grabbing his worn musette bag containing personal odds and ends and heading inside.
A greasy trucker’s special and three cups of coffee later, he powered up the burner phone from his bag and scanned the bulletin board. Boeing was real—defense work, fighter assembly, Pentagon contracts. A Veterans’ Resource Fair poster caught his eye with an address and tomorrow’s date. The drive had hollowed him out. He needed sleep. The motel across the lot offered weekly rates and no questions asked. Craig paid cash for three nights; the clerk barely looked up from his phone.
Dreams came as they always did: dust, cordite, the familiar weight of an M4, a grenade filling his palm. A radio voice calling for exfil that never arrived on time. He woke drenched, sheets twisted around his legs, staring at the water-stained ceiling until gray dawn crept in.
Morning rain turned the parking lot into a shallow lake. Craig shaved in the cracked mirror, pulled on his one decent button-down, and drove to the community college. A greeter in a 3rd Armored Division ballcap met him at the glass doors. Inside smelled of coffee and printer ink. Craig almost left, but the free coffee kept him from bolting. Tables offered VA benefits, job training, even homesteading grants. A no-nonsense woman named Denise, mid-forties with a tight ponytail, had him fill out a quick résumé form and pointed him onward.
An older man with a Marine tattoo and a Devil Dog ballcap bearing Gunnery Sergeant stripes took his folder. The name tag read “Gill.”
“Infantry, Iraq and Afghanistan deployments. Discipline like that—employers notice,” Gill said, scanning the sheet. “Mechanical experience?”
“Yes, Gunny. Field repairs, vehicle maintenance. I learn fast.”
Memories surged: his last patrol in the Stan, mountains hiding death around every bend. The nineteen-year-old kid from his squad who didn’t make it home. Craig had written the letter himself. He was brave. He was my brother. The words still felt hollow. Civilian life was supposed to be the reward, but it left him drifting—a man forged for war in a world demanding peace at any price.
Gunnery Sergeant (RET) Gill Warren had seen that look before. This one needed real R&R, something solid to anchor him. A figure crossing the room caught his eye. The man had mentioned needing steady hands for a budding nut farm and neighboring fruit operation near Troy. Gill rose. “Excuse me a second.”
He tapped Don on the elbow. “Think I’ve got one for you.”
Gill introduced them. Don extended a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Billings.”
Don chuckled. “Just Don. Anything else and I’ll be looking over my shoulder to see who you are talking to.”
Craig managed a smile. “Sure.”
“You got any farming or orchard background?” Don asked.
“Grew up on one in Georgia. Daddy sold vegetables to supermarket chains. Worked pecan orchards down there, picked apples in Washington last fall. Just came from another pecan harvest in Georgia.”
Don nodded. “I’ve got a young nut farm a few miles out—pecans, English walnuts, black walnuts getting started. My fiancée runs the fruit side next door: peaches, apples, strawberries. It’s steady work, not back-breaking, but there’s always something. I can start you at five thousand a month, plus two grand upfront to get settled. We’ll see how it fits.”
Craig did the math. Sixty thousand a year for a man with no better prospects, plus he wouldn’t have to deal with unions that were inspired from a mix of socialist, anarchist, mutualist, and radical liberal ideas.
“I’ll take it.” He thrust out his hand. Don shook it firmly and passed over a business card with the farm address.
“Where you staying, Craig?”
“Cheap weekly off I-64.”
“Don’t have employee housing built yet, but I’ve got a solid motorhome you can use until we sort something permanent. Test the waters.”
“Sounds good. When do I start?”
“Tomorrow works. Pack up and head out whenever you’re ready. I’ll show you around.”
Craig grinned as he left the building. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he might have found a place to put down roots—at least for now.
Don turned back to Gill. “What do I need to watch for?”
“Ease him in. He’s lost, still searching for his footing in the world. Give him a task and let him run with it. If it’s not up to standard, show him once and he’ll nail it next time.”
“Got it. Keep your eyes open—I’d like three more like him.” Don shook the older man’s hand.
