Story Luck of The Irish
- Thread starter ncsfsgm
- Start date
223shootersc
Veteran Member
Thanks, CCG!
Griz3752
Retired, practising Curmudgeon
Yeah the 'little things' can make my eyes glaze over & put a twitch in my smiley face too . . . .We don't know if she knows so lets give her a break for now. Thanks for the updates
You need to get the "e" put in the title so I don't go bonkers.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Twenty-Five
As spring approached, Morgan felt her biological clock ticking louder each day. She began quietly making her own plans for the future.
One Sunday afternoon, Ryan opened his gun safes for inspection. He started with the two he'd acquired from the Henderson place. Spreading an 8-foot folding table, he laid out the guns from the first safe, beginning with the hunting rifles: a Winchester Model 94, Marlin 336, Savage Model 99, and a Marlin Model 1895 in .45-70. He inspected each barrel carefully, ran an oiled patch through, followed by a clean one, then applied a drop of oil to the actions with a small brush. After working the actions and decocking them, he wiped everything down with a silicone cloth.
Next came the shotguns. The Ithaca double-barrel received the same careful treatment, but he gave the older pieces extra scrutiny. The standout was a Parker Bros. High Grade 10-gauge, accompanied by a box of 25 brass shells loaded with BB shot.
He paused when Morgan called out that Bill and Helen were on their way over. After a brief hesitation, he continued polishing with the silicone cloth. Bill would join him soon enough.
Bill arrived a few minutes later and surveyed the guns on the table. He picked up a couple, examined them, then wiped off his fingerprints with the silicone cloth.
“I need your advice on something,” Bill said.
“What’s up?”
“I’ve got most of an acre on the northeast part of my property, plus another half-acre beyond that wood line. I want to turn it all into garden space. It’s a lot, I know, but I’ll share the harvest with everyone in exchange for occasional help. Mostly, it’ll give me peace of mind, something productive to do, and a new skill to learn. I need advice on the farm equipment for soil prep and what to plant. I figure our gardens should complement each other.”
“That’d be smart,” Ryan replied. “But you should talk to Harold and Millie James first. They’re our greenhouse and gardening experts. Harold’s a lifelong farmer—he knows his stuff. He can advise on equipment and help coordinate planting to avoid duplication.”
“I’ll do that.”
“You’ll probably need to get armed too,” Ryan added. “That garden’s right beside the road. If people see food growing, some might try to take it.”
“Yeah, I’m afraid of that.”
“Why don’t I set up a roadside stand and sell some of the surplus? It’ll let folks know when produce is available and when it isn’t. We can can what we need and sell the rest.”
“That would help.” Bill paused. “Think about what you want for a market hut. I can have the guys build it.”
“I could convert the RV garage into a cannery and—”
“And where would you store your boat in winter?”
“Oh, right. Well, I’ll just build a separate structure. It’ll give me time to gather equipment and canning supplies.”
“Get with Millie and Morgan—they handle our bulk orders. You can tag along for jars and lids. You’ll need trailers full.”
“I’ve been looking into canning in metal cans instead.”
“You can try it. The equipment’s expensive, though.”
“Can’t take it with you. The Mormons have a Home Storage Center down in Knoxville. I’m heading there to see how they handle bulk canning.”
“Let me know how it goes. I’ll pitch in if you need help.”
“All right. I’ve got research and plowing ahead.”
Harold assisted Bill with land preparation: turn plows first, then incorporating mulch and compost, followed by tilling. Lime was spread to work over winter. Beds wouldn’t be formed until spring, after the last frost.
While Ryan’s crews stayed busy, he milled lumber for Bill’s market stand. Once caught up, they built the structure, laid and packed gravel for the floor, and installed large and small eight-inch-deep bins for produce display, plus counters and shelves. It would be ready by summer harvest.
A small plane crash increased Ryan’s workload. The aircraft went down in heavy woods and caught fire. Thanks to existing firebreaks, crews contained it quickly. Ryan met with his teams to brainstorm efficiency improvements. He ordered a new Cat D8, a D4 crawler, and a towed vibrating compactor, along with prime movers. The D8, fitted with a heavy blade reminiscent of Vietnam-era Rome plows, proved a beast to transport but dramatically sped up clearing. Government contracts from the USFS poured in, allowing expansion and faster fulfillment.
