Story Kith, Kin and Calamity

Chapter Sixteen


Julie drove straight to Sam’s Club and picked out a spot where Boone could take up two abutting parking spaces. She hopped out and met him as he climbed down from his truck.

“Ready to go shopping?” Boone asked with a grin.

Julie nodded, smiling back.

Inside, Boone had Julie grab a shopping cart while he pulled a flatbed wagon. He headed directly to the bulk section and loaded four 25-pound bags each of sugar and non-iodized salt onto the wagon. They moved on to the spice aisle, where Boone picked up two large containers of each: sea salt, sage, black pepper, peppercorns, granulated garlic, granulated onion, oregano, chili powder, Italian seasoning, rosemary, sesame seeds, crushed red pepper, and—after a moment’s hesitation—fennel seed.

“They usually have ground fennel, but I can grind these myself,” he explained.

“What do you use sesame seeds for?” Julie asked.

“I like to put them on sandwich rolls. When they come out of the oven, I brush them with a little butter and sprinkle the seeds on top.”

Boone guided her over to the pharmacy area next, adding bottles of elderberry capsules, quercetin, magnesium, vitamin C, vitamin D3, and a good multi-vitamin to the cart. He also grabbed triple antibiotic ointment, two boxes of assorted bandages, and several bars of Irish Spring soap. “Should’ve picked up more at Muddy Pond,” he muttered. Finally, he stacked four 30-packs of toilet paper and two large bundles of paper towels onto the flatbed.

“That’s it,” Boone declared.

“No food?” Julie asked, surprised.

“I’ve got plenty. Mostly needed the supplements. I’ve been going through a lot of old books, trying to figure out natural medicines and alternatives. Eventually I want to grow or make most of this stuff myself so I’m not dependent on buying it.”

Before leaving Knoxville, they stopped at Calhoun’s On The River. It turned out to be a mistake. They were both so full and lethargic afterward that Julie convinced Boone to stay the night at her apartment rather than drive home. He was in no shape to argue.

Julie’s apartment was surprisingly roomy for one person, though it still only had one bedroom. She had a sofa bed that had never actually been used as a bed—only for naps. She pulled out fresh sheets, and together they made it up. Afterward, they took a leisurely walk around the neighborhood to work off some of their meal.

When they returned, Julie made Boone retrieve his go-bag from the truck and take a shower. Once he was settled in her most comfortable chair, she poured him three fingers of Jack Daniel’s.

“Feeling a little better now?” she asked.

Boone chuckled. “I ate way too much this evening.”

“I love Calhoun’s, but it’s best to eat there when you don’t have anywhere else to be afterward. Especially when you leave stuffed.”

Boone grinned and nodded. “Yes, it is.”

“Well, I’m about to fall out,” Julie said. “I’m heading to bed. I’ll leave a nightlight on in the bathroom so you can find your way.”

“Thank you. Sweet dreams.”

Julie turned on the small nightlight in the bathroom and flipped the overhead light switch to motion-activate and headed upstairs. Boone stayed up for a while longer, thinking about the stops he needed to make on the way home tomorrow.

He woke the next morning to the sound of a toilet flushing upstairs. His full bladder immediately demanded attention. He got up quickly and reached the bathroom before Julie came down. The light clicked on automatically as he entered, which still surprised him. He finished his business, washed up, and combed his hair just as Julie came downstairs.

She started a pot of coffee and offered to make omelets. Boone shrugged, happy to let her decide. A few minutes later she served him a tomato, bacon, and cheese omelet with toast and extra bacon on the side. He buttered his toast generously and added apple jelly. They ate in comfortable silence. Boone cleaned his plate and had a second piece of toast before finishing his coffee.

He tried to help with the dishes, but Julie shooed him out of the kitchen. He packed his dirty clothes into his travel bag, carried it out to the truck, then came back with an insulated water bottle. He filled it from her Brita pitcher and topped the pitcher off.

Julie dried her hands and leaned against the counter. “Are you leaving now?”

“I’d better. Those hens are probably already setting on those eggs. Thanks for helping me yesterday.”

“Thank you for letting me help,” she said warmly. “I’ll come up Friday.”

“I’ll be expecting you.”

Julie stood in the doorway and watched as he backed the trailer into the street and headed home.

Boone only drove a few blocks up Maynardville Pike before pulling into Pratt’s Country Store. He picked up several bars of Pure-Castile unscented soap and Natural Men’s Bar Soap, four big boxes of strike-anywhere matches, two dozen scentless mixed paraffin and beeswax candles, two pounds of seedless grapes, a dozen tart apples, and five gallons of malt syrup for cooking—and maybe a little homebrew.

The drive home took just over an hour, but it felt longer without Julie beside him. When he finally pulled in, he put everything away—most of it in the basement or pantry, the soap in his bathroom vanity. The chickens fussed at him for stealing their eggs, and Harry grunted loudly, demanding a treat.

Boone got out a stockpot, measured the water, and brought it up to 160°F. He added a herb bag containing a pound of toasted barley and let it steep for thirty minutes. Then he added a net bag of hops, brought the mixture to a boil, removed it from the heat, and let the hops steep for another ten minutes. He removed the hops, covered the pot, and left the wort to cool slowly.

While it cooled, Boone went out to the barn, retrieved his atlatl and six practice darts, and began throwing at his hay bale target. He was getting consistently better. He’d already taken a few rabbits with shorter darts. He still preferred his .22 for small game, but it felt good knowing he could hunt without ammunition if he ever had to. Next fall, he planned to try for a deer.