The first call Don made was to George Casey. With George free, Don hired him to oversee veteran worker housing. They’d round up contractors and get something built soon.
When Craig finally drove out the next day, the gravel road wound through a large open area sparsely dotted with hardwood trees. Don’s solid house overlooked a ten-acre pond, a barn nearby. No livestock was seen.
“This isn’t charity,” Don said as they toured the property. “I need reliable help, and you look like a man who could use some roots. Motorhome’s yours to try it out. Peaceful here—my escape from the world’s mess.”
Craig walked the young nut tree rows. It felt right. Solid. In the days ahead, he’d learn the rhythms of the work, met the Anderssons, and gathered around the fire pit at night, swapping stories and talking spring gardens and an uncertain future.
Sophia’s friends had pushed for the Skyway Events Venue for the wedding, but it was booked solid for months—and too pretentious for her taste anyway. Over tea, Freja sat Sophia down with gentle wisdom. “Your father and I had a simple civil ceremony. It never diminished us. We loved each other until the day he passed—and beyond. Marriage is built in the daily chores, the quiet moments before sleep, the way you choose each other again and again. Follow your heart and instincts, Sophia. That’s what matters.”
Craig James shifted in the worn truck seat, trying to ease the hot spots forming on his ass from too many hours behind the wheel. He didn’t dare stop. The old Ford Ranger’s engine had picked up a death rattle, like loose change tumbling in a dryer, and every time he lifted off the gas it felt ready to sigh its last breath on the shoulder. Interstate 64 unspooled ahead, a gray ribbon slicing through flat Missouri farmland. Cornfields blurred into an endless green sea, broken only by the occasional silo or weathered barn. One hand on the wheel, the other fiddled with the radio knob, chasing ghosts of country songs through the static.
At thirty-one, the visor mirror showed a man who looked closer to forty—sun-leathered skin, a jaw locked tight, and eyes carrying the thousand-yard stare earned in the world’s sandboxes. Honorable discharge papers sat folded in the glove box beside a dog-eared map and a half-empty pack of Marlboros. Twelve years in the Army—infantry, then Rangers—had taught him to clear rooms, call artillery, and make split-second calls that kept men alive. Civilian life had no use for those skills. “Proficient in small arms and close-quarters battle” didn’t fill out many job applications. So he’d bounced: driving a tractor through Georgia pecan groves until his back screamed, mending barbed wire on Oklahoma ranches where the wind never quit, slinging hash in greasy diners, and painting houses for crews that saw him as just another warm body.
None of it fit. The killing edge the Army had sharpened had no place on a résumé. When a buddy mentioned Boeing in St. Louis had veteran openings—security clearances, mechanical aptitude, steady pay—Craig packed the Ranger, locked the camper shell stuffed with all his worldly possessions and headed northwest. Air conditioning. Stability. A chance to let his head stop spinning.
The St. Louis skyline finally pierced the haze as the sun dipped low. The Gateway Arch gleamed like a distant promise, but Craig’s gut twisted with dread. He pulled into a truck stop on the outskirts, neon flickering against diesel haze thick enough to chew. The engine coughed twice, then settled into an uneasy idle. He sat listening to the ticks of cooling metal before grabbing his worn musette bag containing personal odds and ends and heading inside.
A greasy trucker’s special and three cups of coffee later, he powered up the burner phone from his bag and scanned the bulletin board. Boeing was real—defense work, fighter assembly, Pentagon contracts. A Veterans’ Resource Fair poster caught his eye with an address and tomorrow’s date. The drive had hollowed him out. He needed sleep. The motel across the lot offered weekly rates and no questions asked. Craig paid cash for three nights; the clerk barely looked up from his phone.
Dreams came as they always did: dust, cordite, the familiar weight of an M4, a grenade filling his palm. A radio voice calling for exfil that never arrived on time. He woke drenched, sheets twisted around his legs, staring at the water-stained ceiling until gray dawn crept in.
