Story Kith, Kin and Calamity
- Thread starter ncsfsgm
- Start date
sssarawolf
We're just plugging along.
Smells better then roadkill, lol
feralferret
Veteran Member
Thank you.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Eight
That evening, Boone reviewed the notes he had compiled over the past several months on potential calamities—both natural and man-made. He had first extracted every scrap of knowledge from Uncle Dale, then supplemented it with his own research. Natural disasters were straightforward enough; he had those well covered. It was the human element that worried him most. You could never predict what ideologues might do when they were committed to harming others, or what lengths power-hungry individuals would go to for money and prestige.
His first line of defense remained isolation. The farm was well positioned to keep him apart from everyone except trusted neighbors and family. Uncle Dale had also trained him in additional measures to deter unwanted visitors. The surrounding towns and the larger urban centers would likely draw terrorists, though Oak Ridge might hold its own appeal. That left three primary tools terrorists could use to control the population of middle Tennessee: biological, chemical, or radiological agents.
Boone added CBR protective clothing and equipment to his order lists, along with more long-term food storage. He now had ample space to stockpile supplies for his family and the handful of neighbors he trusted completely. With that settled, he began ordering enough food and equipment to sustain twenty people for five years.
Ted Bridges called later that evening to let Boone know several crates from a greenhouse company had arrived at the warehouse. Boone thanked him and said he would pick them up in the morning. He then phoned Randy and asked for help moving the load, requesting the 2.5-ton flatbed. Boone headed to the equipment shed, checked the fluids on his 1969 Chevy C50, cranked it up, and filled the tank. He pulled the truck around, hooked up the equipment trailer, and made sure he had plenty of ratchet straps ready.
Randy arrived a little before eight. Boone was finishing the breakfast dishes. They topped off their travel mugs with the last of the coffee and headed toward New Tazewell, navigating the usual morning procession of school buses.
Ted’s forklift easily lifted the crates high enough to stack them securely on the truck and trailer. The route home had no low underpasses, only a few traffic lights they could bypass using side streets.
At the farm, they used Boone’s winch on the Blazer to lift the top two crates off the C50. The tractor forks handled the rest. Boone dug through the crates until he found the installation manual tucked inside the smallest one with the hardware. He planned to read it thoroughly—twice—before starting. Dale, Randy, and Brice had already agreed to help with the build. As he scanned the pages, the entire assembly process took shape in his mind.
The next morning, the Washington crew arrived and began laying out the site. They measured, ran builder’s lines, and marked locations for the foundation stakes. The greenhouse design used 24-inch stakes driven directly into the ground rather than a concrete footing.
Boone and Randy swung 5-pound sledgehammers while Dale steadied each stake with a length of 4x4 placed over the connection plate to protect it. Dale handed Brice an 8-pound tamper and set him to compacting the greenhouse floor. With Boone and Randy driving the stakes to the proper depth, the foundation came together quickly. Dale inspected Brice’s work and had him go over the entire area again. “Pack it until the dirt shines,” he told the boy.
They unpacked the crates and laid out the hardware on a tarp for easy access. Working from the far end, they assembled the arches on the ground, overlapping each new one with the previous as they progressed. By 3:00 p.m. they were ready to begin raising the arches and installing purlins and bracing, but decided to save that for the following morning.
After the Washington crew left, Boone broke down the empty crates and stacked the lumber on the trailer. As he walked back toward the house, Julie’s Jeep came up the drive.
“Hello,” Boone called. “You’re a far piece from home this time of day.”
“Just checking on my friends—the bats and you.”
“Well, come on in. I’ve got a full pitcher of yacón juice in the fridge.”
Julie followed him inside and waited at the island while he fixed the drinks. He filled her glass, then added two ounces of 148-proof vodka to his own before topping it off with juice.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Vodka. Helps me unwind at the end of the day.”
“Let me have some.”
“You sure? You still have a drive ahead of you.”
“We’ll see.”
Boone added a splash to her glass and stirred it with a long-handled spoon.
“That is refreshing,” Julie said.
They carried their drinks to the porch and settled into the rocking chairs.
“So, how are things at the big-city university?” Boone asked.
Julie sighed. “More demonstrations about everything under the sun, and plenty of talk about the virtues of socialism.”
Boone nodded. “Wait until they get out in the real world—study hard, land a good job, work their tails off—only to watch the government redistribute their earnings to people who didn’t. They haven’t a clue right now.”
“They believe socialist politicians would run things best,” Julie replied. “Accountability isn’t even in their vocabulary.”
Boone took a slow drink and gazed at the horizon. “Accountable politicians is practically an oxymoron. As Thomas Paine said, ‘A body of men holding themselves accountable to nobody ought not to be trusted by anybody.’ Don’t make me list all the ways our representatives have proven themselves untrustworthy—I’d starve before we reached the kitchen.”
“I don’t know,” Julie said. “Some things about socialism don’t seem so bad.”
Boone stopped rocking and looked at her. “They call it socialism because you get to socialize with people while you wait in line for government handouts.”
“I hope you aren’t getting mixed up in those demonstrations,” he added.
“I try to stay away. It’s just… it gets lonely sometimes.”
“Lonely?” Boone raised an eyebrow. “You’re on a campus with thousands of people every day.”
“Yes, but they see me as a symbol—the Bat Lady—not a person. When I come out here, you don’t do that. You listen. You talk to me like a real person, even if our interests aren’t identical. You actually care.”
“I am interested,” Boone said quietly. “In you as a scientist… and as a person.”
The silence that followed felt heavy. Finally, Julie set her glass on the floor. “I should probably head back.”
“You shouldn’t drive after drinking. I only put a little vodka in yours, but still—”
“Do you have a guest room?” she asked.
“Yes, but—”
“I’ve got a travel bag in the Jeep. We’ll keep it platonic, and I’ll head back in the morning.”
Boone raised his eyebrows. “As you wish.”
Julie picked up her drink and began rocking again.
Before dark, they walked down to the bat boxes and found no dead bats. For supper, Boone pan-fried two thick country ham steaks he had soaking in the refrigerator, opened pints of green beans and corn, and baked a skillet of cornbread.
That evening, Boone reviewed the notes he had compiled over the past several months on potential calamities—both natural and man-made. He had first extracted every scrap of knowledge from Uncle Dale, then supplemented it with his own research. Natural disasters were straightforward enough; he had those well covered. It was the human element that worried him most. You could never predict what ideologues might do when they were committed to harming others, or what lengths power-hungry individuals would go to for money and prestige.
His first line of defense remained isolation. The farm was well positioned to keep him apart from everyone except trusted neighbors and family. Uncle Dale had also trained him in additional measures to deter unwanted visitors. The surrounding towns and the larger urban centers would likely draw terrorists, though Oak Ridge might hold its own appeal. That left three primary tools terrorists could use to control the population of middle Tennessee: biological, chemical, or radiological agents.
Boone added CBR protective clothing and equipment to his order lists, along with more long-term food storage. He now had ample space to stockpile supplies for his family and the handful of neighbors he trusted completely. With that settled, he began ordering enough food and equipment to sustain twenty people for five years.
Ted Bridges called later that evening to let Boone know several crates from a greenhouse company had arrived at the warehouse. Boone thanked him and said he would pick them up in the morning. He then phoned Randy and asked for help moving the load, requesting the 2.5-ton flatbed. Boone headed to the equipment shed, checked the fluids on his 1969 Chevy C50, cranked it up, and filled the tank. He pulled the truck around, hooked up the equipment trailer, and made sure he had plenty of ratchet straps ready.
Randy arrived a little before eight. Boone was finishing the breakfast dishes. They topped off their travel mugs with the last of the coffee and headed toward New Tazewell, navigating the usual morning procession of school buses.
Ted’s forklift easily lifted the crates high enough to stack them securely on the truck and trailer. The route home had no low underpasses, only a few traffic lights they could bypass using side streets.
At the farm, they used Boone’s winch on the Blazer to lift the top two crates off the C50. The tractor forks handled the rest. Boone dug through the crates until he found the installation manual tucked inside the smallest one with the hardware. He planned to read it thoroughly—twice—before starting. Dale, Randy, and Brice had already agreed to help with the build. As he scanned the pages, the entire assembly process took shape in his mind.
The next morning, the Washington crew arrived and began laying out the site. They measured, ran builder’s lines, and marked locations for the foundation stakes. The greenhouse design used 24-inch stakes driven directly into the ground rather than a concrete footing.
Boone and Randy swung 5-pound sledgehammers while Dale steadied each stake with a length of 4x4 placed over the connection plate to protect it. Dale handed Brice an 8-pound tamper and set him to compacting the greenhouse floor. With Boone and Randy driving the stakes to the proper depth, the foundation came together quickly. Dale inspected Brice’s work and had him go over the entire area again. “Pack it until the dirt shines,” he told the boy.
They unpacked the crates and laid out the hardware on a tarp for easy access. Working from the far end, they assembled the arches on the ground, overlapping each new one with the previous as they progressed. By 3:00 p.m. they were ready to begin raising the arches and installing purlins and bracing, but decided to save that for the following morning.
After the Washington crew left, Boone broke down the empty crates and stacked the lumber on the trailer. As he walked back toward the house, Julie’s Jeep came up the drive.
“Hello,” Boone called. “You’re a far piece from home this time of day.”
“Just checking on my friends—the bats and you.”
“Well, come on in. I’ve got a full pitcher of yacón juice in the fridge.”
Julie followed him inside and waited at the island while he fixed the drinks. He filled her glass, then added two ounces of 148-proof vodka to his own before topping it off with juice.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Vodka. Helps me unwind at the end of the day.”
“Let me have some.”
“You sure? You still have a drive ahead of you.”
“We’ll see.”
Boone added a splash to her glass and stirred it with a long-handled spoon.
“That is refreshing,” Julie said.
They carried their drinks to the porch and settled into the rocking chairs.
“So, how are things at the big-city university?” Boone asked.
Julie sighed. “More demonstrations about everything under the sun, and plenty of talk about the virtues of socialism.”
Boone nodded. “Wait until they get out in the real world—study hard, land a good job, work their tails off—only to watch the government redistribute their earnings to people who didn’t. They haven’t a clue right now.”
“They believe socialist politicians would run things best,” Julie replied. “Accountability isn’t even in their vocabulary.”
Boone took a slow drink and gazed at the horizon. “Accountable politicians is practically an oxymoron. As Thomas Paine said, ‘A body of men holding themselves accountable to nobody ought not to be trusted by anybody.’ Don’t make me list all the ways our representatives have proven themselves untrustworthy—I’d starve before we reached the kitchen.”
“I don’t know,” Julie said. “Some things about socialism don’t seem so bad.”
Boone stopped rocking and looked at her. “They call it socialism because you get to socialize with people while you wait in line for government handouts.”
“I hope you aren’t getting mixed up in those demonstrations,” he added.
“I try to stay away. It’s just… it gets lonely sometimes.”
“Lonely?” Boone raised an eyebrow. “You’re on a campus with thousands of people every day.”
“Yes, but they see me as a symbol—the Bat Lady—not a person. When I come out here, you don’t do that. You listen. You talk to me like a real person, even if our interests aren’t identical. You actually care.”
“I am interested,” Boone said quietly. “In you as a scientist… and as a person.”
The silence that followed felt heavy. Finally, Julie set her glass on the floor. “I should probably head back.”
“You shouldn’t drive after drinking. I only put a little vodka in yours, but still—”
“Do you have a guest room?” she asked.
“Yes, but—”
“I’ve got a travel bag in the Jeep. We’ll keep it platonic, and I’ll head back in the morning.”
Boone raised his eyebrows. “As you wish.”
Julie picked up her drink and began rocking again.
Before dark, they walked down to the bat boxes and found no dead bats. For supper, Boone pan-fried two thick country ham steaks he had soaking in the refrigerator, opened pints of green beans and corn, and baked a skillet of cornbread.
223shootersc
Veteran Member
Thanks
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Nine
After cleaning up the supper dishes—Julie dried while Boone washed—they made themselves another round of drinks and carried them into the great room. Boone picked up the remote and tuned DirecTV to Channel 853, letting soft easy-listening music fill the space. They settled onto the big leather couch, both lost in their own thoughts.
Julie’s phone buzzed inside her purse on the end table. As she reached for it, a small plastic tube slipped out and rolled against Boone’s thigh. He picked it up.
“What’s this?”
“My lucky charm,” she said, smiling. “Sea glass. Some people call it Mermaid’s Tears.”