He’d bought the atlatl and darts as a kit online, but he was already keeping an eye out for good ash wood to make his own. He’d need longer darts for bigger game.
 
Chapter Seventeen


After a few more throws, Boone put the darts and his chunker away, then headed to the smokehouse storeroom to check his hams. He inspected each one carefully and found no leakage or signs of spoilage. He eyed one to weigh. The longer the hams hung, the more they shrank, and he wouldn’t cut into one unless it had lost at least twenty to twenty-five percent of its weight. The fat seemed richer and the meat tasted better that way—at least to his tastes.

He wasn’t ready to cut another just yet, but he weighed the ham on the old butcher scales and wrote the weight on the manila tag tied to the shank. He went ahead and weighed the other five hams, annotating their tags as well. Aunt June might need one soon. Though she fussed about the saltiness of his hams, he had started using more brown sugar in the cure. She still soaked the slices in water to draw out some of the salt, but she never turned down a ham.

Another day or two and the linked sausage would be ready to pack for freezing. He greased the band and drive wheel on the meat saw, then went outside and crawled under the smokehouse to check the rat and mouse traps. Vermin were always trying to get to his meat. He found two big traps holding dead rats and three occupied mouse traps. He disposed of the carcasses, reset the traps with meat scraps from the coffee can he kept in the smokehouse, and headed back out.

At the well pump, he washed his hands with the lye soap kept there in an old Folgers can, then walked to the equipment shed and greased the fittings on the machinery in preparation for spring.

Boone started toward the house but changed course to the garden shed instead. He grabbed a garden rake and walked down the path through the woods to the pool. Carefully, he raked the leaves that had settled to the bottom over the last few weeks. Even after the trees stopped dropping them, the wind still blew more in. Darters and minnows darted away from the rake while a few crayfish scuttled for cover. He made several passes, then scooped up the debris and tossed it behind the heaviest of the browned fern fronds. Soon the water cleared again and the minnows regrouped. Seeing the rocks at the bottom of the shallow pool, Boone felt satisfied. He climbed back up the path and put the rake away.

The atlatl darts were still on his mind. During the fall, he hadn’t found a single ash tree that wasn’t dead or infested with borers. Most were only good for firewood now. He would have to switch to another wood. The darts needed to be five to eight feet long—depending on their intended use—straight, and moderately flexible so they could store and release energy without breaking or hooking. If a dart was too heavy, it would hook and veer off target.

He had plenty of dogwood on the property, but it usually needed heat-straightening unless he had trained a shoot. He hadn’t been into the hobby long enough for that, though he could start. Willow shoots would also work; there were plenty down by the river. He would just need to taper the shaft so the front was heavier than the back. He preferred one-piece shafts over splicing heavy wood onto the front. He decided he would take a walk in the morning and see what he could find.

Boone took a package of four pork chops out of the freezer to thaw for supper. He wouldn’t eat that many in one sitting, but Aunt June had taught him it was hard to cook for just one person, and leftovers would keep for a couple of days. He was fond of breaded pork chop sandwiches and planned to bake a couple of extra potatoes along with a mess of glazed carrots. If he was still hungry, he could always add a pint of greens.

He checked the pie safe and saw only a few thumbprint cookies left in the tin. Might as well bake another batch before supper. With no more outside chores to do, he sliced bread for lunch, opened a can of SPAM and a small can of pineapple slices, and made a sandwich. He washed it down with a cool glass of water. Afterward, he gathered his jeans and shirts and started a load of laundry. He would be inside for the rest of the day anyway.

Once the machine was running, Boone returned to the kitchen and began making cookie dough. The recipe made three dozen, so he greased a baking sheet and set it ready on the table. He rolled the dough into balls, coated each in sugar, placed them on the sheet, and pressed his thumb into the center of each to make a hollow. When the pan was full, he spooned in a little strawberry or blackberry jam and slid it into the oven. He baked them until the bottoms were golden and the tops were dry to the touch, rotating sheets as needed. In less than an hour, three dozen cookies cooled on wire racks. He grabbed one too soon and burned the roof of his mouth, but they were worth it.

He cleaned up his dishes and, while the cookies cooled, mopped the floor with Murphy’s Oil Soap. Once it was dry, he filled the cookie tin and returned it to the pie safe. He kept it out of sight because when Randy and Brice came over, they would grab handfuls if it sat out in the open. He didn’t mind sharing, but it sometimes left him short when a sweet tooth hit.

Boone poured a glass of water and settled in with one of the Foxfire books until it was time to start supper.

At four o’clock, he put the potatoes in the oven to bake and set a pint of carrots on the stove to heat. At five, he melted lard in his twelve-inch skillet and made a pan of cornbread in the eight-inch one. While the cornbread baked, he added the pork chops to the larger skillet and fried them until golden brown on both sides, then drained them on paper towels. He drained the carrots, stirred them until the water evaporated, then drizzled them with honey, salt, and pepper. The baked potatoes were scooped out, mixed with store-bought mayonnaise, sour cream powder, granulated garlic, and dried chives, then returned to their skins, topped with white cheddar, and placed back in the oven. As he was buttering the cornbread, Aunt June walked in.

Boone glanced up. “Supper’s ready. Pull up a chair.”

“Naw, I’ve got that ham you gave us in the oven. You’ve been busy!”

“Just wanted some good food this evening.”

June sniffed the air and went straight to the pie safe. She took out the cookie tin. “Been baking too!” She picked out a blackberry cookie—her favorite—and took a bite. “Just like your mama used to make. I came over to see if you had any extra eggs. I baked Brice a cake for his birthday, and I’ll be short for breakfast in the morning.”