Morning rain turned the parking lot into a shallow lake. Craig shaved in the cracked mirror, pulled on his one decent button-down, and drove to the community college. A greeter in a 3rd Armored Division ballcap met him at the glass doors. Inside smelled of coffee and printer ink. Craig almost left, but the free coffee kept him from bolting. Tables offered VA benefits, job training, even homesteading grants. A no-nonsense woman named Denise, mid-forties with a tight ponytail, had him fill out a quick résumé form and pointed him onward.
An older man with a Marine tattoo and a Devil Dog ballcap bearing Gunnery Sergeant stripes took his folder. The name tag read “Gill.”
“Infantry, Iraq and Afghanistan deployments. Discipline like that—employers notice,” Gill said, scanning the sheet. “Mechanical experience?”
“Yes, Gunny. Field repairs, vehicle maintenance. I learn fast.”
Memories surged: his last patrol in the Stan, mountains hiding death around every bend. The nineteen-year-old kid from his squad who didn’t make it home. Craig had written the letter himself. He was brave. He was my brother. The words still felt hollow. Civilian life was supposed to be the reward, but it left him drifting—a man forged for war in a world demanding peace at any price.
Gunnery Sergeant (RET) Gill Warren had seen that look before. This one needed real R&R, something solid to anchor him. A figure crossing the room caught his eye. The man had mentioned needing steady hands for a budding nut farm and neighboring fruit operation near Troy. Gill rose. “Excuse me a second.”
He tapped Don on the elbow. “Think I’ve got one for you.”
Gill introduced them. Don extended a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Billings.”
Don chuckled. “Just Don. Anything else and I’ll be looking over my shoulder to see who you are talking to.”
Craig managed a smile. “Sure.”
“You got any farming or orchard background?” Don asked.
“Grew up on one in Georgia. Daddy sold vegetables to supermarket chains. Worked pecan orchards down there, picked apples in Washington last fall. Just came from another pecan harvest in Georgia.”
Don nodded. “I’ve got a young nut farm a few miles out—pecans, English walnuts, black walnuts getting started. My fiancée runs the fruit side next door: peaches, apples, strawberries. It’s steady work, not back-breaking, but there’s always something. I can start you at five thousand a month, plus two grand upfront to get settled. We’ll see how it fits.”
Craig did the math. Sixty thousand a year for a man with no better prospects, plus he wouldn’t have to deal with unions that were inspired from a mix of socialist, anarchist, mutualist, and radical liberal ideas.
“I’ll take it.” He thrust out his hand. Don shook it firmly and passed over a business card with the farm address.
“Where you staying, Craig?”
“Cheap weekly off I-64.”
“Don’t have employee housing built yet, but I’ve got a solid motorhome you can use until we sort something permanent. Test the waters.”
“Sounds good. When do I start?”
“Tomorrow works. Pack up and head out whenever you’re ready. I’ll show you around.”
Craig grinned as he left the building. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he might have found a place to put down roots—at least for now.
Don turned back to Gill. “What do I need to watch for?”
“Ease him in. He’s lost, still searching for his footing in the world. Give him a task and let him run with it. If it’s not up to standard, show him once and he’ll nail it next time.”
“Got it. Keep your eyes open—I’d like three more like him.” Don shook the older man’s hand.
The first call Don made was to George Casey. With George free, Don hired him to oversee veteran worker housing. They’d round up contractors and get something built soon.
When Craig finally drove out the next day, the gravel road wound through a large open area sparsely dotted with hardwood trees. Don’s solid house overlooked a ten-acre pond, a barn nearby. No livestock was seen.
“This isn’t charity,” Don said as they toured the property. “I need reliable help, and you look like a man who could use some roots. Motorhome’s yours to try it out. Peaceful here—my escape from the world’s mess.”
Craig walked the young nut tree rows. It felt right. Solid. In the days ahead, he’d learn the rhythms of the work, met the Anderssons, and gathered around the fire pit at night, swapping stories and talking spring gardens and an uncertain future.