Ryan hired three full-time combat engineer veterans to operate the heavy equipment and gave everyone a pay raise—the vets had previously been seasonal. He also acquired a surplus M942A1 5-ton 6x6 long-wheelbase cab-and-chassis with a boom crane for hauling and placing culverts in hilly terrain. Firebreak crews worked five days a week in the field; on Saturdays, singles without local family often helped with shop maintenance and equipment cleaning.
As spring neared, the landscaping service and nursery stocked up. Winter compost went to Bill’s fields for disking in soon. Hopefully, it would be a strong year for everyone.
With spring’s arrival, conversations between Morgan and Millie turned to children and grandchildren. Before long, Morgan cornered Ryan to discuss starting a family. She didn’t want to carry through the hot, humid months, so they set a date to stop her pill and aim for conception. A concerned Ryan worried about business interfering, but Harold and Bill pulled him aside to reassure him everything would align seamlessly.
March arrived rainy, with the entire first week soaked. It delayed garden prep and landscaping but gave customers time to visit the nursery for supplies ahead of planting. The place was decked out with St. Patrick’s Day yard art for the upcoming sale, including hundreds of pots of oxalis as gifts or plants.
Once the soil dried, Harold and Bill plowed in more compost. They held off on offset harrows and bedder plows for row formation until late April, post-frost.
Landscaping crews used the skid-steer with tree spade to plant more dwarf fruit trees along the drive and near the community center.
Ryan sat with Morgan to review finances. Profits were strong; he reinvested everything into the LLC. Compost and mulch sold well, but services were accelerating. New Forest Service contracts followed reviews of western wildfire mistakes, adding rules: twenty-meter clearance from trail centerlines of all combustibles. More equipment meant more maintenance contracts—ideal for veterans easing back into social settings. Ryan could transition them to other crews as they adjusted.
Veterans’ organizations pulled homeless vets off streets; Ryan hired as many as possible. This led to building a barracks-style facility for fifty, with kitchen and rec areas. The organizations helped fund upkeep and donated large flat-screen TVs.
He replaced static composting bins with twenty-foot rotating drums, staffed by vets in low-stress roles to handle increased debris from firebreak changes. Four large International dump trucks and two skid-steer loaders supported the operation.
Jamie, deep into software engineering, adapted a Midwest farming guidance package for their use. Affordable units could guide bulldozers and scrapers using survey data. Commercial options were exorbitantly priced with steep subscriptions; Jamie customized a version exclusive to Shiner Hill.
As spring approached, Morgan felt her biological clock ticking louder each day. She began quietly making her own plans for the future.
One Sunday afternoon, Ryan opened his gun safes for inspection. He started with the two he'd acquired from the Henderson place. Spreading an 8-foot folding table, he laid out the guns from the first safe, beginning with the hunting rifles: a Winchester Model 94, Marlin 336, Savage Model 99, and a Marlin Model 1895 in .45-70. He inspected each barrel carefully, ran an oiled patch through, followed by a clean one, then applied a drop of oil to the actions with a small brush. After working the actions and decocking them, he wiped everything down with a silicone cloth.
Next came the shotguns. The Ithaca double-barrel received the same careful treatment, but he gave the older pieces extra scrutiny. The standout was a Parker Bros. High Grade 10-gauge, accompanied by a box of 25 brass shells loaded with BB shot.
He paused when Morgan called out that Bill and Helen were on their way over. After a brief hesitation, he continued polishing with the silicone cloth. Bill would join him soon enough.
Bill arrived a few minutes later and surveyed the guns on the table. He picked up a couple, examined them, then wiped off his fingerprints with the silicone cloth.
“I need your advice on something,” Bill said.
“What’s up?”
“I’ve got most of an acre on the northeast part of my property, plus another half-acre beyond that wood line. I want to turn it all into garden space. It’s a lot, I know, but I’ll share the harvest with everyone in exchange for occasional help. Mostly, it’ll give me peace of mind, something productive to do, and a new skill to learn. I need advice on the farm equipment for soil prep and what to plant. I figure our gardens should complement each other.”