She told him the story—how, as a little girl, her family had driven Highway 1 along the California coast. While her parents browsed a winery, she and her grandfather had wandered down to a rocky beach where the sand glittered with naturally polished shards of glass. Grandpa explained how, from the 1800s well into the 1960s, people tossed their trash into the sea; broken bottles and jars tumbled in the waves and sand until the ocean turned the sharp edges into smooth, jewel-like treasures.
“He told me they were Mermaid’s Tears,” she said, her voice softening. “And while we filled a Styrofoam cup with them, he told me the legend.”
She recounted the tale of the young mermaid who fell in love with a schooner’s captain. On a stormy night, she defied Neptune to calm the sea and save the ship. As punishment, the sea god banished her to the deep ocean, far from her beloved. Her tears, it was said, washed ashore as sea glass.
Boone turned the tube over in his hand, watching the colored fragments catch the light. “So what makes them your lucky charm?”
“They remind me how lucky I am,” Julie said quietly. “I could be kept from the one I love, never allowed to see him again.” She met his eyes. “That’s why I keep coming back out here.”
Tears glistened in her lashes. Boone set the tube gently on the coffee table and opened his arms. She slid into them without hesitation. For a long while they simply held each other, listening to the saxophone and piano drift through the room.
Eventually Julie turned her face into his shoulder, breathing in the clean scent of his shirt. The sound track for the Carpenter’s “Close to You” came on and Julie snuggled closer. Boone kissed the top of her head. When she looked up, their lips met—slow, warm, and searching.
The kiss deepened. Leather creaked softly as she shifted closer, her hand resting on his chest. For Julie it was electric: a spark that raced down her spine, a rush of heat and endorphins that made her skin tingle and her breath come short. For Boone it was a deep, grounding pull—velvet warmth and quiet hunger that melted the day’s tension and left his pulse hammering.
But they both drew back at the same moment, breathing harder, eyes locked.
“Too soon,” Julie whispered.
“Yeah,” Boone agreed, though his voice was rough. He smiled. “You’re a damn good kisser.”
“So are you.” She grinned.
“I aim to please. It’s nice to kiss a woman with all her teeth and no dip of Railroad Mills in her lip.”
“So, you have you many women stopping by inquiring on your welfare?”
Boone chuckled. “Not many women like that come around here.”
“Well, you can put up a sign at the top of the drive: ‘No snuff-dipping women allowed.’ If you need a kiss, just call me. I’ll come running.”
“Deal.” He brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You free the rest of the weekend?”
Her smile faltered. “I’d better not. These feelings… they could snowball fast, and I still have a job to get back to.”
Boone nodded, understanding. “Door’s always open for you, Julie.”
She tucked her lucky charm and phone back into her purse. “I should turn in. You’ve got an early start tomorrow, and I’m expecting a big breakfast before I leave.”
They turned off the music and retired to their separate rooms. Both took long, cold showers.
Boone was up before dawn. He made bacon, eggs exactly as she liked them, and blueberry pancakes with real maple syrup. They had just finished eating when Dale and the Washington crew pulled in.
Julie shooed Boone outside to work on the greenhouse and handled the dishes herself. The kitchen smelled of coffee and bacon, and for a moment she let herself imagine mornings like this all the time. This place already felt like home. She hated to leave, but she wasn’t settling for a one-night stand. She wanted all of him—and she was willing to wait.
When the kitchen sparkled, she packed her bag, carried it to the Jeep, and walked over to watch the crew raise the final greenhouse arches. Dale noticed the Jeep but said nothing until Boone stepped away.
“Had a visitor last night, huh?” Dale asked with a knowing grin.
Boone just smiled as Julie approached.
When the last arch was bolted in place, Boone walked over to her. “Heading out?”
She nodded. “When can I see you again?”
“Door’s always open.”
Julie rose on her tiptoes and gave him a quick, sweet kiss. “You’re going to have to brace yourself and come visit me in the big city.”
“I will,” he promised. “Soon as the greenhouse is done and I get some things planted.”
“I’m holding you to that.” She gave his hand a squeeze, then walked back to her Jeep.
As she drove away, Randy whistled low. “Oh Lordy, he’s a goner!”
“Hush, boy,” Dale said, laughing. “At least she’s got a full set of teeth!”
They took a water break before laying the sheeting. They ran a chalk line and Brice and Randy held the sheeting in place while Dale and Boone screwed on the hold-downs, or whatever they were called. Last, but not least, the cap went on and the ventilating windows installed. The door was the easiest thing to hang.
Before the ends were closed, they brought in the beds and everything to get the greenhouse into production, except for the dirt. Boone was going to use a mixture of bedding material and screened leaf mold. Boone had made the mistake once before not screening the leat mold and he ended up with thousands of shoots of greenbriar in the garden. He had to individually dig every one up.
With the job complete, they all walked around and picked up bits of trash.
“Where you getting your bedding material?” Dale asked.
“Murphy’s, over in Middlesboro.” Boone replied. “I’ve already got a yard of leaf mold screened.”
“Well, we’ll let you get to it.” Dale said and they left.
Boone stood back and admired the greenhouse. As long as a tornado didn’t come through, it should last him a few years.
Boone hitched up his dump trailer and headed to Middlesboro, he stopped in at the Hardy’s in Harrogate and got a large half and half iced tea. He could enjoy his tea as the workers loaded the bags of bedding material.
Boone positioned the beds where he wanted them then began mixing the leaf mold and bedding material in the beds. He took a length of 2x2 and leveled the beds. He set the drip watering system up on a manifold attached to a water hose for now. He planned to get a water tank from Tractor Supply to gravity feed the system, but that was for another day. Today, he just wanted to get some seeds in the soil. He planted one whole bed of leaf lettuce, a half bed of green onions and carrots, half beds of cherry tomatoes and bell peppers, and half beds of radishes and trellised cucumbers. The rest he would figure out later, probably the same setup to be harvested later. With the beds moistened, he went to the shed and brought down the stove on a set of hand trucks. He wouldn’t need it for a while but he wanted to get everything set up. The stove was placed in the northwest corner so the plants wouldn’t get the radiant heat from the stove. He had solar powered fans that would circulate the heat in the enclosure. He wondered if the stove would be enough for the winter. The greenhouse people said it would be, but he was ready to get another stove for the other end if need be. He’d go ahead and get another and store it in the shed. If he didn’t need it there would always be there if someone else needed it.
After cleaning up the supper dishes—Julie dried while Boone washed—they made themselves another round of drinks and carried them into the great room. Boone picked up the remote and tuned DirecTV to Channel 853, letting soft easy-listening music fill the space. They settled onto the big leather couch, both lost in their own thoughts.
Julie’s phone buzzed inside her purse on the end table. As she reached for it, a small plastic tube slipped out and rolled against Boone’s thigh. He picked it up.
“What’s this?”
“My lucky charm,” she said, smiling. “Sea glass. Some people call it Mermaid’s Tears.”
She told him the story—how, as a little girl, her family had driven Highway 1 along the California coast. While her parents browsed a winery, she and her grandfather had wandered down to a rocky beach where the sand glittered with naturally polished shards of glass. Grandpa explained how, from the 1800s well into the 1960s, people tossed their trash into the sea; broken bottles and jars tumbled in the waves and sand until the ocean turned the sharp edges into smooth, jewel-like treasures.
“He told me they were Mermaid’s Tears,” she said, her voice softening. “And while we filled a Styrofoam cup with them, he told me the legend.”
She recounted the tale of the young mermaid who fell in love with a schooner’s captain. On a stormy night, she defied Neptune to calm the sea and save the ship. As punishment, the sea god banished her to the deep ocean, far from her beloved. Her tears, it was said, washed ashore as sea glass.
Boone turned the tube over in his hand, watching the colored fragments catch the light. “So what makes them your lucky charm?”
“They remind me how lucky I am,” Julie said quietly. “I could be kept from the one I love, never allowed to see him again.” She met his eyes. “That’s why I keep coming back out here.”
Tears glistened in her lashes. Boone set the tube gently on the coffee table and opened his arms. She slid into them without hesitation. For a long while they simply held each other, listening to the saxophone and piano drift through the room.
Eventually Julie turned her face into his shoulder, breathing in the clean scent of his shirt. The sound track for the Carpenter’s “Close to You” came on and Julie snuggled closer. Boone kissed the top of her head. When she looked up, their lips met—slow, warm, and searching.
The kiss deepened. Leather creaked softly as she shifted closer, her hand resting on his chest. For Julie it was electric: a spark that raced down her spine, a rush of heat and endorphins that made her skin tingle and her breath come short. For Boone it was a deep, grounding pull—velvet warmth and quiet hunger that melted the day’s tension and left his pulse hammering.
But they both drew back at the same moment, breathing harder, eyes locked.
“Too soon,” Julie whispered.
“Yeah,” Boone agreed, though his voice was rough. He smiled. “You’re a damn good kisser.”
“So are you.” She grinned.
“I aim to please. It’s nice to kiss a woman with all her teeth and no dip of Railroad Mills in her lip.”
“So, you have you many women stopping by inquiring on your welfare?”
Boone chuckled. “Not many women like that come around here.”
“Well, you can put up a sign at the top of the drive: ‘No snuff-dipping women allowed.’ If you need a kiss, just call me. I’ll come running.”
“Deal.” He brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You free the rest of the weekend?”
Her smile faltered. “I’d better not. These feelings… they could snowball fast, and I still have a job to get back to.”
Boone nodded, understanding. “Door’s always open for you, Julie.”
She tucked her lucky charm and phone back into her purse. “I should turn in. You’ve got an early start tomorrow, and I’m expecting a big breakfast before I leave.”
They turned off the music and retired to their separate rooms. Both took long, cold showers.
Boone was up before dawn. He made bacon, eggs exactly as she liked them, and blueberry pancakes with real maple syrup. They had just finished eating when Dale and the Washington crew pulled in.
Julie shooed Boone outside to work on the greenhouse and handled the dishes herself. The kitchen smelled of coffee and bacon, and for a moment she let herself imagine mornings like this all the time. This place already felt like home. She hated to leave, but she wasn’t settling for a one-night stand. She wanted all of him—and she was willing to wait.
When the kitchen sparkled, she packed her bag, carried it to the Jeep, and walked over to watch the crew raise the final greenhouse arches. Dale noticed the Jeep but said nothing until Boone stepped away.
“Had a visitor last night, huh?” Dale asked with a knowing grin.
Boone just smiled as Julie approached.
When the last arch was bolted in place, Boone walked over to her. “Heading out?”
She nodded. “When can I see you again?”
“Door’s always open.”
Julie rose on her tiptoes and gave him a quick, sweet kiss. “You’re going to have to brace yourself and come visit me in the big city.”
“I will,” he promised. “Soon as the greenhouse is done and I get some things planted.”
“I’m holding you to that.” She gave his hand a squeeze, then walked back to her Jeep.
As she drove away, Randy whistled low. “Oh Lordy, he’s a goner!”
“Hush, boy,” Dale said, laughing. “At least she’s got a full set of teeth!”
They took a water break before laying the sheeting. They ran a chalk line and Brice and Randy held the sheeting in place while Dale and Boone screwed on the hold-downs, or whatever they were called. Last, but not least, the cap went on and the ventilating windows installed. The door was the easiest thing to hang.
Before the ends were closed, they brought in the beds and everything to get the greenhouse into production, except for the dirt. Boone was going to use a mixture of bedding material and screened leaf mold. Boone had made the mistake once before not screening the leat mold and he ended up with thousands of shoots of greenbriar in the garden. He had to individually dig every one up.
With the job complete, they all walked around and picked up bits of trash.
“Where you getting your bedding material?” Dale asked.
“Murphy’s, over in Middlesboro.” Boone replied. “I’ve already got a yard of leaf mold screened.”
“Well, we’ll let you get to it.” Dale said and they left.
Boone stood back and admired the greenhouse. As long as a tornado didn’t come through, it should last him a few years.
Boone hitched up his dump trailer and headed to Middlesboro, he stopped in at the Hardy’s in Harrogate and got a large half and half iced tea. He could enjoy his tea as the workers loaded the bags of bedding material.
Boone positioned the beds where he wanted them then began mixing the leaf mold and bedding material in the beds. He took a length of 2x2 and leveled the beds. He set the drip watering system up on a manifold attached to a water hose for now. He planned to get a water tank from Tractor Supply to gravity feed the system, but that was for another day. Today, he just wanted to get some seeds in the soil. He planted one whole bed of leaf lettuce, a half bed of green onions and carrots, half beds of cherry tomatoes and bell peppers, and half beds of radishes and trellised cucumbers. The rest he would figure out later, probably the same setup to be harvested later. With the beds moistened, he went to the shed and brought down the stove on a set of hand trucks. He wouldn’t need it for a while but he wanted to get everything set up. The stove was placed in the northwest corner so the plants wouldn’t get the radiant heat from the stove. He had solar powered fans that would circulate the heat in the enclosure. He wondered if the stove would be enough for the winter. The greenhouse people said it would be, but he was ready to get another stove for the other end if need be. He’d go ahead and get another and store it in the shed. If he didn’t need it there would always be there if someone else needed it.
feralferret
Veteran Member
Thank you.
sssarawolf
We're just plugging along.