Sophia’s friends had pushed for the Skyway Events Venue for the wedding, but it was booked solid for months—and too pretentious for her taste anyway. Over tea, Freja sat Sophia down with gentle wisdom. “Your father and I had a simple civil ceremony. It never diminished us. We loved each other until the day he passed—and beyond. Marriage is built in the daily chores, the quiet moments before sleep, the way you choose each other again and again. Follow your heart and instincts, Sophia. That’s what matters.”
sssarawolf
We're just plugging along.
First worker, great, Her mama gives good advice.
feralferret
Veteran Member
Thank you.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Sixteen
The work had its different degrees of difficulty—stringing fence through stubborn clay soil, learning the subtle rhythms of the land—but it grounded Craig James in ways he hadn’t expected. Each day ended with a deep, bone-weary satisfaction. Evenings brought a different kind of peace: the occasional cast of a line into the slow-moving river, the steady layering of a new compost bin behind the barn, and shared meals around the fire pit where laughter came easy and stories lingered long after the plates were cleared.
The old Ranger pickup finally gave up its ghost one crisp morning, coughing its last on the drive back from checking fence lines. Don wasted no time. He took Craig down to the auto dealer in Troy and they walked the lot until they found a four-year-old, low-mileage Ford Super Duty F-250 XLT. It was clean as a whistle—ruby red, lifted just enough for the farm’s rough tracks, with a bed liner that showed honest use but no abuse. Craig ran his hand along the hood, feeling the solid weight of it. He liked the truck immediately, but the price made him hesitate. “Too steep for me right now,” he admitted to the salesman.
Don simply nodded to the man. “We’ll take it.”
Craig protested immediately. “Don, I haven’t even established enough credit for a decent loan yet. I can’t—”
Don cut him off with a calm hand on his shoulder. “I’ll pay for it outright. You pay me back five hundred a month until it’s square. Simple as that.”
Craig stood there, the autumn sun warming his back, and thought it over. I’m not going anywhere. I do need reliable transportation out here. He accepted the proposal with a firm handshake and a quiet promise to himself to make good on it.
Back at the farm, Don showed Craig an empty storeroom in one of the outbuildings. It was perfect for the overflow from the Ranger’s bed that the motorhome didn’t have space for—tools, chains, a few boxes of personal gear. Craig sold the dead Ranger to a scrap dealer who towed it off the same afternoon, leaving him with a clean slate and a new set of keys in his pocket.
That evening, Don felt like grilling again. He drove over to Baumann’s Fine Meats and returned with two thick ribeyes and two generous cowboy steaks. Sophia pitched in on the sides—roasted root vegetables, a fresh salad from the garden, and Freja’s contribution of warm, cardamom-scented Swedish buns. They gathered under the string lights in the late fall chill: Don, Craig, Sophia, and Freja. The two farms were growing closer every week. Freja and Craig had hit it off instantly the first time they met. Not romantic love, but the easy affection of close family. Before Don installed the Rapid Radios for inter-farm communication, if you couldn’t find Craig, he was usually over at the Anderssons’ place, sitting on the porch with Freja, sampling her latest baked delicacies and listening to her stories of Swedish gardens and old-country winters.
Don and Craig spent several productive days combing the wooded acreage together. They cleared deadfall, marked promising trees for future harvest, and hauled loads back for firewood. The wood would season nicely for the fire pit and the outdoor kitchen. Craig suggested they needed a proper woodshed to keep it dry. A quick design came together over coffee, and they headed to Home Depot for solid fencing panels and treated poles. By the end of the week, a sturdy three-sided shed stood ready, protecting the stacked wood from rain and snow. The project cemented a new dining rhythm between the two farms. Twice a month, Freja and Sophia hosted Don and Craig; twice a month, Don fired up the outdoor kitchen. Bad weather simply moved the gatherings inside, where the warmth of the stove and good company made up for the missing stars.