“That’d be smart,” Ryan replied. “But you should talk to Harold and Millie James first. They’re our greenhouse and gardening experts. Harold’s a lifelong farmer—he knows his stuff. He can advise on equipment and help coordinate planting to avoid duplication.”
“I’ll do that.”
“You’ll probably need to get armed too,” Ryan added. “That garden’s right beside the road. If people see food growing, some might try to take it.”
“Yeah, I’m afraid of that.”
“Why don’t I set up a roadside stand and sell some of the surplus? It’ll let folks know when produce is available and when it isn’t. We can can what we need and sell the rest.”
“That would help.” Bill paused. “Think about what you want for a market hut. I can have the guys build it.”
“I could convert the RV garage into a cannery and—”
“And where would you store your boat in winter?”
“Oh, right. Well, I’ll just build a separate structure. It’ll give me time to gather equipment and canning supplies.”
“Get with Millie and Morgan—they handle our bulk orders. You can tag along for jars and lids. You’ll need trailers full.”
“I’ve been looking into canning in metal cans instead.”
“You can try it. The equipment’s expensive, though.”
“Can’t take it with you. The Mormons have a Home Storage Center down in Knoxville. I’m heading there to see how they handle bulk canning.”
“Let me know how it goes. I’ll pitch in if you need help.”
“All right. I’ve got research and plowing ahead.”
Harold assisted Bill with land preparation: turn plows first, then incorporating mulch and compost, followed by tilling. Lime was spread to work over winter. Beds wouldn’t be formed until spring, after the last frost.
While Ryan’s crews stayed busy, he milled lumber for Bill’s market stand. Once caught up, they built the structure, laid and packed gravel for the floor, and installed large and small eight-inch-deep bins for produce display, plus counters and shelves. It would be ready by summer harvest.
A small plane crash increased Ryan’s workload. The aircraft went down in heavy woods and caught fire. Thanks to existing firebreaks, crews contained it quickly. Ryan met with his teams to brainstorm efficiency improvements. He ordered a new Cat D8, a D4 crawler, and a towed vibrating compactor, along with prime movers. The D8, fitted with a heavy blade reminiscent of Vietnam-era Rome plows, proved a beast to transport but dramatically sped up clearing. Government contracts from the USFS poured in, allowing expansion and faster fulfillment.
Ryan hired three full-time combat engineer veterans to operate the heavy equipment and gave everyone a pay raise—the vets had previously been seasonal. He also acquired a surplus M942A1 5-ton 6x6 long-wheelbase cab-and-chassis with a boom crane for hauling and placing culverts in hilly terrain. Firebreak crews worked five days a week in the field; on Saturdays, singles without local family often helped with shop maintenance and equipment cleaning.
As spring neared, the landscaping service and nursery stocked up. Winter compost went to Bill’s fields for disking in soon. Hopefully, it would be a strong year for everyone.
With spring’s arrival, conversations between Morgan and Millie turned to children and grandchildren. Before long, Morgan cornered Ryan to discuss starting a family. She didn’t want to carry through the hot, humid months, so they set a date to stop her pill and aim for conception. A concerned Ryan worried about business interfering, but Harold and Bill pulled him aside to reassure him everything would align seamlessly.
March arrived rainy, with the entire first week soaked. It delayed garden prep and landscaping but gave customers time to visit the nursery for supplies ahead of planting. The place was decked out with St. Patrick’s Day yard art for the upcoming sale, including hundreds of pots of oxalis as gifts or plants.
Once the soil dried, Harold and Bill plowed in more compost. They held off on offset harrows and bedder plows for row formation until late April, post-frost.
Landscaping crews used the skid-steer with tree spade to plant more dwarf fruit trees along the drive and near the community center.
Ryan sat with Morgan to review finances. Profits were strong; he reinvested everything into the LLC. Compost and mulch sold well, but services were accelerating. New Forest Service contracts followed reviews of western wildfire mistakes, adding rules: twenty-meter clearance from trail centerlines of all combustibles. More equipment meant more maintenance contracts—ideal for veterans easing back into social settings. Ryan could transition them to other crews as they adjusted.