Thank you, full set of teeth lol.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Ten
The next morning, Boone headed over to Tractor Supply, south of Livingston, to pick up the water tank, fittings for his drip irrigation system, and four rubber farm buckets. After strapping the tank down on his trailer, he drove straight home and built a sturdy stand that would raise the tank above the garden beds for gravity feeding. Using hand posthole diggers, he set the four-by-fours deep into the ground and cross-braced them with two-by-six boards. He topped the frame with a flat deck, then lag-bolted the tank securely in place. An empty tank could easily blow off in the wind.
Once everything was plumbed in, Boone connected a garden hose to the fill port at the top and began filling the tank. It slowly gained weight without a single creak from the platform. So far, so good.
He filled a five-gallon bucket with urea, capped it, and took it along on his inspection of the wildlife food plots. The plots were growing well, but he scattered urea across each one anyway. Rain was forecast in a couple of days, and the nitrogen would reach the roots quickly. When he returned home, he washed his hands thoroughly and heard something knocking against the screen door. Boone walked over, still drying his hands, and smiled. Harry stood on the porch.
Boone laughed, went to the kitchen, and grabbed an apple. He returned to the porch, settled into a rocking chair, and pulled out his pocket knife to slice it. Harry was the resident woodchuck. He hadn’t visited in a while, but when he did, he expected payment for the honor of his presence.
Harry waddled over, stood on his hind legs, and took the first slice from Boone’s fingers. He dropped back down to gnaw on it, then looked up expectantly for the next. Boone kept slicing until only the core remained, which he also handed over. While Harry worked on it, Boone scratched behind the woodchuck’s ears and down his back. Harry shuddered with pleasure.
There was a skunk he called Daisy who visited occasionally. Boone fed her raw eggs, despite Dale’s warnings. He had never caught her trying to raid the chicken coop, and once, when he noticed her swollen teats, he had given her a strip of last year’s beef to carry back to her kits. He hoped she was all right; he hadn’t seen her lately.
Boone headed to the shed, grabbed a rake and hand pruners, and went down to the chicken run. He trimmed fresh branches from the tagasaste shrubs and tossed them inside. He tried to keep the chickens’ diet rich in bugs, tagasaste leaves, and very little grain—the eggs were noticeably better with plenty of protein. He emptied the DynaTrap bug catchers into the run so the hens could feast on the trapped flies and insects. Some people might find it disgusting, but those were usually the same people who didn’t want to know how sausage was made. Whatever. The egg yolks were a deep, rich orange compared to store-bought ones, and the chickens seemed content.
He cleaned and refilled the waterers, then raked the mulch back around the tagasaste shrubs, adding more where the hens had scratched it away. When he finished, he put his tools away and started back toward the house. Harry waddled along behind him. Boone grinned. Sucking up for another apple, huh?
Inside the pantry, he scooped a cup of shelled black walnuts and pecans and dumped them on the bottom porch step. Harry immediately began nibbling. With his furry friend occupied, Boone made himself a country ham and cheese sandwich with mustard on German farmer’s bread and washed it down with a glass of cold water. He loved the bread, but the rye pumpernickel flour cost $7.50 a pound on Amazon, so he didn’t make it often. He’d have to look into growing and milling his own grain.
When Julie finished packing up after her last class of the week, she glanced at her phone. Without hesitation, she tapped Boone’s number.
Boone was washing the few utensils he’d used for lunch when his phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hey, what are you doing?”
“Getting ready to make bread.”
“Wait until I get there. I want to see how you do it.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll wait.”
Julie hung up, grabbed her things, and jogged out to her Jeep. Her newly repacked bag was already in the back. A few minutes later she was fighting traffic on US-441 through Old North Knoxville, heading toward TN-33. Before getting on the highway, she stopped at a CVS for bath beads and a few personal items.
Boone set out his bread bowl and flour. He had prepared the sponge the night before—mixing flour, yeast, and water—and left it to ferment. He opened the tambour bread box on the cabinet, retrieved the covered bowl, and set it on the counter.
Julie made good time. Boone heard the Jeep pull up and the door slam. She came bouncing up the porch steps and stepped inside, letting the screen door slap shut behind her.
“You’ve already started?!”
“Not really,” Boone said. “I pre-fermented the yeast overnight—that’s the sponge. Now we just add the rest of the ingredients.”
He removed the protective hood from the KitchenAid mixer.
“Boone Washington uses a KitchenAid instead of a concrete trowel?” Julie teased.
“Don’t get sassy, or I’ll go cut a willow switch.”
He attached the paddle, poured in the sponge, and turned the mixer to low. As it ran, he added bread flour, milk, salt, and a packet of Fleischmann’s RapidRise yeast. “My mother swore by Fleischmann’s, so I guess I will too.”
When the dough came together, he switched to the dough hook and kneaded until it pulled away cleanly from the sides of the bowl and felt tacky to the touch. He transferred it to the bread bowl, covered it with a clean towel, and left it to rise. The warm kitchen would do the job nicely. After cleaning up, he grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl.
“Come on,” he said. “I want you to meet someone.”
Julie followed him onto the porch. Boone sat in the rocker and whistled. A rustle came from the bushes, and a big, fat woodchuck climbed the steps.
Julie squealed and moved behind Boone’s chair.
“Come on,” he laughed. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen woodchucks while you were out looking for bats.”
“Yes… yes, I have. He just startled me.”
Boone sliced the apple and held a piece at armrest height. Harry stood on his hind legs and took it neatly from his fingers. “Say hello to Harry.”
While Boone scratched the woodchuck’s head, Julie cautiously reached down and rubbed his shoulders. Harry stopped chewing, collapsed onto the floorboards in pure bliss, and let out a contented shudder. When they stopped, he returned to his apple slice.
“How do you rate a woodchuck as a pet?” Julie asked.
“He’s not a pet. He comes and goes as he pleases. We’re just friends. He doesn’t have a girlfriend right now, so he’s been visiting more often.”
“How long has he been around?”
“We’ve always had groundhogs here. Dad used to call them whistle-pigs.” Boone smiled. “There’s also a skunk I call Daisy. She might not be as friendly since she doesn’t know you.”
“I’ll stick with Harry,” Julie said.
“Do you have any yacón juice?” she asked after a moment.
“I’m sorry! I’ll go pour you a glass.”
“I can get it. You sit.”
The next morning, Boone headed over to Tractor Supply, south of Livingston, to pick up the water tank, fittings for his drip irrigation system, and four rubber farm buckets. After strapping the tank down on his trailer, he drove straight home and built a sturdy stand that would raise the tank above the garden beds for gravity feeding. Using hand posthole diggers, he set the four-by-fours deep into the ground and cross-braced them with two-by-six boards. He topped the frame with a flat deck, then lag-bolted the tank securely in place. An empty tank could easily blow off in the wind.
Once everything was plumbed in, Boone connected a garden hose to the fill port at the top and began filling the tank. It slowly gained weight without a single creak from the platform. So far, so good.
He filled a five-gallon bucket with urea, capped it, and took it along on his inspection of the wildlife food plots. The plots were growing well, but he scattered urea across each one anyway. Rain was forecast in a couple of days, and the nitrogen would reach the roots quickly. When he returned home, he washed his hands thoroughly and heard something knocking against the screen door. Boone walked over, still drying his hands, and smiled. Harry stood on the porch.
Boone laughed, went to the kitchen, and grabbed an apple. He returned to the porch, settled into a rocking chair, and pulled out his pocket knife to slice it. Harry was the resident woodchuck. He hadn’t visited in a while, but when he did, he expected payment for the honor of his presence.
Harry waddled over, stood on his hind legs, and took the first slice from Boone’s fingers. He dropped back down to gnaw on it, then looked up expectantly for the next. Boone kept slicing until only the core remained, which he also handed over. While Harry worked on it, Boone scratched behind the woodchuck’s ears and down his back. Harry shuddered with pleasure.
There was a skunk he called Daisy who visited occasionally. Boone fed her raw eggs, despite Dale’s warnings. He had never caught her trying to raid the chicken coop, and once, when he noticed her swollen teats, he had given her a strip of last year’s beef to carry back to her kits. He hoped she was all right; he hadn’t seen her lately.
Boone headed to the shed, grabbed a rake and hand pruners, and went down to the chicken run. He trimmed fresh branches from the tagasaste shrubs and tossed them inside. He tried to keep the chickens’ diet rich in bugs, tagasaste leaves, and very little grain—the eggs were noticeably better with plenty of protein. He emptied the DynaTrap bug catchers into the run so the hens could feast on the trapped flies and insects. Some people might find it disgusting, but those were usually the same people who didn’t want to know how sausage was made. Whatever. The egg yolks were a deep, rich orange compared to store-bought ones, and the chickens seemed content.
He cleaned and refilled the waterers, then raked the mulch back around the tagasaste shrubs, adding more where the hens had scratched it away. When he finished, he put his tools away and started back toward the house. Harry waddled along behind him. Boone grinned. Sucking up for another apple, huh?
Inside the pantry, he scooped a cup of shelled black walnuts and pecans and dumped them on the bottom porch step. Harry immediately began nibbling. With his furry friend occupied, Boone made himself a country ham and cheese sandwich with mustard on German farmer’s bread and washed it down with a glass of cold water. He loved the bread, but the rye pumpernickel flour cost $7.50 a pound on Amazon, so he didn’t make it often. He’d have to look into growing and milling his own grain.
When Julie finished packing up after her last class of the week, she glanced at her phone. Without hesitation, she tapped Boone’s number.
Boone was washing the few utensils he’d used for lunch when his phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hey, what are you doing?”
“Getting ready to make bread.”
“Wait until I get there. I want to see how you do it.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll wait.”
Julie hung up, grabbed her things, and jogged out to her Jeep. Her newly repacked bag was already in the back. A few minutes later she was fighting traffic on US-441 through Old North Knoxville, heading toward TN-33. Before getting on the highway, she stopped at a CVS for bath beads and a few personal items.
Boone set out his bread bowl and flour. He had prepared the sponge the night before—mixing flour, yeast, and water—and left it to ferment. He opened the tambour bread box on the cabinet, retrieved the covered bowl, and set it on the counter.
Julie made good time. Boone heard the Jeep pull up and the door slam. She came bouncing up the porch steps and stepped inside, letting the screen door slap shut behind her.
“You’ve already started?!”
“Not really,” Boone said. “I pre-fermented the yeast overnight—that’s the sponge. Now we just add the rest of the ingredients.”
He removed the protective hood from the KitchenAid mixer.
“Boone Washington uses a KitchenAid instead of a concrete trowel?” Julie teased.
“Don’t get sassy, or I’ll go cut a willow switch.”
He attached the paddle, poured in the sponge, and turned the mixer to low. As it ran, he added bread flour, milk, salt, and a packet of Fleischmann’s RapidRise yeast. “My mother swore by Fleischmann’s, so I guess I will too.”
When the dough came together, he switched to the dough hook and kneaded until it pulled away cleanly from the sides of the bowl and felt tacky to the touch. He transferred it to the bread bowl, covered it with a clean towel, and left it to rise. The warm kitchen would do the job nicely. After cleaning up, he grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl.
“Come on,” he said. “I want you to meet someone.”
Julie followed him onto the porch. Boone sat in the rocker and whistled. A rustle came from the bushes, and a big, fat woodchuck climbed the steps.
Julie squealed and moved behind Boone’s chair.
“Come on,” he laughed. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen woodchucks while you were out looking for bats.”
“Yes… yes, I have. He just startled me.”
Boone sliced the apple and held a piece at armrest height. Harry stood on his hind legs and took it neatly from his fingers. “Say hello to Harry.”
While Boone scratched the woodchuck’s head, Julie cautiously reached down and rubbed his shoulders. Harry stopped chewing, collapsed onto the floorboards in pure bliss, and let out a contented shudder. When they stopped, he returned to his apple slice.
“How do you rate a woodchuck as a pet?” Julie asked.
“He’s not a pet. He comes and goes as he pleases. We’re just friends. He doesn’t have a girlfriend right now, so he’s been visiting more often.”
“How long has he been around?”
“We’ve always had groundhogs here. Dad used to call them whistle-pigs.” Boone smiled. “There’s also a skunk I call Daisy. She might not be as friendly since she doesn’t know you.”