Between the architect, Don, and Craig, detailed plans took shape for a modern bunkhouse. It would include a full kitchen with pantry, a spacious living area boasting a big-screen TV and built-in bookcases, four bedrooms, and Jack-and-Jill baths. Most importantly, a reinforced basement served as a built-in storm shelter, complete with an escape tunnel exiting far enough from the main structure that debris from a tornado or quake wouldn’t block it. The building was designed so that extra rooms could be easily added in case they added more employees.
The timber-frame construction went up quickly, built for strength with heavy posts and beams that could withstand whatever nature—or worse—threw at it. Durable, country-themed furniture filled the rooms, and the kitchen featured a large upright freezer alongside the usual appliances. Freja insisted on placing a Lyckohäst metal figurine—a Swedish lucky horse talisman—in every room. “For good fortune,” she said with a warm smile, “and to remind everyone home is where the heart settles.”
The Lyckohästs proved their worth sooner than expected. Soon after the bunkhouse was completed and stocked, Gunny Warren provided him three more workers: Bill Devens, Jay Wilson, and Dorothy “Dot” Hamrick. Don was initially hesitant about hiring Dot, but Gunny vouched strongly. “She’s a Marine. She can handle anything this farm throws at her.”
Don pulled Dot aside for a quiet word. “You’ll be in close quarters with three men in the bunkhouse. You sure about this?”
Dot met his gaze steadily. “I can handle myself. But you’d better keep Emergency Services on speed dial. I don’t want any of the men suffering.”
From that moment, Craig stepped up more or less as foreman of the growing farm team. Don bought four additional UTVs with dumping beds for hauling supplies and moved more Rapid Radios into the rotation so everyone could stay in touch across the property.
One cool evening, as the sun dipped behind the western hills painting the sky in deep oranges and purples, Craig sat with Don at the fire pit. They nursed cold beers while the flames crackled. Funny how life worked. Craig had come looking for nothing more than a job to steady his head after years of war and assembly-line drudgery. Instead, he’d found something deeper. Purpose wasn’t in killing or the endless hum of machines. It lived here—in the dirt under his nails, the growing community around him, and the quiet confidence that he could face whatever came next.
Don rose, grabbed two more beers from the fridge, and returned. He clapped Craig on the shoulder. “You’re finding your place, son.”
Craig nodded, watching the fireflies weave through the twilight. “Yeah. I think I am.”
The world beyond the hills kept turning with its uncertainties and gathering storms. But Craig James had roots now. Trained for war, he had found peace in the land—and the strength to protect it. Whatever tomorrow brought, he would meet it standing tall.
Around 10:30, Bill and Dot returned from a supply run to restock the bunkhouse fridge. Bill was laughing so hard he could barely stand.
“What’s going on?” Craig asked, grinning.
Bill dropped to his knees, wheezing. “Dot… Dot…”
“There was this guy at the store,” Dot said, hands on her hips, “who must’ve been deprived as a baby. Fool tried every trick to get a look and feel of my titties.”
“What did you do?” Craig asked.
“She reached up and twisted his nose until it bled!” Bill gasped, tears streaming. “I think she broke it!”
Don grinned and fetched two more beers, handing one to Dot. “You deserve this for your troubles.”
Dot popped the cap off on the edge of the table with practiced ease. “Wasn’t any trouble. Some men just don’t know how to act. They need reminding of their place.”
Don took a long swig and shook his head, chuckling. The fire popped, and the easy camaraderie wrapped around them like a warm blanket.
The next days brought more steady progress. They plowed the cover crop under in the garden and planted mustard and radishes for winter cover. Then several days of thick mist and fog rolled in, slowing outdoor work. Don retreated to his woodworking shop, while Craig, Dot, and Bill made rounds to used bookstores, carefully selecting volumes to fill the bunkhouse bookcases—practical homesteading guides, histories, novels, and survival references that would serve them well.
Don was also building Dot a custom headboard bookcase for her bed. She had sketched exactly what she wanted, and he took precise measurements before cutting the pieces. He was installing two reading lights with flexible necks that could cover any position she decided to take in bed to read, wired to a rechargeable battery box for power during outages, like that would ever happen. The bunkhouse had it’s own solar/wind system to take care of its power needs. Dot would choose the stain, and he would apply a durable finish. It was a small gesture, but one that spoke volumes about the growing family they were building on this land.