“Sure. I’ve got plenty in the pantry fridge. Cartons on the top shelf.”

When Aunt June stepped into the pantry, Boone ducked into the back of the house and returned with a box. Inside was an LT Wright Bushcrafter knife with a bone handle.

When she came back out, he slid the box across the table. “I didn’t have time to wrap it nice, but give this to Brice with my best. Glad he made it to sixteen.”

“Boone! That must have cost you a pretty penny!”

“Oh, I’ve had it around collecting dust. Hard enough keeping this place clean as it is.”

In truth, Boone had picked it up the last time he was in Sevierville at the Smoky Mountain Knife Works. He carried one just like it, and Brice had always admired it.

“He’ll be proud of it. Well, I’d better get back—that ham should be ready to come out.”

Boone placed a pork chop on his plate with half a potato and three spoonfuls of carrots, then buttered a piece of cornbread. He ate quietly, thinking of Julie. Hungry as he was, he finished quickly. He stored the leftovers in containers, strained the pork drippings through cheesecloth into his lard saver can, washed the pans, and loaded the dishwasher. Then he returned to his Foxfire book.
 
Chapter Eighteen

That summer, Boone, June, and whatever members of the Washington family were available put up a great many vegetables. Every so often June would come over and make big pots of vegetable soup for canning—quick, hearty meals for winter. Open a jar, add some meat, bake a pan of cornbread, and a satisfied family gathered at the table.

Boone didn’t normally can cooked pinto beans, but he had found a good deal on dried pintos online and ordered two five-gallon pails. June partially cooked a bucket of them, and they put them up in quart jars. All you had to do was pour a jar into a pot, add your seasoning meat and water to finish cooking them, and by the time the beans were soft enough to eat they had soaked up the flavor of the ham or bacon. Boone decided he would do it again next year. He liked a good pot of dry beans, but this was certainly quicker.

The okra did exceptionally well that year, and they searched for every way to use it: in vegetable soup, pickled, and finally breaded, fried, and frozen. They had so much that they would probably grow tired of it before next summer.

The summer ended with strange weather patterns—hot, dry days followed by torrential rains that triggered flash-flood warnings. Several times Julie had to stay overnight because roads were blocked or water was running over them. Twice Boone drove her all the way back to Knoxville just to make sure she made it home safely. She would leave her Jeep parked at his place under the car shelter, and a few days later he would drive in and bring her back to retrieve it. During the week she used her Kia to get around town.

Thanksgiving dinner was held at Boone’s place. Along with the extended Washington family came the earliest snow anyone could remember. Dale, Randy, and Brice shuttled everyone over in their pickup trucks; with their all-terrain tires and high ground clearance they handled the snowy roads like German army trucks. Boone smiled, remembering an article he had once read where a German soldier explained why their vehicles sat so high—“The next time we go to Russia, the snows won’t stop us!”

Julie came up early and helped June and the other women prepare the meal. She was especially attentive to Boone, feeding him small morsels of whatever dish was being tested. June watched with a quiet smile. Randy noticed and declared, “It’s about time!” Dale simply sat back with a smug look on his face.

Taking a break from the kitchen heat, Boone and Julie stepped out onto the deck to see how much snow had fallen. Only about six inches had accumulated, but it had transformed the hills into a winter wonderland, with flakes still drifting down. They landed in Julie’s hair like tiny stars. She shivered. Boone moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her. Beneath the clean, crisp scent of snow he caught the smell of her hair and the faint gardenia lotion she used. They were lost in the moment when a tap on the glass door called them back inside. Julie sighed, then muttered as she turned, “I want some more of that later.”

They had enough food to feed four times the number of people present—exactly as June had intended. That meant plenty of leftovers to send home. She split the ham and took one of the turkey carcasses to make soup, just as Boone kept the other for his own.

While they were eating, Dale grunted and spit a piece of shot into his saucer.

“Randy shot that one!” Brice announced. “Boone took his with a .22 magnum; that turkey’s head blew up like a water balloon full of blood!”

“Not at the table, Brice!” June scolded.

After the men left the women to pack up the leftovers (except for Brice, who quickly became his mother’s gofer), Boone made hot blackberry toddies with the jug of shine Dale had stashed in his truck. In no time the food was containerized, the kitchen cleaned, and June shuffled her family—and a few extra kin—out the door, leaving Julie and Boone in the suddenly quiet house.

Julie lay down on the couch, propped her head on the armrest and pillows, and was soon softly snoring. Boone turned on the TV to the soft-rock music channel, lowered the volume, and soon drifted off himself.

Julie woke first, around six that evening. She snorted awake, her mouth and throat dry. She padded into the kitchen for a glass of cold water, which roused Boone. He opened one eye as she passed, then rubbed his face, lowered the recliner footrest, and followed her. She was already coming back and handed him a full glass.

“I ate too much,” Julie said. “That meal knocked me out.”

“Yeah, me too.” Boone drained the glass and started a pot of coffee. “But I think I could handle a cup and a slice of that pecan pie.”

Julie grinned. She retrieved both the pecan pie and an apple pie from the pie safe and set them on the island. Two coffee mugs followed, along with dessert plates, forks, and a pie server. She plated a slice of pecan for Boone and apple for herself.

“There’s a dispenser of whipped cream in the pantry fridge,” Boone said. “I filled it this morning with Dream Whip.”

Julie hurried over, returned shaking the stainless-steel canister. “You don’t have to shake it. It has a CO₂ cartridge in it.”