“I’ll stick with Harry,” Julie said.
“Do you have any yacón juice?” she asked after a moment.
“I’m sorry! I’ll go pour you a glass.”
“I can get it. You sit.”
sssarawolf
We're just plugging along.
thank you.
feralferret
Veteran Member
Hopefully Harry will stay away from the garden.
Thank you.
Thank you.
223shootersc
Veteran Member
Thanks
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Eleven
An hour later, Boone checked the rising dough. It had expanded well above the rim of the bread bowl. He sprayed a section of the island countertop with vegetable oil, then coated his hands and a bench scraper. He turned the sticky mass out onto the oiled surface and began folding it over and over, gently degassing it as he worked. Eventually he shaped the dough into a long rectangle, divided it in half, and rolled each portion into a tight log. The loaves went into greased bread pans. He dusted the tops lightly with flour, covered them with a clean towel, and turned the oven to 450º to preheat.
They sat on the porch talking while the dough continued to proof. When it had swelled just over the edges of the pans, Boone slid the loaves onto the center oven rack and set the timer. He wanted a deep golden-brown crust.
He kept an eye on his watch. When the timer chimed, he opened the oven door and smiled. The loaves were perfect. He pulled the pans out, set them on the counter, and shut off the oven. After a few minutes, he turned the bread out onto a wire cooling rack.
“Can I try some?” Julie asked, peering hopefully at the fragrant loaves.
“You’ll have to wait until it cools,” Boone said. “If I cut it now, the crust shatters and the inside turns gummy. Stick around and I’ll toast some in the morning and make chipped beef gravy over it.”
“You talked me into it!” Julie said, grinning. “It’s just as well. I’ve had a slight headache all afternoon. The only thing I’ve had since breakfast is that yacón juice.”
“I can make you a cup of hot willow bark tea.”
“A cup of tea sounds nice.”
Boone filled a kettle and set it on the burner, then retrieved a tea press and a jar of dried willow bark from the cabinet. He measured two generous spoonfuls of the fibrous “sawdust” into the press, placed it in a mug, and set out honey and a packet of True Lemon. When the water boiled, he poured it over the bark, let it steep, then pressed the plunger. A dash of lemon powder and two teaspoons of honey finished it. He stirred and handed the mug to Julie.
“Here you go.”
“What was that sawdust stuff?” she asked, sniffing cautiously.
“Dried willow bark. It contains salicin—the same compound in aspirin that eases pain and inflammation. It’s stronger when it’s fresh, but this works in a pinch. I can make you another cup if the headache doesn’t let up.”
“Farmer, mountain man, medicine man… isn’t there anything you can’t do?”
Boone chuckled. “I read a lot, and I’m kind to old women, children, wild animals, and bat ladies.”
Julie laughed and carried her tea back out to the porch. Boone followed.
“What would you like for supper?” he asked.
“Oh, you don’t have to cook for me.”
“We could drive down to Tazewell. There are a couple of pizza places, the Frostee Freeze Drive-in, or the Old Town Grill. It’s Friday, so they’ll have slow-roasted prime rib. Sometimes they have live music, too.”
“Prime rib sounds perfect.”
“Old Town Grill it is.”
“I’d like to take a shower first, if that’s okay.”
“Go right ahead. Use the bathroom in my room. It’s got hair in the drain and everything.”
“Thanks… I think.”
Julie finished her tea, rinsed the mug in the sink, then grabbed her bag from the Jeep along with the items she’d picked up at CVS. In Boone’s bathroom she checked the tub drain. No hair. She blushed, briefly considered digging out her scissors and leaving a few strategic pubes on the tile as payback, then thought better of it. There was no telling what kind of retaliation a man with a pet skunk might dream up.
Boone took a quick shower when Julie was done and changed into khakis and a loose polo shirt. Julie wore stylish jeans and a peasant blouse. When they got in the truck, Boone rolled the windows down, and the evening air cooled them as they drove down to Tazewell. The big evening party crowd hadn’t arrived yet at the grill, so they quickly got a table. Boone ordered a draft beer, Julie a glass of wine, and they shared a mixed plate of fried mushrooms and fried pickles.
Boone slowly sipped his beer and mostly drank water. Cruise control could only do so much for you on the winding roads home. The prime rib was delicious and tender. By the time they finished eating, the party crowd had arrived and the band was tuning up. They stayed long enough for a couple of slow dances, then headed back. Boone was fine to drive—he’d had one beer and four glasses of ice water. Julie slid over on the bench seat and sat close to him on the way home.
“Thank you,” Julie said. “My backbone was rubbing a hole in the back of my stomach.”
“It was my pleasure. If I’d known you were that hungry, we could have stopped by the Conoco station and got you a couple of hot dogs.”
“No thank you. You did just fine. Do you go there much?”
“Not often. Too many snuff-dipping girls go there when they want to kick their heels up and feel feisty.”
Julie snorted. “I guess it was a good thing I was there to protect you.”
“Yes ma’am, you saved me from durance vile.”
Back home, Boone made Julie a yacón cocktail and poured himself three fingers of Wild Turkey. They sat on the porch and listened to the night noises—crickets chirping, a whip-poor-will calling from the direction of Tazewell, and two owls trading hoots toward the river.
“You need to put up a porch swing so we could sit together,” Julie said.
“I’ve got one in the shed I’ve never put up. I was afraid Randy would look at me funny if I invited him up.”
Julie grinned in the dark and shook her head. “There’s always tomorrow.”
“I’ll put it up for you,” Boone said.
“I can pick you up some cushions for it.”
“Oh, Aunt June already got me cushions. She thought it would lead me to asking the Hasty girl over.”
“Did you?”
“Oh no! She doesn’t shave.”
“A lot of girls these days like the European look.”
“I’m not talking about her armpits or other places. She wouldn’t shave her mustache.”
Julie clenched her jaw and squeezed her eyes shut to keep from laughing.
“She reminded me of the time I fell asleep under the catalpa tree and a woolly worm fell on my lip. Scared the hell out of me.”
Julie squeezed her eyes shut, but tears still leaked from the corners. She coughed and sputtered on the sip of cocktail she had taken, then drew a deep breath.
“God help us if there are any more men like you!”
“Nope, not that I know of. There’s just Randy, but he isn’t particular about the women he cuddles up to.”
“What is it you’re making for breakfast?”
“Mom called it Creamed Chipped Beef. You just make gravy like you do sausage gravy but use Armour dried beef instead of sausage. I usually eat it over biscuits, but it’s good on toast too.”
“Well, we’d better get some sleep if you’re getting up to make me breakfast,” Julie said.
Boone drained his glass and followed her inside, latching the screen door. He went to the kitchen and latched the back screen door, then headed to his bedroom.
An hour later, Boone checked the rising dough. It had expanded well above the rim of the bread bowl. He sprayed a section of the island countertop with vegetable oil, then coated his hands and a bench scraper. He turned the sticky mass out onto the oiled surface and began folding it over and over, gently degassing it as he worked. Eventually he shaped the dough into a long rectangle, divided it in half, and rolled each portion into a tight log. The loaves went into greased bread pans. He dusted the tops lightly with flour, covered them with a clean towel, and turned the oven to 450º to preheat.
They sat on the porch talking while the dough continued to proof. When it had swelled just over the edges of the pans, Boone slid the loaves onto the center oven rack and set the timer. He wanted a deep golden-brown crust.
He kept an eye on his watch. When the timer chimed, he opened the oven door and smiled. The loaves were perfect. He pulled the pans out, set them on the counter, and shut off the oven. After a few minutes, he turned the bread out onto a wire cooling rack.
“Can I try some?” Julie asked, peering hopefully at the fragrant loaves.
“You’ll have to wait until it cools,” Boone said. “If I cut it now, the crust shatters and the inside turns gummy. Stick around and I’ll toast some in the morning and make chipped beef gravy over it.”
“You talked me into it!” Julie said, grinning. “It’s just as well. I’ve had a slight headache all afternoon. The only thing I’ve had since breakfast is that yacón juice.”
“I can make you a cup of hot willow bark tea.”
“A cup of tea sounds nice.”
Boone filled a kettle and set it on the burner, then retrieved a tea press and a jar of dried willow bark from the cabinet. He measured two generous spoonfuls of the fibrous “sawdust” into the press, placed it in a mug, and set out honey and a packet of True Lemon. When the water boiled, he poured it over the bark, let it steep, then pressed the plunger. A dash of lemon powder and two teaspoons of honey finished it. He stirred and handed the mug to Julie.
“Here you go.”
“What was that sawdust stuff?” she asked, sniffing cautiously.
“Dried willow bark. It contains salicin—the same compound in aspirin that eases pain and inflammation. It’s stronger when it’s fresh, but this works in a pinch. I can make you another cup if the headache doesn’t let up.”
“Farmer, mountain man, medicine man… isn’t there anything you can’t do?”
Boone chuckled. “I read a lot, and I’m kind to old women, children, wild animals, and bat ladies.”
Julie laughed and carried her tea back out to the porch. Boone followed.
“What would you like for supper?” he asked.
“Oh, you don’t have to cook for me.”
“We could drive down to Tazewell. There are a couple of pizza places, the Frostee Freeze Drive-in, or the Old Town Grill. It’s Friday, so they’ll have slow-roasted prime rib. Sometimes they have live music, too.”
“Prime rib sounds perfect.”
“Old Town Grill it is.”
“I’d like to take a shower first, if that’s okay.”
“Go right ahead. Use the bathroom in my room. It’s got hair in the drain and everything.”
“Thanks… I think.”
Julie finished her tea, rinsed the mug in the sink, then grabbed her bag from the Jeep along with the items she’d picked up at CVS. In Boone’s bathroom she checked the tub drain. No hair. She blushed, briefly considered digging out her scissors and leaving a few strategic pubes on the tile as payback, then thought better of it. There was no telling what kind of retaliation a man with a pet skunk might dream up.
Boone took a quick shower when Julie was done and changed into khakis and a loose polo shirt. Julie wore stylish jeans and a peasant blouse. When they got in the truck, Boone rolled the windows down, and the evening air cooled them as they drove down to Tazewell. The big evening party crowd hadn’t arrived yet at the grill, so they quickly got a table. Boone ordered a draft beer, Julie a glass of wine, and they shared a mixed plate of fried mushrooms and fried pickles.
Boone slowly sipped his beer and mostly drank water. Cruise control could only do so much for you on the winding roads home. The prime rib was delicious and tender. By the time they finished eating, the party crowd had arrived and the band was tuning up. They stayed long enough for a couple of slow dances, then headed back. Boone was fine to drive—he’d had one beer and four glasses of ice water. Julie slid over on the bench seat and sat close to him on the way home.
“Thank you,” Julie said. “My backbone was rubbing a hole in the back of my stomach.”
“It was my pleasure. If I’d known you were that hungry, we could have stopped by the Conoco station and got you a couple of hot dogs.”
“No thank you. You did just fine. Do you go there much?”
“Not often. Too many snuff-dipping girls go there when they want to kick their heels up and feel feisty.”
Julie snorted. “I guess it was a good thing I was there to protect you.”
“Yes ma’am, you saved me from durance vile.”
Back home, Boone made Julie a yacón cocktail and poured himself three fingers of Wild Turkey. They sat on the porch and listened to the night noises—crickets chirping, a whip-poor-will calling from the direction of Tazewell, and two owls trading hoots toward the river.
“You need to put up a porch swing so we could sit together,” Julie said.
“I’ve got one in the shed I’ve never put up. I was afraid Randy would look at me funny if I invited him up.”
Julie grinned in the dark and shook her head. “There’s always tomorrow.”
“I’ll put it up for you,” Boone said.
“I can pick you up some cushions for it.”
“Oh, Aunt June already got me cushions. She thought it would lead me to asking the Hasty girl over.”
“Did you?”
“Oh no! She doesn’t shave.”
“A lot of girls these days like the European look.”
“I’m not talking about her armpits or other places. She wouldn’t shave her mustache.”
Julie clenched her jaw and squeezed her eyes shut to keep from laughing.
“She reminded me of the time I fell asleep under the catalpa tree and a woolly worm fell on my lip. Scared the hell out of me.”
Julie squeezed her eyes shut, but tears still leaked from the corners. She coughed and sputtered on the sip of cocktail she had taken, then drew a deep breath.
“God help us if there are any more men like you!”
“Nope, not that I know of. There’s just Randy, but he isn’t particular about the women he cuddles up to.”
“What is it you’re making for breakfast?”
“Mom called it Creamed Chipped Beef. You just make gravy like you do sausage gravy but use Armour dried beef instead of sausage. I usually eat it over biscuits, but it’s good on toast too.”