The work had its different degrees of difficulty—stringing fence through stubborn clay soil, learning the subtle rhythms of the land—but it grounded Craig James in ways he hadn’t expected. Each day ended with a deep, bone-weary satisfaction. Evenings brought a different kind of peace: the occasional cast of a line into the slow-moving river, the steady layering of a new compost bin behind the barn, and shared meals around the fire pit where laughter came easy and stories lingered long after the plates were cleared.
The old Ranger pickup finally gave up its ghost one crisp morning, coughing its last on the drive back from checking fence lines. Don wasted no time. He took Craig down to the auto dealer in Troy and they walked the lot until they found a four-year-old, low-mileage Ford Super Duty F-250 XLT. It was clean as a whistle—ruby red, lifted just enough for the farm’s rough tracks, with a bed liner that showed honest use but no abuse. Craig ran his hand along the hood, feeling the solid weight of it. He liked the truck immediately, but the price made him hesitate. “Too steep for me right now,” he admitted to the salesman.
Don simply nodded to the man. “We’ll take it.”
Craig protested immediately. “Don, I haven’t even established enough credit for a decent loan yet. I can’t—”
Don cut him off with a calm hand on his shoulder. “I’ll pay for it outright. You pay me back five hundred a month until it’s square. Simple as that.”
Craig stood there, the autumn sun warming his back, and thought it over. I’m not going anywhere. I do need reliable transportation out here. He accepted the proposal with a firm handshake and a quiet promise to himself to make good on it.
Back at the farm, Don showed Craig an empty storeroom in one of the outbuildings. It was perfect for the overflow from the Ranger’s bed that the motorhome didn’t have space for—tools, chains, a few boxes of personal gear. Craig sold the dead Ranger to a scrap dealer who towed it off the same afternoon, leaving him with a clean slate and a new set of keys in his pocket.
That evening, Don felt like grilling again. He drove over to Baumann’s Fine Meats and returned with two thick ribeyes and two generous cowboy steaks. Sophia pitched in on the sides—roasted root vegetables, a fresh salad from the garden, and Freja’s contribution of warm, cardamom-scented Swedish buns. They gathered under the string lights in the late fall chill: Don, Craig, Sophia, and Freja. The two farms were growing closer every week. Freja and Craig had hit it off instantly the first time they met. Not romantic love, but the easy affection of close family. Before Don installed the Rapid Radios for inter-farm communication, if you couldn’t find Craig, he was usually over at the Anderssons’ place, sitting on the porch with Freja, sampling her latest baked delicacies and listening to her stories of Swedish gardens and old-country winters.
Don and Craig spent several productive days combing the wooded acreage together. They cleared deadfall, marked promising trees for future harvest, and hauled loads back for firewood. The wood would season nicely for the fire pit and the outdoor kitchen. Craig suggested they needed a proper woodshed to keep it dry. A quick design came together over coffee, and they headed to Home Depot for solid fencing panels and treated poles. By the end of the week, a sturdy three-sided shed stood ready, protecting the stacked wood from rain and snow. The project cemented a new dining rhythm between the two farms. Twice a month, Freja and Sophia hosted Don and Craig; twice a month, Don fired up the outdoor kitchen. Bad weather simply moved the gatherings inside, where the warmth of the stove and good company made up for the missing stars.
Between the architect, Don, and Craig, detailed plans took shape for a modern bunkhouse. It would include a full kitchen with pantry, a spacious living area boasting a big-screen TV and built-in bookcases, four bedrooms, and Jack-and-Jill baths. Most importantly, a reinforced basement served as a built-in storm shelter, complete with an escape tunnel exiting far enough from the main structure that debris from a tornado or quake wouldn’t block it. The building was designed so that extra rooms could be easily added in case they added more employees.