Veterans’ organizations pulled homeless vets off streets; Ryan hired as many as possible. This led to building a barracks-style facility for fifty, with kitchen and rec areas. The organizations helped fund upkeep and donated large flat-screen TVs.
He replaced static composting bins with twenty-foot rotating drums, staffed by vets in low-stress roles to handle increased debris from firebreak changes. Four large International dump trucks and two skid-steer loaders supported the operation.
Jamie, deep into software engineering, adapted a Midwest farming guidance package for their use. Affordable units could guide bulldozers and scrapers using survey data. Commercial options were exorbitantly priced with steep subscriptions; Jamie customized a version exclusive to Shiner Hill.
feralferret
Veteran Member
Thank you.
sssarawolf
We're just plugging along.
Thandk you.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Twenty-Six
Bill’s new cannery was up and running, though the early days were slow and methodical. Canning just a few jars or cans at a time let the crew learn the equipment and refine their techniques without wasting product. Millie quickly became Bill’s go-to advisor—she’d forgotten more about pressure canning than most folks ever learned. The crew itself was a tight-knit group: mostly wives of Shiner Hill employees, plus a couple of retired military cooks who could scale a recipe in their sleep.
When planting season rolled around, those same workers pitched in without being asked. They laid irrigation lines, filled seed hoppers, and kept everything humming. Bill even had a sharp mechanic who maintained the pump station on Stamp Creek. The man had lost a leg years back but got around just fine in his Polaris Ranger, bouncing along the lines to check for leaks or clogs.
Ryan, meanwhile, kept a hawk’s eye on the farmland southwest of the Branson brothers’ place. It was prime bottomland, perfect for sprawling housing developments—the last thing he wanted creeping closer. He knew blocking sales outright might run afoul of federal or state law, but he wasn’t about to let just anyone buy in. He wanted folks who’d strengthen the community, not dilute it. His lawyers were digging when opportunity knocked.
A group of activist ex-military wives showed up with a solid plan: build greenhouses, grow cut flowers for florists across several states, and employ disabled vets and their spouses. Ryan liked the sound of it. He commissioned a feasibility study through the university and, while waiting on results, put one of the wives in charge of lining up equipment lists.
Bill’s fields got planted just in time. Severe weather was tearing through states to the southwest—tornadoes, flash flooding, the works. Bill had paid good money for professional drainage design during construction, so this storm would be the real test. He hated losing money almost as much as he hated losing crops.
The rain came down hard for three and a half days. Ryan kept crews indoors for maintenance and standby response. The worst cells slid west of them, sparing Shiner Hill the brunt. Stamp Creek rose and spilled its banks a little, but damage was minimal. They stood up recovery teams anyway, ready to hand out food and clothing to harder-hit neighbors.
It took days for the ground to dry enough for firebreak crews to resume. Those stuck waiting switched to clearing brush for the mulch and compost piles. The rain stopped, but temperatures dropped into the low forties—a raw, damp spring that sank into your bones. Two days later the rain returned, colder this time, glazing everything in a quarter-inch to a full inch of ice.
Ryan told everyone to stay home and off the roads. A couple of nearby hands came in anyway, swapping studded tires onto the delivery trucks and knocking out routine maintenance. A handful of firewood orders trickled in; the landing craft handled most deliveries that didn’t require blacktop.
Spring had roared in like a lion, then initially settled into a mild April. Don’t like the weather? Wait 20 minutes. Winter’s bare forest had let crews clear miles of new firebreaks and haul out debris. Stacks of firewood and mulch were curing, ready for next season. Ryan built a shelter at the nursery just for bagged product. Customers were already chewing through inventory. Outlying garden centers had been buying direct until Ryan steered them toward commercial contracts with Shiner Hill, LLC. The switch improved forecasting and let him offer better bulk pricing.
Sales ticked up enough that he hired teenagers—kids of employees—to stack firewood in the drying sheds and shrink-wrap bundles for convenience stores and grocers.
Then winter decided it wasn’t finished. The first storm brought more ice, snapping limbs and downing power lines across the region. Thousands went dark. Shiner Hill took the hit and kept moving. Extra crews trained quickly on truck deliveries; the landing craft ran dawn to dusk.