“Well! Look at you, big mountain man with a fancy whipped-cream squirter!” Julie laughed. She added a generous dollop to her apple pie; Boone waved her off his.

“I try to keep the niceties on hand for guests,” Boone grumbled, pouring their coffee.

They ate their pie quickly. Julie rinsed the dishes and left them in the sink—the dishwasher could wait until morning. Then she took Boone’s hand and led him upstairs.



Boone was up early the next morning to check the weather. It had stopped snowing, but the wind had picked up, occasionally sending glittering clouds of snow blowing from the pine trees. He crumbled the remaining quarter-pan of cornbread into the bird feeder and added a cup of seed. After starting the percolator, he turned on the radio for the local forecast.

Julie soon shuffled in wearing pajama pants, a Vols T-shirt, and fuzzy slippers. Boone poured her a mug of coffee and set it on the island in front of a bar stool.

“What do you feel like for breakfast?” he asked.

“I don’t know… maybe something sweet?” Julie replied.

“Well, I can make pancakes, waffles, or…” Boone opened a lower cabinet and pulled out an odd-looking pan.

“What is that old thing?!” Julie asked.

“Be nice. This pan is older than I am,” Boone replied.

“I’m sure it is… but what is it?”

“It’s a genuine French crêpe pan. My mother studied a year in France and fell in love with crêpes Suzette—thin pancakes with a sauce made from oranges or tangerines, orange Curaçao liqueur, and a few other things. She bought the pan and perfected her recipe. Since I don’t have any orange liqueur, I can fill them with your favorite jam.”

“Do you have any strawberry jam left?”

“In the pantry. Coming right up!”

Boone mixed the crêpe batter and melted butter. As he made each one, he basted one side with butter, spread strawberry jam across it, folded it into quarters, and placed it on a plate in the warming oven. When he had three ready, he arranged them in an overlapping row, spooned more butter over the top, and handed the plate to Julie.

“Eat up,” he told her. “If they were in season, you’d get rose petals sprinkled on them.”

Julie ended up eating six crêpes before she finally surrendered. She began washing dishes while Boone finished his own breakfast. Once the kitchen was clean, they poured fresh coffee and settled in to watch Fox & Friends.

“Have you ever thought about living closer to town?” Julie asked.

Boone grunted. “What for? What possible advantage would that give me?”

“Well… near good restaurants, you’d have a steady job, and you’d be near me.”

“The only thing you mentioned that interests me is being near you. I can cook my own meals just fine, thank you. If I want something different, I’ll go over to Uncle Dale and Aunt June’s—though there’s not a lot of difference in what we cook or how it tastes. As for a ‘steady job,’ I don’t need the money, and I don’t want to wake up to the same grind every day: get up, work five to eight boring hours doing the same thing over and over. Here, I can spin a mental wheel and decide whether to gather eggs first, fill the wood rack, or go out and get a couple of rabbits for dinner. I’ve got no schedule I have to follow.”

“You’d move closer to town to be near me?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of capturing you and keeping you here—married, barefoot, and pregnant.”

Julie smiled. “You’ll need to give me some advanced warning. I have things I’d like to pack and bring out here with me.”

Boone stared at the wood box beside the stove for a few moments, then got up to fill it. He had nothing else to say.
 
Chapter Nineteen


The next morning, Boone rose early. He built a fire in the woodstove, put coffee on, and went out to fill the porch wood rack. Once the box beside the stove in the great room was topped off, he poured himself a mug and stood at the window, watching the pale light creep over the ridges.

Julie appeared a few minutes later, hair still tousled from sleep. She poured her own mug and leaned against the counter, letting the warmth seep into her hands.

“Did you mean what you said last night?” she asked, voice soft. “About keeping me here?”

Boone set his mug on the island and met her eyes. “Julie, even on the cloudiest day, when your Jeep comes up that drive, my whole world brightens. I don’t know how to say it right… it’s not just what you say or do. It’s you. Your presence brings music to my heart when there’s none playing, and your words stay in my mind even when you’re quiet.”

He swallowed. “I don’t know if we can make this work, but I’m damn sure willing to try.”

Boone reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a small blue velvet box. He dropped to one knee on the worn floorboards.

“Julie, would you spend the rest of your life with me—as my wife?”

Her mug clinked onto the counter. A tear slipped down her cheek as she nodded. “Yes,” she whispered, then stronger, “Yes! I would love to be your wife.”

Boone slipped the diamond onto her left hand, then stood. Julie launched herself into his arms. When she finally looked up, they kissed—slow, certain, and full of promise.

“I don’t know what else to say,” Boone admitted, a little breathless. “I’ve never done this before.”

“There’s nothing left to say.” Julie’s voice was thick with emotion. “I wish I’d been recording that. It was the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“I was just trying to be honest—speak what my heart was telling me.”

“It was perfect.” She smiled, wiping her eyes. “Now you refill that mug and go sit down. You’ve earned a proper breakfast: biscuits and gravy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Boone refilled his coffee, carried it into the great room, and turned on Fox & Friends just as the show started. He pulled out his bandana and wiped the nervous sweat from his brow. Well, I did it. Now he just had to get the rest of their life right.

He didn’t need to watch Julie in the kitchen; the familiar sounds told the story. Oven door closing. The pop of the church key on the jar of dried beef. The rhythmic chop of the knife. He smiled. He hoped there wouldn’t be many more mornings where he sat idle while she cooked. He liked working beside her.

His attention drifted back to the TV as a segment on the latest Washington scandals came on.