The timber-frame construction went up quickly, built for strength with heavy posts and beams that could withstand whatever nature—or worse—threw at it. Durable, country-themed furniture filled the rooms, and the kitchen featured a large upright freezer alongside the usual appliances. Freja insisted on placing a Lyckohäst metal figurine—a Swedish lucky horse talisman—in every room. “For good fortune,” she said with a warm smile, “and to remind everyone home is where the heart settles.”
The Lyckohästs proved their worth sooner than expected. Soon after the bunkhouse was completed and stocked, Gunny Warren provided him three more workers: Bill Devens, Jay Wilson, and Dorothy “Dot” Hamrick. Don was initially hesitant about hiring Dot, but Gunny vouched strongly. “She’s a Marine. She can handle anything this farm throws at her.”
Don pulled Dot aside for a quiet word. “You’ll be in close quarters with three men in the bunkhouse. You sure about this?”
Dot met his gaze steadily. “I can handle myself. But you’d better keep Emergency Services on speed dial. I don’t want any of the men suffering.”
From that moment, Craig stepped up more or less as foreman of the growing farm team. Don bought four additional UTVs with dumping beds for hauling supplies and moved more Rapid Radios into the rotation so everyone could stay in touch across the property.
One cool evening, as the sun dipped behind the western hills painting the sky in deep oranges and purples, Craig sat with Don at the fire pit. They nursed cold beers while the flames crackled. Funny how life worked. Craig had come looking for nothing more than a job to steady his head after years of war and assembly-line drudgery. Instead, he’d found something deeper. Purpose wasn’t in killing or the endless hum of machines. It lived here—in the dirt under his nails, the growing community around him, and the quiet confidence that he could face whatever came next.
Don rose, grabbed two more beers from the fridge, and returned. He clapped Craig on the shoulder. “You’re finding your place, son.”
Craig nodded, watching the fireflies weave through the twilight. “Yeah. I think I am.”
The world beyond the hills kept turning with its uncertainties and gathering storms. But Craig James had roots now. Trained for war, he had found peace in the land—and the strength to protect it. Whatever tomorrow brought, he would meet it standing tall.
Around 10:30, Bill and Dot returned from a supply run to restock the bunkhouse fridge. Bill was laughing so hard he could barely stand.
“What’s going on?” Craig asked, grinning.
Bill dropped to his knees, wheezing. “Dot… Dot…”
“There was this guy at the store,” Dot said, hands on her hips, “who must’ve been deprived as a baby. Fool tried every trick to get a look and feel of my titties.”
“What did you do?” Craig asked.
“She reached up and twisted his nose until it bled!” Bill gasped, tears streaming. “I think she broke it!”
Don grinned and fetched two more beers, handing one to Dot. “You deserve this for your troubles.”
Dot popped the cap off on the edge of the table with practiced ease. “Wasn’t any trouble. Some men just don’t know how to act. They need reminding of their place.”
Don took a long swig and shook his head, chuckling. The fire popped, and the easy camaraderie wrapped around them like a warm blanket.
The next days brought more steady progress. They plowed the cover crop under in the garden and planted mustard and radishes for winter cover. Then several days of thick mist and fog rolled in, slowing outdoor work. Don retreated to his woodworking shop, while Craig, Dot, and Bill made rounds to used bookstores, carefully selecting volumes to fill the bunkhouse bookcases—practical homesteading guides, histories, novels, and survival references that would serve them well.
Don was also building Dot a custom headboard bookcase for her bed. She had sketched exactly what she wanted, and he took precise measurements before cutting the pieces. He was installing two reading lights with flexible necks that could cover any position she decided to take in bed to read, wired to a rechargeable battery box for power during outages, like that would ever happen. The bunkhouse had it’s own solar/wind system to take care of its power needs. Dot would choose the stain, and he would apply a durable finish. It was a small gesture, but one that spoke volumes about the growing family they were building on this land.
sssarawolf
We're just plugging along.
I'm glad she gave the guy a good lesson.
feralferret
Veteran Member
Thank you.