The second storm arrived before the ground could thaw. Snow stuck fast—ten inches in the first day alone, light and powdery, drifting wherever the wind pushed it. Firebreak crews stood down. Ryan redeployed them to plow roads and run welfare checks on customers flagged as vulnerable. A quick radio call could bring groceries, fetch a prescription, relay messages to worried kin, or evacuate someone to shelter.
The crews took pride in the work, even if it wasn’t their usual grind. Ryan and Morgan stayed plugged in—her on the phone, him on the business-band radio—offering advice or coordinating as needed.
Shiner Hill’s reputation spread. A news crew from WATE 6 showed up to cover the operation. They arrived expecting some polished disaster-relief headquarters. Instead Morgan welcomed them into the kitchen, poured coffee, and explained how things actually worked. Ryan sat at the island, chin on his hand, quiet unless the radio squawked.
When the reporter asked why they bothered, Morgan pointed at Ryan. “I’m just one of the cows following the lead bull.”
The reporter turned to him. “So why’d you set this up?”
Ryan shrugged. “Seemed like the right thing to do. Most folks we help are customers, neighbors, or kin to customers. They’ve supported local business. Figured we ought to give something back.”
“On your own dime?”
“Absolutely. Hand it to some big organization or government agency and it turns heartless. People get lost in the shuffle. We fight enough bureaucratic intransigence as it is. We’ll take offered help when it comes, but we keep outsiders at arm’s length. Neighbors helping neighbors—that still means something.”
The crew toured the hilltop with Ryan afterward. The segment aired a couple weeks later, fleshed out with interviews of people Shiner Hill had assisted. It turned out fair, even flattering, though Ryan hated how it painted him saintly. He didn’t care what television viewers thought; he cared that his people were safe and looked after.
One part he was glad survived editing: their insistence that help wasn’t a free ride. Recipients had to show some skin in the game—prove they’d work toward standing on their own. In partnership with local churches, they could offer temporary housing, then find useful work that let folks give back. It wasn’t perfect, but it separated those willing to climb from those content to stay down.
Soon licensed counselors and social workers began volunteering. Even college kids showed up wanting to pitch in. Ryan welcomed the help but kept a wary eye—he’d seen good intentions curdle before. For now, though, the community felt a little stronger, and that was enough.
Bill’s new cannery was up and running, though the early days were slow and methodical. Canning just a few jars or cans at a time let the crew learn the equipment and refine their techniques without wasting product. Millie quickly became Bill’s go-to advisor—she’d forgotten more about pressure canning than most folks ever learned. The crew itself was a tight-knit group: mostly wives of Shiner Hill employees, plus a couple of retired military cooks who could scale a recipe in their sleep.
When planting season rolled around, those same workers pitched in without being asked. They laid irrigation lines, filled seed hoppers, and kept everything humming. Bill even had a sharp mechanic who maintained the pump station on Stamp Creek. The man had lost a leg years back but got around just fine in his Polaris Ranger, bouncing along the lines to check for leaks or clogs.
Ryan, meanwhile, kept a hawk’s eye on the farmland southwest of the Branson brothers’ place. It was prime bottomland, perfect for sprawling housing developments—the last thing he wanted creeping closer. He knew blocking sales outright might run afoul of federal or state law, but he wasn’t about to let just anyone buy in. He wanted folks who’d strengthen the community, not dilute it. His lawyers were digging when opportunity knocked.
A group of activist ex-military wives showed up with a solid plan: build greenhouses, grow cut flowers for florists across several states, and employ disabled vets and their spouses. Ryan liked the sound of it. He commissioned a feasibility study through the university and, while waiting on results, put one of the wives in charge of lining up equipment lists.
Bill’s fields got planted just in time. Severe weather was tearing through states to the southwest—tornadoes, flash flooding, the works. Bill had paid good money for professional drainage design during construction, so this storm would be the real test. He hated losing money almost as much as he hated losing crops.