Julie soon brought him a plate heaped with biscuits drowned in chipped-beef gravy and two eggs over-easy. A glass of orange juice sat beside it. She fixed herself a smaller helping with scrambled eggs and joined him.

Boone hummed in satisfaction after the first bite. “This is good.”

When he finished, he rinsed his dishes and loaded the dishwasher, then began packing Thanksgiving leftovers into containers for a backpack.

“What are you doing?” Julie asked.

“Taking Hoosey a belated Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Hoosey” Chambers was an aging Cherokee who had lived in the Cumberland Gap country longer than most folks could remember. Years earlier, Boone and his father had built the old tunnel rat a one-room cabin beside a spring on a rock shelf above the Powell River. Hoosey had come back from Vietnam wanting nothing more than solitude. Every four months or so, Boone drove him into New Tazewell for a haircut and supplies—the only things Hoosey spent his VA disability and Social Security checks on. Boone had quietly made the old man his tripwire in case trouble ever came from the southwest. Hoosey liked the idea.

Boone finished loading the pack, including the last half of the pecan pie. He filled a quart jar with milk, wrapped it in newspaper, and headed to the garage. He rolled out the Rokon, gave the starter rope a pull, and let the little bike idle while it warmed. After a quick tire check, he swung a leg over and motored down the driveway toward Cline Ridge.

He turned onto Earl Maple’s Lane and followed it to the head of the gorge. Hoosey’s cabin sat on a sunny rock shelf overlooking the river. Boone still remembered the hard labor of that build—drilling anchor holes in solid stone with a four-pound hammer and drill rod under a blazing sun. His father had started him with a two-pound hammer until his accuracy improved, making him swing right-handed while twisting the rod left-handed. Once the holes were deep enough, they switched: father twisting, Boone driving the heavier hammer. The work had made Boone ambidextrous with a hammer. No one lost a finger or went to the hospital. After the sill logs were bolted down, the rest—felling trees, notching, stacking—went smoother. Hoosey had sat on a stump the whole time, splitting shingles with a froe.

Boone eased the Rokon down the edge of the ravine, threading between trees. Most of the snow had melted except for patches beneath the thickest pines. Hoosey was returning from the spring with a bucket of water. In warmer months he used a solar pump that fed straight to the sink; in winter he kept it stored to keep it from freezing.

Hoosey grinned at the sound of the bike. He knew Boone rarely came empty-handed.

Boone parked, carried the pack onto the porch, and began setting out containers.

“Oh Lordy, thank you!” Hoosey said. He disappeared inside, returned with a metal tumbler and fork, poured himself water, and dug in right there on the porch. Boone sat on the steps and watched, saying nothing while the old man ate with single-minded focus. Every few minutes Hoosey paused for a long drink, then went back to it. Finally he took a deep breath, drained the tumbler, and started replacing lids.

“You not gonna eat any of that pecan pie?” Boone asked.

“Nah. I’ll save it for after my afternoon nap. It’ll taste even better then.” Hoosey wiped his mouth. “You have a big crowd for Thanksgiving?”

“Pretty near the whole Alexander clan.”

“Good food. I thank ya.”

“You need anything?” Boone asked.

“Nope. Sittin’ right well.”

Boone smiled. “I asked a lady friend to marry me. She said yes.”

“That’s real good.” Hoosey nodded slowly. “I never found a woman I could trust enough to marry. She must be a good one.”

“She is, Hoosey. She is.” Boone grinned. “I know you don’t care for crowds, but we’ll have a reception after the wedding with plenty of food afterward at the house. I’d like you to come up and celebrate with us.”

“For you, Boone, I’d be right proud to. But don’t ask me to dance with the bride. These legs ain’t what they used to be. My get-up-and-go has got up and went.”

Boone chuckled. “I think I can talk her out of that, but once she meets you, she’ll probably want to give you some sugar.”

“You’d better have a doctor standing by, then. My old heart might just stop.”
 
A distant neighbor could not take crowds, or strangers, especially females he did not know. I invited him to my wedding. He decided to come. On the day I did not see him. He wrote a long letter how he wanted to come. But even comming late, sit in balcony, leave early. He just couldn’t do it.
I was very impressed he tried. Lost track of him during Covid scare. He had gone into assisted living. I called him a few months then forgot. Lost track of lots of folks during the scare.m
 
Chapter Twenty

One of the many things Boone loved about Julie was her simplicity. He didn’t didn't have to dissect every conversation for hidden meanings. He never had to wonder where she was or what she was truly thinking. No games, no pretending to believe obvious lies. She was as honest as anyone he had ever met, comfortable with the life he lived, and content in their quiet country kingdom. She asked for nothing more.

In mid-May, Boone and Julie exchanged vows under a brush arbor built beside the fairy pool. A handful of Julie’s friends from UT made the trip, along with most of Boone’s relatives and neighbors. He refused to let anyone work that day. A catering crew from Knoxville handled the food, a venue service set up the chairs, tables, and tents, and a floral team scattered flowers and delicate decorations. Boone’s favorites were the little semi-transparent fairies the decorators had tucked among the ferns and along the pool’s edge—just as Julie had once imagined them. Uncle Dale, Randy, and Brice built a generous dance floor. Music came from the Blue Holler Wanderers and a DJ. The air hung heavy with the perfume of blooming magnolias and honeysuckle.

Aunt June, of course, couldn’t resist stepping in to supervise. Boone let her. It made her happy, and she had been like a second mother to him for as long as he could remember.