“Well, we’d better get some sleep if you’re getting up to make me breakfast,” Julie said.
Boone drained his glass and followed her inside, latching the screen door. He went to the kitchen and latched the back screen door, then headed to his bedroom.
223shootersc
Veteran Member
Thanks
feralferret
Veteran Member
Thank you.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Twelve
Wednesday, while Boone was checking the bee hives, Ted Bridges called to tell him he had six pallets of goods waiting at the warehouse. Boone knew what it probably was and felt a quiet satisfaction. He was getting close to reorder dates on several items, and bulk buying kept him from making extra trips into town.
He decided the run to Tazewell could wait until later that afternoon. After putting the bee smoker away in the barn, he hooked up the water trailer, drove it over to the hydrant, and began filling the tank. While it filled, he went inside, gathered a can of Vienna sausages, a sleeve of crackers, and a thick slice of hoop cheese. A cold bottle of Mountain Dew completed his lunch. Boone settled on the porch to eat. Harry came wobbling up the path, no doubt drawn by the smell of cheese. Before he could climb the steps, Boone had already cut off a piece for him. Harry accepted it gratefully and settled beside Boone’s chair, nibbling contentedly.
When Boone heard water splashing over the side of the tank, he set the remains of his lunch on the side table and walked out to shut off the hydrant. He sealed the tank, returned to the porch, and sliced another piece of cheese for Harry. Finishing his lunch and draining the last of the Mountain Dew, he tossed the trash in the kitchen and headed back outside.
He checked the fuel and oil on the water pump, started the engine, then cranked the tractor and drove to the first food plot. The watering rig was simple: pull a rope to open the spring-loaded valve, drive slowly along the plot, and let the water gush out. At the end of the plot, he released the rope and the flow stopped. Only three plots needed watering today; the other four were fed by natural springs Boone had channeled years ago. When he finished, he parked the trailer under the equipment shed and got ready for town.
He started the truck, glanced at the fuel gauge—plenty left—and hitched the enclosed trailer. Just as he reached Goins Chapel Road, he met Julie coming up in her Jeep.
“Where are you going?” she yelled.
“Into Tazewell to pick up some supplies! Go park at the house and I’ll grab you.”
Boone backed into a field entrance, turned around, and followed her back to the house.
“Have you had lunch?” he asked as she climbed into the truck.
“Yes, I stopped at Sonic and got chicken fingers. What are you picking up?”
“Just some supplies I ordered,” Boone replied. “You’re off early.”
“The Dean called a meeting with part of the student body—my class included—so we got out ahead of schedule.”
“Fortunate for me,” Boone said with a grin. “I could use the company.”
At the warehouse, Boone backed the trailer to the end of the loading ramp and pulled forward to give the forklift room. Ted came out and told him the pallets were stacked too high to fit inside the trailer.
“Then I’ll break them down until they do,” Boone replied.
The forklift set the first pallet at the bottom of the ramp. Boone cut the shrink-wrap, removed several pails of dried beans, and motioned the driver forward. One by one the pallets were loaded, with boxes and pails that wouldn’t fit placed in the bed of the truck. Julie stayed quiet on the ride back to the farm.
Boone backed the trailer up to the cellar door and began unloading. Julie wrestled a thirty-pound pail of black beans and followed him down the steps.
“You ordered beans?” she asked, surprised.
“Beans, white sugar, molasses, corn syrup, maple syrup, vanilla extract, distilled white vinegar, soy sauce, Worcestershire sauce, cornstarch, cream of tartar, arrowroot powder, popcorn, dehydrated onion flakes, and butter powder.”
“Can’t you buy those in town?”
“Sure, but not as cheap, and I don’t have to make as many trips.” Boone shrugged.
“You’ve got enough here to last at least a year!” Julie said.
“Five with what I grow and harvest and shoot myself.”
“You really don’t like being around the city, do you?”
“It’s not the city,” Boone said, flipping the latch on the inside of the cellar doors. “It’s the vermin the city draws.”
Julie helped him thin carrots in the greenhouse afterward. They used the baby carrots in the salad they made for supper to go with thick-cut bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches.
“I’ve never had bacon this thick!” Julie said. “Where did you get it?”
“I sliced it myself this evening from a smoked pork belly.”
“It’s better than anything I’ve ever bought at the market.” Julie said
“That’s because this is real,” Boone replied. “Raised without the chemicals and hormones the big operations use. I didn’t raise these hogs myself—I buy from a man who butchers and cures meat the same way his father and grandfather did. Nothing better.”
Julie gave him an appraising look and kept eating.
“What is this salad dressing?” she asked after a moment.
Boone grinned. “Homemade. White vinegar, bacon grease, buttermilk powder, black pepper, and a little sour cream powder.”
“You need to write a cookbook,” Julie said, shaking her head.
“I’ll need you around to edit it,” Boone replied, eyes steady on hers.
“I’ll be around,” she said softly.
The next morning Boone found Julie on the front porch feeding Harry some of the leftover baby carrots.
“Doesn’t he try to get into your garden?” she asked.
“Not yet. I’d like to think he respects the boundaries, but I suspect he stays out because I keep him fed.”
Boone went inside, glanced through the mail, and spotted a Tractor Supply circular. Calcium hypochlorite was on sale at a third of the usual price, along with STA-BIL fuel stabilizer. He should have checked the sales flyers before yesterday’s trip. He grabbed his hat and stepped back onto the porch.
“Want to take a ride?”
“Where to?”
“Tractor Supply. There’s a couple things I need.”
“Okay… wait!”
Julie dashed inside. Boone heard the barn-door latch on the foyer closet open and close. She returned wearing one of his caps, ponytail pulled through the back.
“I’m ready!”
Boone smirked and opened the truck door for her.
“What are you getting?” she asked once they were on the road.
“Calcium hypochlorite—pool shock. Great for purifying water in an emergency. I like to keep a fresh bucket on hand.”
“You should have said something. I could have picked it up for you.”
“I didn’t know it was on sale until a few minutes ago. Also grabbing STA-BIL. My fuel tanks get topped off next week, and I want fresh stabilizer in them first.”
The roads were empty, so the trip went quickly. Boone picked up a pail of pool shock, a case of STA-BIL for gas and diesel each, and—after a quick glance at the animal medicines—two cans of Blue Coat antiseptic spray. It worked as well on people as it did on livestock. On the way out he stopped at Ingles next door for more tomatoes, American cheese slices, and hamburger buns. Smash burgers for lunch sounded perfect.
Wednesday, while Boone was checking the bee hives, Ted Bridges called to tell him he had six pallets of goods waiting at the warehouse. Boone knew what it probably was and felt a quiet satisfaction. He was getting close to reorder dates on several items, and bulk buying kept him from making extra trips into town.
He decided the run to Tazewell could wait until later that afternoon. After putting the bee smoker away in the barn, he hooked up the water trailer, drove it over to the hydrant, and began filling the tank. While it filled, he went inside, gathered a can of Vienna sausages, a sleeve of crackers, and a thick slice of hoop cheese. A cold bottle of Mountain Dew completed his lunch. Boone settled on the porch to eat. Harry came wobbling up the path, no doubt drawn by the smell of cheese. Before he could climb the steps, Boone had already cut off a piece for him. Harry accepted it gratefully and settled beside Boone’s chair, nibbling contentedly.
When Boone heard water splashing over the side of the tank, he set the remains of his lunch on the side table and walked out to shut off the hydrant. He sealed the tank, returned to the porch, and sliced another piece of cheese for Harry. Finishing his lunch and draining the last of the Mountain Dew, he tossed the trash in the kitchen and headed back outside.
He checked the fuel and oil on the water pump, started the engine, then cranked the tractor and drove to the first food plot. The watering rig was simple: pull a rope to open the spring-loaded valve, drive slowly along the plot, and let the water gush out. At the end of the plot, he released the rope and the flow stopped. Only three plots needed watering today; the other four were fed by natural springs Boone had channeled years ago. When he finished, he parked the trailer under the equipment shed and got ready for town.
He started the truck, glanced at the fuel gauge—plenty left—and hitched the enclosed trailer. Just as he reached Goins Chapel Road, he met Julie coming up in her Jeep.
“Where are you going?” she yelled.
“Into Tazewell to pick up some supplies! Go park at the house and I’ll grab you.”
Boone backed into a field entrance, turned around, and followed her back to the house.
“Have you had lunch?” he asked as she climbed into the truck.
“Yes, I stopped at Sonic and got chicken fingers. What are you picking up?”
“Just some supplies I ordered,” Boone replied. “You’re off early.”
“The Dean called a meeting with part of the student body—my class included—so we got out ahead of schedule.”
“Fortunate for me,” Boone said with a grin. “I could use the company.”
At the warehouse, Boone backed the trailer to the end of the loading ramp and pulled forward to give the forklift room. Ted came out and told him the pallets were stacked too high to fit inside the trailer.
“Then I’ll break them down until they do,” Boone replied.
The forklift set the first pallet at the bottom of the ramp. Boone cut the shrink-wrap, removed several pails of dried beans, and motioned the driver forward. One by one the pallets were loaded, with boxes and pails that wouldn’t fit placed in the bed of the truck. Julie stayed quiet on the ride back to the farm.
Boone backed the trailer up to the cellar door and began unloading. Julie wrestled a thirty-pound pail of black beans and followed him down the steps.
“You ordered beans?” she asked, surprised.
“Beans, white sugar, molasses, corn syrup, maple syrup, vanilla extract, distilled white vinegar, soy sauce, Worcestershire sauce, cornstarch, cream of tartar, arrowroot powder, popcorn, dehydrated onion flakes, and butter powder.”
“Can’t you buy those in town?”
“Sure, but not as cheap, and I don’t have to make as many trips.” Boone shrugged.
“You’ve got enough here to last at least a year!” Julie said.
“Five with what I grow and harvest and shoot myself.”
“You really don’t like being around the city, do you?”
“It’s not the city,” Boone said, flipping the latch on the inside of the cellar doors. “It’s the vermin the city draws.”
Julie helped him thin carrots in the greenhouse afterward. They used the baby carrots in the salad they made for supper to go with thick-cut bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches.
“I’ve never had bacon this thick!” Julie said. “Where did you get it?”
“I sliced it myself this evening from a smoked pork belly.”
“It’s better than anything I’ve ever bought at the market.” Julie said
“That’s because this is real,” Boone replied. “Raised without the chemicals and hormones the big operations use. I didn’t raise these hogs myself—I buy from a man who butchers and cures meat the same way his father and grandfather did. Nothing better.”
Julie gave him an appraising look and kept eating.
“What is this salad dressing?” she asked after a moment.
Boone grinned. “Homemade. White vinegar, bacon grease, buttermilk powder, black pepper, and a little sour cream powder.”
“You need to write a cookbook,” Julie said, shaking her head.
“I’ll need you around to edit it,” Boone replied, eyes steady on hers.
“I’ll be around,” she said softly.
The next morning Boone found Julie on the front porch feeding Harry some of the leftover baby carrots.
“Doesn’t he try to get into your garden?” she asked.
“Not yet. I’d like to think he respects the boundaries, but I suspect he stays out because I keep him fed.”
Boone went inside, glanced through the mail, and spotted a Tractor Supply circular. Calcium hypochlorite was on sale at a third of the usual price, along with STA-BIL fuel stabilizer. He should have checked the sales flyers before yesterday’s trip. He grabbed his hat and stepped back onto the porch.
“Want to take a ride?”
“Where to?”
“Tractor Supply. There’s a couple things I need.”
“Okay… wait!”
Julie dashed inside. Boone heard the barn-door latch on the foyer closet open and close. She returned wearing one of his caps, ponytail pulled through the back.
“I’m ready!”
Boone smirked and opened the truck door for her.
“What are you getting?” she asked once they were on the road.
“Calcium hypochlorite—pool shock. Great for purifying water in an emergency. I like to keep a fresh bucket on hand.”
“You should have said something. I could have picked it up for you.”
“I didn’t know it was on sale until a few minutes ago. Also grabbing STA-BIL. My fuel tanks get topped off next week, and I want fresh stabilizer in them first.”
The roads were empty, so the trip went quickly. Boone picked up a pail of pool shock, a case of STA-BIL for gas and diesel each, and—after a quick glance at the animal medicines—two cans of Blue Coat antiseptic spray. It worked as well on people as it did on livestock. On the way out he stopped at Ingles next door for more tomatoes, American cheese slices, and hamburger buns. Smash burgers for lunch sounded perfect.