The rain came down hard for three and a half days. Ryan kept crews indoors for maintenance and standby response. The worst cells slid west of them, sparing Shiner Hill the brunt. Stamp Creek rose and spilled its banks a little, but damage was minimal. They stood up recovery teams anyway, ready to hand out food and clothing to harder-hit neighbors.
It took days for the ground to dry enough for firebreak crews to resume. Those stuck waiting switched to clearing brush for the mulch and compost piles. The rain stopped, but temperatures dropped into the low forties—a raw, damp spring that sank into your bones. Two days later the rain returned, colder this time, glazing everything in a quarter-inch to a full inch of ice.
Ryan told everyone to stay home and off the roads. A couple of nearby hands came in anyway, swapping studded tires onto the delivery trucks and knocking out routine maintenance. A handful of firewood orders trickled in; the landing craft handled most deliveries that didn’t require blacktop.
Spring had roared in like a lion, then initially settled into a mild April. Don’t like the weather? Wait 20 minutes. Winter’s bare forest had let crews clear miles of new firebreaks and haul out debris. Stacks of firewood and mulch were curing, ready for next season. Ryan built a shelter at the nursery just for bagged product. Customers were already chewing through inventory. Outlying garden centers had been buying direct until Ryan steered them toward commercial contracts with Shiner Hill, LLC. The switch improved forecasting and let him offer better bulk pricing.
Sales ticked up enough that he hired teenagers—kids of employees—to stack firewood in the drying sheds and shrink-wrap bundles for convenience stores and grocers.
Then winter decided it wasn’t finished. The first storm brought more ice, snapping limbs and downing power lines across the region. Thousands went dark. Shiner Hill took the hit and kept moving. Extra crews trained quickly on truck deliveries; the landing craft ran dawn to dusk.
The second storm arrived before the ground could thaw. Snow stuck fast—ten inches in the first day alone, light and powdery, drifting wherever the wind pushed it. Firebreak crews stood down. Ryan redeployed them to plow roads and run welfare checks on customers flagged as vulnerable. A quick radio call could bring groceries, fetch a prescription, relay messages to worried kin, or evacuate someone to shelter.
The crews took pride in the work, even if it wasn’t their usual grind. Ryan and Morgan stayed plugged in—her on the phone, him on the business-band radio—offering advice or coordinating as needed.
Shiner Hill’s reputation spread. A news crew from WATE 6 showed up to cover the operation. They arrived expecting some polished disaster-relief headquarters. Instead Morgan welcomed them into the kitchen, poured coffee, and explained how things actually worked. Ryan sat at the island, chin on his hand, quiet unless the radio squawked.
When the reporter asked why they bothered, Morgan pointed at Ryan. “I’m just one of the cows following the lead bull.”
The reporter turned to him. “So why’d you set this up?”
Ryan shrugged. “Seemed like the right thing to do. Most folks we help are customers, neighbors, or kin to customers. They’ve supported local business. Figured we ought to give something back.”
“On your own dime?”
“Absolutely. Hand it to some big organization or government agency and it turns heartless. People get lost in the shuffle. We fight enough bureaucratic intransigence as it is. We’ll take offered help when it comes, but we keep outsiders at arm’s length. Neighbors helping neighbors—that still means something.”
The crew toured the hilltop with Ryan afterward. The segment aired a couple weeks later, fleshed out with interviews of people Shiner Hill had assisted. It turned out fair, even flattering, though Ryan hated how it painted him saintly. He didn’t care what television viewers thought; he cared that his people were safe and looked after.
One part he was glad survived editing: their insistence that help wasn’t a free ride. Recipients had to show some skin in the game—prove they’d work toward standing on their own. In partnership with local churches, they could offer temporary housing, then find useful work that let folks give back. It wasn’t perfect, but it separated those willing to climb from those content to stay down.
Soon licensed counselors and social workers began volunteering. Even college kids showed up wanting to pitch in. Ryan welcomed the help but kept a wary eye—he’d seen good intentions curdle before. For now, though, the community felt a little stronger, and that was enough.
sssarawolf
We're just plugging along.
Thank you.
feralferret
Veteran Member
Thank you.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ryan gave LeahAnn the job of keeping an eye on the employees when she wasn’t doing security rides. She was the little sister of all the male employees and close with the wives. If she saw a problem developing within a family or one of the single employees, she did what she could to correct it before going to Ryan.