When the preacher from Sky Memorial Baptist Church began the ceremony, Boone looked into Julie’s eyes and knew—without doubt—he had found the right woman. She believed marriage was a covenant, not a contract. Sunlight caught the tiny specks of glitter on her veil, making her appear as if she were gazing back at him through soft clouds scattered with stars. From that moment, the rest of the ceremony blurred. All Boone would remember later was her beauty, the exchange of rings, and the kiss that sealed their future.

They walked back down the aisle to the familiar strains of the “Wedding March.” Faces beamed at them from every row. At the threshold, Boone stopped, pulled Julie close, and kissed her again—longer this time—before they stepped out into the bright afternoon.

Aunt June immediately took charge of the photographer, directing poses with cheerful authority. The food was served, jugs were passed, and the music swelled. For their first dance, Julie had chosen “Amazed” by Lonestar. The band delivered a heartfelt rendition that brought tears to more than a few eyes. Other couples soon filled the floor for the slower songs. Julie gave Hoosey a kiss on the cheek for making the effort to come; he looked dapper in a blue pinstripe suit that probably hadn’t left its trunk since 1955, topped with a gray fedora. Oh, and he didn’t need a doctor after Julie gave him some sugar.

As the afternoon stretched golden and long, Boone and Julie slipped away for a quiet walk up the drive to the overlook above the Powell River. The sun hung low—a glowing orb of molten gold edged in fiery orange—slowly sinking toward the horizon. It bathed the hills in rich, warm radiance that softened every edge and stretched long shadows across the land. Streaks of saffron and tangerine burned near the sun, bleeding outward into rose, lavender, and deepening crimson. Wispy cirrus clouds caught the light like feathers on fire, their edges electric gold while their undersides shifted to bruised purple and slate. Thicker cumulus glowed from within, fluffy tops turning molten peach against a sky still soft and pale blue higher up, gradually yielding to twilight’s indigo.

It was a peaceful, almost reverent moment—perfect for the start of their married life. The air cooled noticeably, carrying the scent of pine and wildflowers, while the western glow cast a warm backlight on everything facing it.

Someday their children—and maybe their grandchildren—would stand in this same spot and take in the view, perhaps under very different circumstances. Boone and Julie silently promised themselves they would be good stewards of this land so those future generations would have the chance.

This was the first day of the rest of their lives.

THE END​
 
ncsfsgm said:
Chapter Twenty

One of the many things Boone loved about Julie was her simplicity. He didn’t didn't have to dissect every conversation for hidden meanings. He never had to wonder where she was or what she was truly thinking. No games, no pretending to believe obvious lies. She was as honest as anyone he had ever met, comfortable with the life he lived, and content in their quiet country kingdom. She asked for nothing more.

In mid-May, Boone and Julie exchanged vows under a brush arbor built beside the fairy pool. A handful of Julie’s friends from UT made the trip, along with most of Boone’s relatives and neighbors. He refused to let anyone work that day. A catering crew from Knoxville handled the food, a venue service set up the chairs, tables, and tents, and a floral team scattered flowers and delicate decorations. Boone’s favorites were the little semi-transparent fairies the decorators had tucked among the ferns and along the pool’s edge—just as Julie had once imagined them. Uncle Dale, Randy, and Brice built a generous dance floor. Music came from the Blue Holler Wanderers and a DJ. The air hung heavy with the perfume of blooming magnolias and honeysuckle.

Aunt June, of course, couldn’t resist stepping in to supervise. Boone let her. It made her happy, and she had been like a second mother to him for as long as he could remember.

When the preacher from Sky Memorial Baptist Church began the ceremony, Boone looked into Julie’s eyes and knew—without doubt—he had found the right woman. She believed marriage was a covenant, not a contract. Sunlight caught the tiny specks of glitter on her veil, making her appear as if she were gazing back at him through soft clouds scattered with stars. From that moment, the rest of the ceremony blurred. All Boone would remember later was her beauty, the exchange of rings, and the kiss that sealed their future.

They walked back down the aisle to the familiar strains of the “Wedding March.” Faces beamed at them from every row. At the threshold, Boone stopped, pulled Julie close, and kissed her again—longer this time—before they stepped out into the bright afternoon.

Aunt June immediately took charge of the photographer, directing poses with cheerful authority. The food was served, jugs were passed, and the music swelled. For their first dance, Julie had chosen “Amazed” by Lonestar. The band delivered a heartfelt rendition that brought tears to more than a few eyes. Other couples soon filled the floor for the slower songs. Julie gave Hoosey a kiss on the cheek for making the effort to come; he looked dapper in a blue pinstripe suit that probably hadn’t left its trunk since 1955, topped with a gray fedora. Oh, and he didn’t need a doctor after Julie gave him some sugar.

As the afternoon stretched golden and long, Boone and Julie slipped away for a quiet walk up the drive to the overlook above the Powell River. The sun hung low—a glowing orb of molten gold edged in fiery orange—slowly sinking toward the horizon. It bathed the hills in rich, warm radiance that softened every edge and stretched long shadows across the land. Streaks of saffron and tangerine burned near the sun, bleeding outward into rose, lavender, and deepening crimson. Wispy cirrus clouds caught the light like feathers on fire, their edges electric gold while their undersides shifted to bruised purple and slate. Thicker cumulus glowed from within, fluffy tops turning molten peach against a sky still soft and pale blue higher up, gradually yielding to twilight’s indigo.

It was a peaceful, almost reverent moment—perfect for the start of their married life. The air cooled noticeably, carrying the scent of pine and wildflowers, while the western glow cast a warm backlight on everything facing it.