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feralferret
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Veteran Member
Chapter Thirteen
Boone stored his purchases when they got home and began preparing the burgers. He started a fire in the grill, then went inside to make the patties, kneading chopped onion, spices, and a little Worcestershire into the ground beef. Once the wood had burned down to glowing coals, he spread them evenly and set a cast-iron griddle over half the grate, leaving the other half open for direct heat.
He brought the burgers out, seared them a minute on each side on the hot griddle, then smashed them flat with his press. After transferring them to the open grate, he covered them with a steamer dome to lock in that perfect char-broil flavor. When the centers were still pink, he pulled the burgers off and toasted the buns. By the time he carried everything inside, Julie had the fries done and the table set. Boone grabbed a jar of refrigerator pickles from the pantry fridge and used a long-handled fork to arrange slices of cucumber, onion rings, bell pepper, and jalapeño on a plate.
Julie picked up a carrot slice and tried it. “I’ve seen jars of mixed vegetable pickles in the store but never tried them. These are really good.”
“Homemade right in this kitchen,” Boone said. “I pulled the recipe from one of my mother’s cookbooks she got at Muddy Pond.”
“I’ve heard of Muddy Pond but have never made it there.”
“Then that’s a day trip we could do one weekend.”
“How far is it from here?”
“About two and a half hours, but it’s a pretty drive.”
“I’ll take you up on that.”
“Good. We can go Saturday morning if you want.”
“Yes, I’m free.”
Boone didn’t hear from Julie again until Friday afternoon when she pulled up, hauling a large duffel bag out of the Jeep. He was just stepping out of the greenhouse with a basket of flat-leaf parsley.
“Plan on staying a while?” he asked, grinning.
“I thought I’d leave some clothes out here instead of repacking a bag every time.”
“Yeah, sure. Go right ahead.”
“What are you doing?”
“Making chimichurri sauce to go with some sausage snacks.”
“What kind?”
“Venison, kielbasa—both pork and beef—summer sausage, and spegepølse. All of it I packed and cured myself.”
“What’s spey… whatever you said?”
“Spegepølse,” he said, pronouncing it slowly. “Spay-puhl-suh. Danish salami.”
“I like salami and cheese on crackers.”
“I’ve got plenty. You can pig out. Plus I found some interesting cheeses at Food City they don’t usually carry.”
Boone pulled out a bamboo charcuterie board and began arranging thin slices of the various sausages and cheeses. He added a bowl of chimichurri, small dishes of hot mustard, sour cream, garlic-stuffed green olives, and bread-and-butter pickles. Julie set out short water crackers while Boone toasted strips of garlic-buttered bread sprinkled with parmesan.
He grabbed two bottles of ice-cold beer, slipped them into Massey Ferguson coozies, and Julie carried the loaded board into the great room. She picked up the remote and found a movie she wanted to watch.
“Do you eat like this often?” she asked.
“Only when the bat lady comes around,” he said with a straight face. “The garlic in the olives is to keep her from biting my throat.”
“Hmm. Maybe just a little nibbling?” Julie grinned.
“You need to quit watching the Hallmark Channel. Those movies get you too worked up.”
They both stirred awake around 1:15 a.m., tangled in the crocheted throw from the back of the couch. Julie stretched and sat up.
“Can I borrow a bed tonight?” she asked. “I don’t want to drive home this late.”
“Well, this is sudden, but…”
“I meant the guest bedroom, smarty.”
“Oh, of course. Go right ahead. But be careful—if you wake up to a fat girl with flour on her apron, she probably baked biscuits.”
“I’ll try not to be frightened.”
Boone went to his room and stripped down, then crawled between the cool sheets. Even with them in separate bedrooms, the house felt less lonely. Julie’s smiling face with that strand of hair falling across her forehead drifted through his mind as he fell asleep.
When Julie woke the next morning, a rooster was crowing. It wasn’t full daylight yet. She had slept so deeply she felt almost weak. She peeled back the duvet, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and smiled at the bamboo sleep set she’d packed. She hadn’t planned on staying over, but she felt comfortable here—maybe even a little wicked.
Barefoot, she padded to the bathroom, then followed the smell of biscuits and frying ham down the stairs. Boone stood at the stove, turning thick slabs of ham in a cast-iron skillet.
“Well, good morning!” he said.
“Good morning. Where’s the fat girl with the flour on her front you warned me about?”
“She didn’t make it… her loss,” Boone said, grinning.
“I suppose you butchered and cured that ham yourself?”
“Not this one—this is sugar-cured. I only do salt cure and smoke. Traded some venison for it.”
“Do you realize that’s against USDA rules?” she teased.
“About everything we do around here breaks some government rule or another. Folks in these hills have a long habit of ignoring edicts from people who don’t live among us. They’ve watched big government and big business try to push boxed junk on them, calling it ‘healthy.’ These people have fed themselves for generations without following every new regulation, and they stay plenty healthy. When food runs low, they share without worrying about whether Aunt June’s pickles are going to kill them. Hand me a couple of platters.”
Julie took down two stoneware platters decorated with farm animals. Boone laid out the thick ham slices, then poured off a little grease and scrambled a big bowl of eggs in the same pan. He divided the eggs onto the platters, retrieved a basket of hot biscuits from the warming oven, and declared, “Let’s eat.”
Boone poked a hole in the side of a biscuit with his finger, slid in a wide sliver of butter, then spooned in honey. Julie watched him as she cut into her ham. He took a bite of the biscuit, a sip of coffee, seasoned his eggs heavily with salt and pepper, then attacked the ham and eggs with obvious pleasure. A moment later he grunted, stood up, and poured Julie a glass of yacón juice before sitting back down.
“Thank you,” she said, taking a swallow. “This is so good.”
“Enjoy it. I’m about out of tubers until next summer.”
“What do you drink when you run out?”
“The Mennonites make powdered fruit juice mixes. You can order them online or buy them down in Muddy Pond. The raspberry is especially good.”
“You’d think they’d have yacón powder.”
“Yacón isn’t that well known yet. But I could experiment next year—I’ve got a freeze dryer. I’ll try making some powder.”
“Then put that on your calendar! Make me some home-brewed yacón powder.”
Boone chuckled and cleaned his plate with the last half of his biscuit.
Julie helped rinse the dishes while Boone scrubbed the skillet. Once the dishwasher was running, they sat on the porch with fresh coffee, watching the sun rise over the hills.
“Since you’re already here,” Boone said, “you want to run down to Muddy Pond today instead?”
“Yes! I’d love to. Let me grab a shower!”
Boone smiled at her enthusiasm as she dashed inside.
Fifteen minutes later she returned wearing jeans, a Loretta Lynn T-shirt, and a Tennessee Volunteers ball cap with her ponytail threaded through the back.
“I’m ready!”
Boone stored his purchases when they got home and began preparing the burgers. He started a fire in the grill, then went inside to make the patties, kneading chopped onion, spices, and a little Worcestershire into the ground beef. Once the wood had burned down to glowing coals, he spread them evenly and set a cast-iron griddle over half the grate, leaving the other half open for direct heat.
He brought the burgers out, seared them a minute on each side on the hot griddle, then smashed them flat with his press. After transferring them to the open grate, he covered them with a steamer dome to lock in that perfect char-broil flavor. When the centers were still pink, he pulled the burgers off and toasted the buns. By the time he carried everything inside, Julie had the fries done and the table set. Boone grabbed a jar of refrigerator pickles from the pantry fridge and used a long-handled fork to arrange slices of cucumber, onion rings, bell pepper, and jalapeño on a plate.
Julie picked up a carrot slice and tried it. “I’ve seen jars of mixed vegetable pickles in the store but never tried them. These are really good.”
“Homemade right in this kitchen,” Boone said. “I pulled the recipe from one of my mother’s cookbooks she got at Muddy Pond.”
“I’ve heard of Muddy Pond but have never made it there.”
“Then that’s a day trip we could do one weekend.”
“How far is it from here?”
“About two and a half hours, but it’s a pretty drive.”
“I’ll take you up on that.”
“Good. We can go Saturday morning if you want.”
“Yes, I’m free.”
Boone didn’t hear from Julie again until Friday afternoon when she pulled up, hauling a large duffel bag out of the Jeep. He was just stepping out of the greenhouse with a basket of flat-leaf parsley.
“Plan on staying a while?” he asked, grinning.
“I thought I’d leave some clothes out here instead of repacking a bag every time.”
“Yeah, sure. Go right ahead.”
“What are you doing?”
“Making chimichurri sauce to go with some sausage snacks.”
“What kind?”
“Venison, kielbasa—both pork and beef—summer sausage, and spegepølse. All of it I packed and cured myself.”
“What’s spey… whatever you said?”
“Spegepølse,” he said, pronouncing it slowly. “Spay-puhl-suh. Danish salami.”
“I like salami and cheese on crackers.”
“I’ve got plenty. You can pig out. Plus I found some interesting cheeses at Food City they don’t usually carry.”
Boone pulled out a bamboo charcuterie board and began arranging thin slices of the various sausages and cheeses. He added a bowl of chimichurri, small dishes of hot mustard, sour cream, garlic-stuffed green olives, and bread-and-butter pickles. Julie set out short water crackers while Boone toasted strips of garlic-buttered bread sprinkled with parmesan.
He grabbed two bottles of ice-cold beer, slipped them into Massey Ferguson coozies, and Julie carried the loaded board into the great room. She picked up the remote and found a movie she wanted to watch.
“Do you eat like this often?” she asked.
“Only when the bat lady comes around,” he said with a straight face. “The garlic in the olives is to keep her from biting my throat.”
“Hmm. Maybe just a little nibbling?” Julie grinned.
“You need to quit watching the Hallmark Channel. Those movies get you too worked up.”
“Can I borrow a bed tonight?” she asked. “I don’t want to drive home this late.”
“Well, this is sudden, but…”
“I meant the guest bedroom, smarty.”
“Oh, of course. Go right ahead. But be careful—if you wake up to a fat girl with flour on her apron, she probably baked biscuits.”
“I’ll try not to be frightened.”
Boone went to his room and stripped down, then crawled between the cool sheets. Even with them in separate bedrooms, the house felt less lonely. Julie’s smiling face with that strand of hair falling across her forehead drifted through his mind as he fell asleep.
When Julie woke the next morning, a rooster was crowing. It wasn’t full daylight yet. She had slept so deeply she felt almost weak. She peeled back the duvet, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and smiled at the bamboo sleep set she’d packed. She hadn’t planned on staying over, but she felt comfortable here—maybe even a little wicked.
Barefoot, she padded to the bathroom, then followed the smell of biscuits and frying ham down the stairs. Boone stood at the stove, turning thick slabs of ham in a cast-iron skillet.
“Well, good morning!” he said.
“Good morning. Where’s the fat girl with the flour on her front you warned me about?”
“She didn’t make it… her loss,” Boone said, grinning.
“I suppose you butchered and cured that ham yourself?”
“Not this one—this is sugar-cured. I only do salt cure and smoke. Traded some venison for it.”
“Do you realize that’s against USDA rules?” she teased.
“About everything we do around here breaks some government rule or another. Folks in these hills have a long habit of ignoring edicts from people who don’t live among us. They’ve watched big government and big business try to push boxed junk on them, calling it ‘healthy.’ These people have fed themselves for generations without following every new regulation, and they stay plenty healthy. When food runs low, they share without worrying about whether Aunt June’s pickles are going to kill them. Hand me a couple of platters.”
Julie took down two stoneware platters decorated with farm animals. Boone laid out the thick ham slices, then poured off a little grease and scrambled a big bowl of eggs in the same pan. He divided the eggs onto the platters, retrieved a basket of hot biscuits from the warming oven, and declared, “Let’s eat.”
Boone poked a hole in the side of a biscuit with his finger, slid in a wide sliver of butter, then spooned in honey. Julie watched him as she cut into her ham. He took a bite of the biscuit, a sip of coffee, seasoned his eggs heavily with salt and pepper, then attacked the ham and eggs with obvious pleasure. A moment later he grunted, stood up, and poured Julie a glass of yacón juice before sitting back down.
“Thank you,” she said, taking a swallow. “This is so good.”
“Enjoy it. I’m about out of tubers until next summer.”
“What do you drink when you run out?”
“The Mennonites make powdered fruit juice mixes. You can order them online or buy them down in Muddy Pond. The raspberry is especially good.”
“You’d think they’d have yacón powder.”
“Yacón isn’t that well known yet. But I could experiment next year—I’ve got a freeze dryer. I’ll try making some powder.”
“Then put that on your calendar! Make me some home-brewed yacón powder.”
Boone chuckled and cleaned his plate with the last half of his biscuit.