Someday their children—and maybe their grandchildren—would stand in this same spot and take in the view, perhaps under very different circumstances. Boone and Julie silently promised themselves they would be good stewards of this land so those future generations would have the chance.

This was the first day of the rest of their lives.

THE END​
Click to expand...
Thank you for another fine story, really enjoyed reading it.
 
Enjoyed reading it again. When I saw Vienna sausages mentioned a few times. I bought a 6 can deal. Tried eating from the can. Thought they might be bad.
Before canoe trip, hiking overnight. Added to skillet *ideally cast iron* with eggs. Were delicious. But cold from can… a step above survival fare. The real issue? I was expecting the memory taste.
Love a book 2
 
larry_minn said:
Enjoyed reading it again. When I saw Vienna sausages mentioned a few times. I bought a 6 can deal. Tried eating from the can. Thought they might be bad.
Before canoe trip, hiking overnight. Added to skillet *ideally cast iron* with eggs. Were delicious. But cold from can… a step above survival fare. The real issue? I was expecting the memory taste.
Love a book 2
Click to expand...
Roasted over a fire, Devine.
 
ncsfsgm said:
Kith, Kin and Calamity

​
Chapter One

Boone Washington squatted beside the trail and studied the fresh track. He listened closely but heard no brush whipping ahead—only the quiet rustle of leaves in the breeze. The deer had passed not long before, but it was already out of range. He stood, scanned the terrain, then moved downslope along a narrow ridge, hoping to cut ahead of the fleeing animal.

As he reached the end of the ridge, he slowed and eased forward until he could peer over the rocks. He dropped quickly to one knee. The buck stood in a small clearing below, sides heaving. Boone waited. If he took the shot now, the adrenaline would turn the meat tough as shoe leather. He stayed still until the buck lowered its head to graze again, ears flicking occasionally as it listened.

Ten minutes later, Boone decided it was now or never. He notched an arrow, rose slowly, drew, and let it fly. The shaft struck just behind the shoulder, punching into the heart-lung area. The buck jerked, spun, and bolted downslope.

Boone checked his gear, then moved into the clearing to pick up the blood trail. He followed the bright red sign down the mountain until he found the buck lying near a small stream at the bottom. He retrieved his arrow, pulled the gambrel and rope from his pack, and strung the deer up to bleed it out.

Once the blood slowed to a drip, Boone field-dressed the animal, using his camp cup to rinse away what he could. He repacked his gear, shouldered the deer, and picked his way down to the old logging road where he’d left his truck. At the Blazer, he dropped the tailgate, maneuvered the carcass into the bed, and used the rear-wheel steering to turn around on the narrow track. Then he headed up the mountain toward home.

Back at the property, Boone hung the deer on his movable skinning rack and finished skinning it out. He moved the carcass into the cooling room to age for ten days at 38°F. After checking the thermostat, he stretched the hide on a frame and spent the next hour fleshing it. When he was done, he coated the flesh side heavily with fine-grained, non-iodized salt to draw out moisture, set the hair, and prevent rot. Only then did he walk up to the house to clean up.

Boone’s 3,200-square-foot log home had been built by his uncle Dale using pines harvested from the south side of the original family land. The logs had been cut, seasoned for eighteen months, milled into D-shaped timbers, and kiln-dried. Checks were sealed, and the finished logs were stained and treated. It had taken nearly four months to complete the house to Boone’s exacting standards.

It wasn’t his first log structure. At thirteen, under Dale’s supervision, he had built a two-room survival hut deep in the woods near the river—his version of a treehouse. It sat so far from the main house that his father had bought him a pair of handheld radios just to stay in touch while he roamed the hills and forests.

Even as a boy, Boone stood out at Midway Elementary. One teacher suggested he might have an eidetic memory. Cognitive testing confirmed he retained exceptionally clear images of anything he read or saw. He rarely needed to study; he simply read ahead each night and completed assignments as fast as he could write. His mother eventually pulled him from public school, homeschooled him, and arranged regular oversight from two retired teachers in the community.

He excelled in nearly everything except French, which he openly despised. Boone couldn’t understand why anyone would want to learn “the language of cheese-eating surrender monkeys”—a phrase he’d picked up from The Simpsons and paid for with several sharp whacks from his mother’s eighteen-inch wooden ruler.

His father, Lincoln “Linc” Washington, had flown for thirty years, beginning with Eastern Airlines before moving to larger carriers. Linc’s two great passions were flying and fishing, which explained why he had bought the 1,800-acre tract of wilderness area of the Cumberland Mountains between the Powell and Clinch Rivers. Uncle Dale lived nearby, and his two sons—close to Boone in age—were just as wild about the woods. From an early age, Dale taught all three boys how to hunt and survive in the mountains.

Boone’s parents lasted only six years on the land. When he was nineteen and attending the University of Tennessee in Knoxville, they died in a plane crash at Middlesboro/Bell County Airport. They had flown up for the day to browse antique shops—his mother’s passion. A microburst ripped a wing off their plane as they tried to land.

Boone dropped a semester to settle the estate with help from Uncle Dale and the family lawyer, then returned to finish his degree in Wildlife Management with a minor in Forest Management. After graduation he came straight home.

A few months later he sold 589 acres—running from the county road down to the river—to a wealthy Knoxville banker. The man paid well above market value for undeveloped land, then spent a fortune paving nearly two miles of driveway because of the heavy clay soil. Boone’s own road had cost him a fraction of what the new owner would spend on paving and maintenance.

The sale included his parents’ old 1960s house, which was filled with antiques. Boone held a large estate sale that drew buyers from across the region. He kept only a few sentimental pieces.

The proceeds gave him working capital. He upgraded his father’s old farm equipment, buying a Massey Ferguson 4709 tractor with front-end loader and enclosed cab, along with the necessary implements from the Claiborne County Farmers Co-op. He still drove the fully restored 1969 K5 Blazer he and his dad had rebuilt when he was sixteen.

That spring he plowed his truck garden and began clearing small wildlife food plots in the meadows bordering the forest. He planted a warm-season mix of soybeans, chufa, cowpeas, buckwheat, and millet. In September he would sow adjacent plots of winter wheat, oats, cereal rye, clover, chicory, alfalfa, radishes, turnips, and kale—something for every species to carry them through winter, along with the feeders he kept stocked.

It was time for his monthly supply run. Boone pulled cash from the safe, hooked up the enclosed trailer to the Blazer, and headed for New Tazewell. Uncle Dale had taught him long ago: when stocking up, buy extra of anything you’ll actually eat. Build a reserve in case weather or trouble keeps you home for weeks.

He arrived early enough for breakfast at the diner—three pancakes, three scrambled eggs, country ham, a large glass of cold milk, and several cups of coffee. Rose Martin, the longtime waitress, started his order the moment he walked in. She was at his usual booth by the front window with the coffee pot before he even sat down.

Boone smiled. “Thanks, Rose.”

He gazed out at Main Street while he sipped. Nancy, one of the younger waitresses, came by to top off his water.

“Boone, there’s live music at the Old Town Grill Saturday night.”

He raised his coffee cup in a small toast. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She smiled and moved on. Boone had already decided he wouldn’t go. The food and atmosphere were good, but the prices were steep. Ten dollars for fried green tomatoes and steaks that tasted like they’d been chased all the way from Omaha? No thanks. Saturday night would be better spent running a trotline down on the river.
Click to expand...
This is looking good. Thanks.
 
ncsfsgm said:
Chapter Twenty

One of the many things Boone loved about Julie was her simplicity. He didn’t didn't have to dissect every conversation for hidden meanings. He never had to wonder where she was or what she was truly thinking. No games, no pretending to believe obvious lies. She was as honest as anyone he had ever met, comfortable with the life he lived, and content in their quiet country kingdom. She asked for nothing more.

In mid-May, Boone and Julie exchanged vows under a brush arbor built beside the fairy pool. A handful of Julie’s friends from UT made the trip, along with most of Boone’s relatives and neighbors. He refused to let anyone work that day. A catering crew from Knoxville handled the food, a venue service set up the chairs, tables, and tents, and a floral team scattered flowers and delicate decorations. Boone’s favorites were the little semi-transparent fairies the decorators had tucked among the ferns and along the pool’s edge—just as Julie had once imagined them. Uncle Dale, Randy, and Brice built a generous dance floor. Music came from the Blue Holler Wanderers and a DJ. The air hung heavy with the perfume of blooming magnolias and honeysuckle.

Aunt June, of course, couldn’t resist stepping in to supervise. Boone let her. It made her happy, and she had been like a second mother to him for as long as he could remember.

When the preacher from Sky Memorial Baptist Church began the ceremony, Boone looked into Julie’s eyes and knew—without doubt—he had found the right woman. She believed marriage was a covenant, not a contract. Sunlight caught the tiny specks of glitter on her veil, making her appear as if she were gazing back at him through soft clouds scattered with stars. From that moment, the rest of the ceremony blurred. All Boone would remember later was her beauty, the exchange of rings, and the kiss that sealed their future.

They walked back down the aisle to the familiar strains of the “Wedding March.” Faces beamed at them from every row. At the threshold, Boone stopped, pulled Julie close, and kissed her again—longer this time—before they stepped out into the bright afternoon.

Aunt June immediately took charge of the photographer, directing poses with cheerful authority. The food was served, jugs were passed, and the music swelled. For their first dance, Julie had chosen “Amazed” by Lonestar. The band delivered a heartfelt rendition that brought tears to more than a few eyes. Other couples soon filled the floor for the slower songs. Julie gave Hoosey a kiss on the cheek for making the effort to come; he looked dapper in a blue pinstripe suit that probably hadn’t left its trunk since 1955, topped with a gray fedora. Oh, and he didn’t need a doctor after Julie gave him some sugar.

As the afternoon stretched golden and long, Boone and Julie slipped away for a quiet walk up the drive to the overlook above the Powell River. The sun hung low—a glowing orb of molten gold edged in fiery orange—slowly sinking toward the horizon. It bathed the hills in rich, warm radiance that softened every edge and stretched long shadows across the land. Streaks of saffron and tangerine burned near the sun, bleeding outward into rose, lavender, and deepening crimson. Wispy cirrus clouds caught the light like feathers on fire, their edges electric gold while their undersides shifted to bruised purple and slate. Thicker cumulus glowed from within, fluffy tops turning molten peach against a sky still soft and pale blue higher up, gradually yielding to twilight’s indigo.

It was a peaceful, almost reverent moment—perfect for the start of their married life. The air cooled noticeably, carrying the scent of pine and wildflowers, while the western glow cast a warm backlight on everything facing it.

Someday their children—and maybe their grandchildren—would stand in this same spot and take in the view, perhaps under very different circumstances. Boone and Julie silently promised themselves they would be good stewards of this land so those future generations would have the chance.

This was the first day of the rest of their lives.

THE END​
Click to expand...
A good ending to this story. Thank You.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Top