Julie helped rinse the dishes while Boone scrubbed the skillet. Once the dishwasher was running, they sat on the porch with fresh coffee, watching the sun rise over the hills.
“Since you’re already here,” Boone said, “you want to run down to Muddy Pond today instead?”
“Yes! I’d love to. Let me grab a shower!”
Boone smiled at her enthusiasm as she dashed inside.
Fifteen minutes later she returned wearing jeans, a Loretta Lynn T-shirt, and a Tennessee Volunteers ball cap with her ponytail threaded through the back.
“I’m ready!”
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ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Fourteen
Boone stood and headed for the truck.
“Aren’t you going to lock up?” Julie asked.
“If someone wants to steal something, they’d probably just kick open a locked door and break a window while they’re at it,” Boone said, opening the passenger door for her. “If they need shelter, they’re more than welcome. Long as they don’t tear the place up, I’ve got no quarrel with them.”
As they reached New Tazewell and turned onto SR-33, Julie asked, “Do you live like this because of an oppressive government?”
“We do have an oppressive government,” Boone replied, “but that’s not why. We live the way our ancestors proved worked. They survived just fine without some starched-collar bureaucrat in Washington or Nashville deciding what was too dangerous for the rest of us. Ever read the warning labels they slap on household products these days? You’d think half the population was trying to drink the stuff. Government should’ve left well enough alone. Some fool drank poison and died? That was Mother Nature delivering the message. Darwin and all. Stupid people shouldn’t get to live and water down the gene pool. Too bad it hasn’t caught up with the political class yet.”
“But what about the poor parents who lost children to household chemicals?”
“They should’ve learned better parenting—or bred better stock,” Boone said flatly. “Folks around here live by common sense and what their people taught them. They don’t live this way because they’re poor or ignorant. They live this way because it works. Has for hundreds of years.”
As Boone had promised, the drive through the countryside was beautiful. Only the stretches near towns looked tired and dirty, stained by what people called “progress.” Then the road would slip back into the hills and the land turned green and clean again. When they reached Muddy Pond Road, Boone slowed so Julie could take it all in.
“On the left up ahead is the Sorghum Mill Bakery,” he said. “Great stuff. Run by the Guenther family—they operate the sorghum mill too. You should see them boiling cane juice in October and November. I’ll pick some syrup up while we’re out.”
“These people are Mennonite, right?”
“Yeah. Kind of backsliding Amish,” Boone said with a grin.
Julie smiled back.
“Our first stop is the Muddy Pond Variety Store. It’s basically the area supermarket. Take your time and look around. I bought my porch swing here.”
Boone parked in a pull-off about a hundred yards before the store, and they walked the rest of the way.
“I didn’t want to take up parking right at the door,” he explained. “Lots of tourists come through.”
“I feel like a tourist!” Julie laughed.
“You are,” Boone said, “but you’re my favorite kind.”
Julie glanced up at him quickly, then did a little stutter-step to catch up with his long stride.
Inside, a pleasant woman behind the counter greeted them. “Make yourselves at home and look around. Fresh bread’s coming from the house soon!”
They started down the right side of the store, browsing the jellies, jams, and pickles. Boone picked out a couple of jars of fermented pickles, some apple butter, and concord grape jelly. Julie wandered to another shelf and gathered several bars of goat-milk soap and lotion.
“Why don’t you have more of this splatterware?” she asked.
“I’ve got a full set of the blue, but I prefer stoneware. Holds heat better.” He tapped the blue-speckled percolator on the shelf. “This one’s like mine.”
Julie carried an armload of soaps and lotions to the counter while Boone followed with his jars. He paid, and they carried their purchases back to the truck.
“I haven’t seen everything yet!” Julie protested.
“Don’t worry. The General Store carries a lot of the same things, and it’s bigger. Easier to move around when the tourists swarm in.”
They drove a couple of miles down the two-lane road, rounded a sweeping curve, and there it was. Boone pulled up right in front so they wouldn’t have far to walk. He went straight for the sorghum syrup and bought four gallons. The lady packed the jugs in their original case. While Julie kept browsing, Boone carried the heavy case out to the truck.
Back inside, he grabbed a large produce basket and began filling it—strawberry preserves, muscadine jelly, a bag of cheddar cheese powder, and arrowroot. When it was full, he checked out but kept the basket for a second round. He added two old-fashioned potato peelers like the ones his mother used and a pair of decorative pot holders.
Julie returned with a bag of chocolate-covered raisins.
“Getting hungry?” Boone asked.
“I’m getting there.”
“They make good sandwiches up front. We can eat at the picnic tables.”
“Okay,” she said, still holding onto the candy.
She picked up her own produce basket and started loading it. They paid, filled out the sandwich order slips, and waited. While the food was being made, Boone carried their purchases to the truck.
They took their sandwiches and drinks outside and watched the tourists come and go while they ate.
“How much more is there to see?” Julie asked.
“Two more stores and a couple of custom leather places. Each one’s a little different, but they overlap a lot.”
“Well, let’s go to a leather shop.”
“There’s one right next door.”
The shop smelled wonderfully of tanned leather and oil. Julie found a well-made field bag with a wide shoulder strap and a matching waist belt. It wasn’t oversized, but it had pockets for a notebook, binoculars, GPS, flashlight, spare batteries, and pens, all protected by a large weatherproof flap. She added a military-style canteen pouch and a pouch that could hold a couple of energy bars. The waist belt was already full—her waist wasn’t that big. Boone looked around but didn’t see anything he didn’t already own or couldn’t make himself.
“Where to now?” she asked.
“I guess we could head back toward home, but I’d like to take the long way and stop at R.M. Brooks near Rugby. They make a killer bologna sandwich.”
“Bologna sandwich?”
“Sounds strange, I know, but it’s fantastic. And the people there are some of the nicest you’ll meet.”
“You’re the man with the keys,” Julie said. “Let’s go.”
They wound along country roads until they reached Clarkrange, where Boone pulled into the Cumberland Mountain General Store. The place felt like stepping back in time—vintage-style clothing, old-fashioned goods. Julie picked out a couple of tops and more soap. Then they continued on to Brooks General Store.
At first glance it didn’t look like much, but inside the staff were warm and welcoming. Boone ordered his bologna sandwich; Julie tried the ribeye. They traded bites and still couldn’t decide which was better. After two cups of sweet tea each, Julie wandered the store while Boone stepped outside to talk with a local.
“Ready?” he asked when she came out.
She was. They headed back toward Boone’s place, driving slowly through Rugby while he told her the town’s history.
“Tennessee has a lot of places like this—and plenty of country stores,” Julie observed.
“It does. You look at these old buildings and think there’s not much to them, but people have breathed new life into them. They hold the real history of this state—the part from before everyone started trying to tear each other’s throats out and political ideology replaced plain economic reality.”
They pulled in around six o’clock. Julie decided to use Boone’s guest room instead of driving back to Knoxville. She was tired, had no classes until Tuesday, and—truth be told—didn’t mind being around Boone. She felt safe with him.
Boone stood and headed for the truck.
“Aren’t you going to lock up?” Julie asked.
“If someone wants to steal something, they’d probably just kick open a locked door and break a window while they’re at it,” Boone said, opening the passenger door for her. “If they need shelter, they’re more than welcome. Long as they don’t tear the place up, I’ve got no quarrel with them.”
As they reached New Tazewell and turned onto SR-33, Julie asked, “Do you live like this because of an oppressive government?”
“We do have an oppressive government,” Boone replied, “but that’s not why. We live the way our ancestors proved worked. They survived just fine without some starched-collar bureaucrat in Washington or Nashville deciding what was too dangerous for the rest of us. Ever read the warning labels they slap on household products these days? You’d think half the population was trying to drink the stuff. Government should’ve left well enough alone. Some fool drank poison and died? That was Mother Nature delivering the message. Darwin and all. Stupid people shouldn’t get to live and water down the gene pool. Too bad it hasn’t caught up with the political class yet.”
“But what about the poor parents who lost children to household chemicals?”
“They should’ve learned better parenting—or bred better stock,” Boone said flatly. “Folks around here live by common sense and what their people taught them. They don’t live this way because they’re poor or ignorant. They live this way because it works. Has for hundreds of years.”
As Boone had promised, the drive through the countryside was beautiful. Only the stretches near towns looked tired and dirty, stained by what people called “progress.” Then the road would slip back into the hills and the land turned green and clean again. When they reached Muddy Pond Road, Boone slowed so Julie could take it all in.
“On the left up ahead is the Sorghum Mill Bakery,” he said. “Great stuff. Run by the Guenther family—they operate the sorghum mill too. You should see them boiling cane juice in October and November. I’ll pick some syrup up while we’re out.”
“These people are Mennonite, right?”
“Yeah. Kind of backsliding Amish,” Boone said with a grin.
Julie smiled back.
“Our first stop is the Muddy Pond Variety Store. It’s basically the area supermarket. Take your time and look around. I bought my porch swing here.”
Boone parked in a pull-off about a hundred yards before the store, and they walked the rest of the way.
“I didn’t want to take up parking right at the door,” he explained. “Lots of tourists come through.”
“I feel like a tourist!” Julie laughed.
“You are,” Boone said, “but you’re my favorite kind.”
Julie glanced up at him quickly, then did a little stutter-step to catch up with his long stride.
Inside, a pleasant woman behind the counter greeted them. “Make yourselves at home and look around. Fresh bread’s coming from the house soon!”
They started down the right side of the store, browsing the jellies, jams, and pickles. Boone picked out a couple of jars of fermented pickles, some apple butter, and concord grape jelly. Julie wandered to another shelf and gathered several bars of goat-milk soap and lotion.
“Why don’t you have more of this splatterware?” she asked.
“I’ve got a full set of the blue, but I prefer stoneware. Holds heat better.” He tapped the blue-speckled percolator on the shelf. “This one’s like mine.”
Julie carried an armload of soaps and lotions to the counter while Boone followed with his jars. He paid, and they carried their purchases back to the truck.
“I haven’t seen everything yet!” Julie protested.
“Don’t worry. The General Store carries a lot of the same things, and it’s bigger. Easier to move around when the tourists swarm in.”
They drove a couple of miles down the two-lane road, rounded a sweeping curve, and there it was. Boone pulled up right in front so they wouldn’t have far to walk. He went straight for the sorghum syrup and bought four gallons. The lady packed the jugs in their original case. While Julie kept browsing, Boone carried the heavy case out to the truck.
Back inside, he grabbed a large produce basket and began filling it—strawberry preserves, muscadine jelly, a bag of cheddar cheese powder, and arrowroot. When it was full, he checked out but kept the basket for a second round. He added two old-fashioned potato peelers like the ones his mother used and a pair of decorative pot holders.
Julie returned with a bag of chocolate-covered raisins.
“Getting hungry?” Boone asked.
“I’m getting there.”
“They make good sandwiches up front. We can eat at the picnic tables.”
“Okay,” she said, still holding onto the candy.
She picked up her own produce basket and started loading it. They paid, filled out the sandwich order slips, and waited. While the food was being made, Boone carried their purchases to the truck.
They took their sandwiches and drinks outside and watched the tourists come and go while they ate.
“How much more is there to see?” Julie asked.
“Two more stores and a couple of custom leather places. Each one’s a little different, but they overlap a lot.”
“Well, let’s go to a leather shop.”
“There’s one right next door.”
The shop smelled wonderfully of tanned leather and oil. Julie found a well-made field bag with a wide shoulder strap and a matching waist belt. It wasn’t oversized, but it had pockets for a notebook, binoculars, GPS, flashlight, spare batteries, and pens, all protected by a large weatherproof flap. She added a military-style canteen pouch and a pouch that could hold a couple of energy bars. The waist belt was already full—her waist wasn’t that big. Boone looked around but didn’t see anything he didn’t already own or couldn’t make himself.
“Where to now?” she asked.
“I guess we could head back toward home, but I’d like to take the long way and stop at R.M. Brooks near Rugby. They make a killer bologna sandwich.”
“Bologna sandwich?”
“Sounds strange, I know, but it’s fantastic. And the people there are some of the nicest you’ll meet.”
“You’re the man with the keys,” Julie said. “Let’s go.”
They wound along country roads until they reached Clarkrange, where Boone pulled into the Cumberland Mountain General Store. The place felt like stepping back in time—vintage-style clothing, old-fashioned goods. Julie picked out a couple of tops and more soap. Then they continued on to Brooks General Store.
At first glance it didn’t look like much, but inside the staff were warm and welcoming. Boone ordered his bologna sandwich; Julie tried the ribeye. They traded bites and still couldn’t decide which was better. After two cups of sweet tea each, Julie wandered the store while Boone stepped outside to talk with a local.
“Ready?” he asked when she came out.
She was. They headed back toward Boone’s place, driving slowly through Rugby while he told her the town’s history.
“Tennessee has a lot of places like this—and plenty of country stores,” Julie observed.
“It does. You look at these old buildings and think there’s not much to them, but people have breathed new life into them. They hold the real history of this state—the part from before everyone started trying to tear each other’s throats out and political ideology replaced plain economic reality.”
They pulled in around six o’clock. Julie decided to use Boone’s guest room instead of driving back to Knoxville. She was tired, had no classes until Tuesday, and—truth be told—didn’t mind being around Boone. She felt safe with him.
223shootersc
Veteran Member
Thanks
feralferret
Veteran Member
Thank you.
larry_minn
Senior Member
New fun story. Yep I felt bad when they removed her from butter. 1950s: The logo was notably updated by Patrick DesJarlait, a prominent Ojibwe artist, to give her native features an authentic redesign
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Fifteen
Julie stepped out of the shower and returned wearing a T-shirt and loose pajama bottoms. Boone had already fixed himself a drink and poured her a wine cooler. He settled back with a hunting magazine while Julie tuned the old Zenith radio that sat on the table beside the window.
“I can’t believe that old radio still works,” Julie said.
“That was Grandpaw’s,” Boone replied. “It quit on him years ago and sat in a box in my parents’ attic until Boyd Persons fixed it up. He lives between here and Harrowgate. Served in the Air Force as a radio repairman. Swapped out a few parts, put in a new speaker, and now it sounds brand new.”
“You really like living out here, don’t you?”
“It’s as good a place as any—and better than most—to wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“For the next shoe to drop that turns mankind on its head and screws things up again for a few thousand years.”
“You mean like global warming?” Julie asked.
Boone gave a low snicker. “All this panic about climate change is just the earth taking another breath, and people are desperate to blame man for it. They’ve got tunnel vision—can’t imagine any other causes. I read a paper not long ago about how, right after the last glacial maximum, a comet may have broken apart and slammed into the ice sheet. Wiped out huge swaths of life and triggered the Younger Dryas, plunging the world back into glacial conditions. Some think it even erased an advanced prehistoric civilization. Others point to shifts in the AMOC—the Atlantic Meridional Overturning Circulation, that giant ocean conveyor belt. Truth is, nobody lived through it, so it’s all theories and educated guesses. I’m just covering my bases the best I can. I enjoy the old ways, but that’s my business. I don’t head into town and judge folks who want to party and chase fun while they put off the future. That’s their life. Though I do sometimes wonder if the Ant and the Grasshopper story might play out again someday.”
Julie studied him for a moment. “Your life seems so… simplistic.”
“The Law of Parsimony,” Boone said. “When you’ve got competing explanations, the simplest one is usually best.”
“It is relaxing here.”
“It’s good for the body and the soul,” he replied.
Julie woke the next morning to the soft click of Boone’s bedroom door closing as he headed downstairs. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, pulled her hair into a ponytail, and followed him down. The coffee was just beginning to perk on the stove. She stopped to glance at the cook book shelf in the kitchen; Amish Community Cookbook, Mennonite Community Cookbook ( 65th Anniversary Edition), The Best of Amish Cooking, Baking with Whole Grains, Amish Baking, Amish Soups and Casseroles, Mennonite Family Recipes, and Mennonite Country-Style Recipes.
She found him on the porch, feeding Harry pieces of carrot.
The screen door snapped shut behind her. Harry grunted and trotted to the bottom of the steps, curious. Once Julie sat in the chair beside Boone, the whistle pig cautiously climbed the stairs for more treats.
“Good morning. Sleep well?” Boone asked.
“I don’t think I moved all night after my head hit the pillow,” Julie said with a smile.
“When you get dressed, wear your hiking boots. After breakfast I’ll take you down to the gold mine.”
That caught her interest. She went upstairs, changed into jeans and a fresh T-shirt, and laced up her boots. Back in the kitchen, Boone was frying sausage while biscuits baked in the oven.
“How do you want your eggs?” he asked.
“Two, scrambled, please.”
He scrambled hers and cooked one over-easy for himself. When the biscuits came out golden, he set out a jar of Amish Country elderberry jelly. They poured juice, sat on the stools, and dug in.
“I don’t know what it is, but the eggs here taste so much better than the ones I buy at the store,” Julie said.
“They’re from Gold Laced Cochin hens—originally from China, around Shanghai, I believe. Imported to America and Europe in the 1840s. They’re great layers and make excellent chicken and dumplings.”
Julie looked at him, amused. Who just knows stuff like that?
They finished breakfast, cleaned up the kitchen, and Boone glanced at her. “Ready?”
Julie hung the dish towel and followed him outside. He picked up his long walking stick while she tugged on a ball cap and adjusted her ponytail. They set off down a faint path that wound past the barn.
“I love mornings like this,” Boone said. “The buzz of insects, the birds singing.”
The trail curved around massive trees and briar patches before descending into a low hollow in the woods. Suddenly Boone stopped and pointed with his stick.
They stood at the edge of an impossibly clear pool ringed by ferns, with a light mist drifting through them. Julie was reminded of an illustrated fairy book from her childhood. No fairies appeared, but the scene felt enchanted.
“This is your gold mine?” she asked softly.
“With beauty like this, why does man chase riches that won’t enrich his soul when he could have this instead?”
“I don’t know,” Julie said. “Maybe because greed is part of human nature—but not the whole of it. Look at you. Your ‘greed’ is for this—for the power of nature itself, not for what it can buy, but for the peace it brings. This is a gold mine worth protecting.”
Boone smiled and nodded. “I was hoping you’d see it that way.”
In later years, Juli recounted that was when she knew she was going to marry Boone Washington; a simple man who believed that the riches of the world came in all forms and some of them couldn’t buy you anything but a fleeting moment of happiness.
Julie looked up at him, squinting as a shaft of sunlight caught her eye. “You are a curious man, Boone Washington.”
He kept smiling and offered her his hand. She took it, and together they retraced their steps up the path.
“I think I will follow you back into Knoxville.” Boone stated
“What for?”
“I used a lot of salt and sugar during canning and butchering season and I can get both in 25-pound bags at Sam’s Club with no questions being asked. Around here, if you buy a bunch of sugar, people think you’re running a still and word spreads. Soon, I could have a Fed nosing around. I can’t abide with their drunk on power egos.”
“You could stay at my place if you wanted to stay overnight.” Julie said hopefully.
“”I’d better get on back. The chickens get fussy if I don’t gather the eggs first thing in the morning.”
“Okay, I’ll pack the things I want to take back with me.”
When they reached the house, Julie went in and Boone connected the box trailer to the truck. She came out , threw her bag in the back of the Jeep and Boone followed her back to Knoxville.
Julie stepped out of the shower and returned wearing a T-shirt and loose pajama bottoms. Boone had already fixed himself a drink and poured her a wine cooler. He settled back with a hunting magazine while Julie tuned the old Zenith radio that sat on the table beside the window.
“I can’t believe that old radio still works,” Julie said.
“That was Grandpaw’s,” Boone replied. “It quit on him years ago and sat in a box in my parents’ attic until Boyd Persons fixed it up. He lives between here and Harrowgate. Served in the Air Force as a radio repairman. Swapped out a few parts, put in a new speaker, and now it sounds brand new.”
“You really like living out here, don’t you?”
“It’s as good a place as any—and better than most—to wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“For the next shoe to drop that turns mankind on its head and screws things up again for a few thousand years.”
“You mean like global warming?” Julie asked.
Boone gave a low snicker. “All this panic about climate change is just the earth taking another breath, and people are desperate to blame man for it. They’ve got tunnel vision—can’t imagine any other causes. I read a paper not long ago about how, right after the last glacial maximum, a comet may have broken apart and slammed into the ice sheet. Wiped out huge swaths of life and triggered the Younger Dryas, plunging the world back into glacial conditions. Some think it even erased an advanced prehistoric civilization. Others point to shifts in the AMOC—the Atlantic Meridional Overturning Circulation, that giant ocean conveyor belt. Truth is, nobody lived through it, so it’s all theories and educated guesses. I’m just covering my bases the best I can. I enjoy the old ways, but that’s my business. I don’t head into town and judge folks who want to party and chase fun while they put off the future. That’s their life. Though I do sometimes wonder if the Ant and the Grasshopper story might play out again someday.”
Julie studied him for a moment. “Your life seems so… simplistic.”
“The Law of Parsimony,” Boone said. “When you’ve got competing explanations, the simplest one is usually best.”
“It is relaxing here.”
“It’s good for the body and the soul,” he replied.
Julie woke the next morning to the soft click of Boone’s bedroom door closing as he headed downstairs. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, pulled her hair into a ponytail, and followed him down. The coffee was just beginning to perk on the stove. She stopped to glance at the cook book shelf in the kitchen; Amish Community Cookbook, Mennonite Community Cookbook ( 65th Anniversary Edition), The Best of Amish Cooking, Baking with Whole Grains, Amish Baking, Amish Soups and Casseroles, Mennonite Family Recipes, and Mennonite Country-Style Recipes.
She found him on the porch, feeding Harry pieces of carrot.
The screen door snapped shut behind her. Harry grunted and trotted to the bottom of the steps, curious. Once Julie sat in the chair beside Boone, the whistle pig cautiously climbed the stairs for more treats.
“Good morning. Sleep well?” Boone asked.
“I don’t think I moved all night after my head hit the pillow,” Julie said with a smile.
“When you get dressed, wear your hiking boots. After breakfast I’ll take you down to the gold mine.”
That caught her interest. She went upstairs, changed into jeans and a fresh T-shirt, and laced up her boots. Back in the kitchen, Boone was frying sausage while biscuits baked in the oven.
“How do you want your eggs?” he asked.
“Two, scrambled, please.”
He scrambled hers and cooked one over-easy for himself. When the biscuits came out golden, he set out a jar of Amish Country elderberry jelly. They poured juice, sat on the stools, and dug in.
“I don’t know what it is, but the eggs here taste so much better than the ones I buy at the store,” Julie said.
“They’re from Gold Laced Cochin hens—originally from China, around Shanghai, I believe. Imported to America and Europe in the 1840s. They’re great layers and make excellent chicken and dumplings.”
Julie looked at him, amused. Who just knows stuff like that?
They finished breakfast, cleaned up the kitchen, and Boone glanced at her. “Ready?”
Julie hung the dish towel and followed him outside. He picked up his long walking stick while she tugged on a ball cap and adjusted her ponytail. They set off down a faint path that wound past the barn.
“I love mornings like this,” Boone said. “The buzz of insects, the birds singing.”
The trail curved around massive trees and briar patches before descending into a low hollow in the woods. Suddenly Boone stopped and pointed with his stick.
They stood at the edge of an impossibly clear pool ringed by ferns, with a light mist drifting through them. Julie was reminded of an illustrated fairy book from her childhood. No fairies appeared, but the scene felt enchanted.“This is your gold mine?” she asked softly.
“With beauty like this, why does man chase riches that won’t enrich his soul when he could have this instead?”
“I don’t know,” Julie said. “Maybe because greed is part of human nature—but not the whole of it. Look at you. Your ‘greed’ is for this—for the power of nature itself, not for what it can buy, but for the peace it brings. This is a gold mine worth protecting.”
Boone smiled and nodded. “I was hoping you’d see it that way.”
In later years, Juli recounted that was when she knew she was going to marry Boone Washington; a simple man who believed that the riches of the world came in all forms and some of them couldn’t buy you anything but a fleeting moment of happiness.
Julie looked up at him, squinting as a shaft of sunlight caught her eye. “You are a curious man, Boone Washington.”
He kept smiling and offered her his hand. She took it, and together they retraced their steps up the path.
“I think I will follow you back into Knoxville.” Boone stated
“What for?”
“I used a lot of salt and sugar during canning and butchering season and I can get both in 25-pound bags at Sam’s Club with no questions being asked. Around here, if you buy a bunch of sugar, people think you’re running a still and word spreads. Soon, I could have a Fed nosing around. I can’t abide with their drunk on power egos.”
“You could stay at my place if you wanted to stay overnight.” Julie said hopefully.
“”I’d better get on back. The chickens get fussy if I don’t gather the eggs first thing in the morning.”
“Okay, I’ll pack the things I want to take back with me.”
When they reached the house, Julie went in and Boone connected the box trailer to the truck. She came out , threw her bag in the back of the Jeep and Boone followed her back to Knoxville.
223shootersc
Veteran Member
Thanks
feralferret
Veteran Member
Thank you.
larry_minn
Senior Member
Might be informative spending night in her place.
blackguard
Veteran Member
Very enjoyable story.