Miriam finally said she had her house the way she wanted it but Morgan could see little changes every time she went over. Women can do that, you know. Miriam still changed out an item here and there and hovered around antique shops. Ryan considered himself lucky, in a way. One of the few antiques Morgan had was a pen and inkwell stand she kept on her desk. It had a couple of turkey feathers and the original penknife in the stand too. It must have been forged from what passed as surgical steel at the time because it quickly honed to razor sharpness when Ryan sharpened it.
Ryan kept his eye on the real estate situation in the area and pounced on the Thornton property next to the auto repair shop. He also got his nose under the tent with the Branson Brother’s Auto Repair next door. They were fined by the county for the junk cars they had around on the property. All the useable parts had been removed and they were worth less in scrap then the fines they owed the county. Ryan stepped in and signed a contract for them to keep regular services and maintenance on his vehicles. The contract was large enough for them to clear the derelicts from the yard, install a fence to hide cars as per county code, and expanded their business as a “pull your own” parts business.
The house on the Thornton property was beyond repair. Termites and carpenter ants had taken their toll. The garage building was in better repair than the house, but it needed roof repairs. So, Ryan decided to tear the house down and start with a clean slate. The crews kept up the regular services and Forest Service contracts but also began rotating over to the Thornton place and continue demolitions.
Ryan worked with his builder and an architectural firm to design a small housing development with the centerpiece a community center with an open floor plan. That had been Helen’s and Morgan’s idea. It would give them a space to hold children’s birthday parties, gatherings, and any other function that may pop up.
Morgan, and her part-time HR manager, LeahAnn Ryder, worked up the number of families and single personnel who would be first on the list for housing, mainly because they were already renting. When word slowly leaked out what Ryan was doing, the men got together and voted that LeahAnn should get the first house. They were a little uneasy as she drove in from Wartburg every day and should be given the opportunity to live closer. That changed Ryan’s plans only a little and he added a 1,096 sq. ft., 1 Story, 2 bedrooms, 2 baths cabin to his plans. Nevertheless, the Community Center was going up first.
Ryan was including single family homes and duplexes for unmarried people included in the development plan. The planning turned out to be a family affair with Helen, Morgan, and Miriam having a huge input to make sure Ryan didn’t forget anything. Some of their ideas were laughable at first, and he nixed them quickly. For now, the community would have to forget about a swimming pool and continue to use the lake.
Jamie and Ellie were already designing a solid wood entrance sign carved from three-inch oak to place at the drive. Ryan let them run with it. Everyone wanted to get their thumbprint on the development.
The weed and Chablis crowd continued to drift into the area, or was a spillover from the college, but the world still turned and life around Shiner’s Hill continued. Ryan kept a weather eye on the political situation locally and nationally. As they say, “politics begins at home.” Ryan donated to conservative candidates in local elections but stayed away from national politics as much as he could. He had learned his lesson. Every time he donated to a single candidate, his mailbox was inundated with letters from political candidates from all over the country asking for money. If you donated twice, you were on their lifetime list. Ryan had just so many fires to start in his lifetime to get rid of the junk mail.
The women planned a big meal for the christening of the community center, so everyone could see the amenities. There was a kitchen and preparation area, a grand hall, and male and female bathrooms large enough not to have to wait in line. Someone had thoughtfully added Nancy Pelosi targets to the urinals.
Jamie and Ellie had finished the carved sign and it was beautiful. Jamie had consulted with a veteran sign painter on the paints used to highlight the lettering and they really made the sign stand out. There was a comic depiction of a moonshine still and “Shiner’s Hill Community Center” Carved in raised relief on the sign. The ends of the sign were tenoned into the posts and the last pin to secure the sign was left out for everyone to take a whack to drive it in. The food was a mixture of many different cultures and the desserts mouth-watering.
Other than the employees and their families and friends of Shiner’s Hill LLC, Ryan also invited the Roane County Sheriff and the two deputies who usually patrolled the area. The LEO had left the dinner with full bellies after meeting every member of the tight-knit community.
Ryan didn’t know how it slipped the rumor mill in this era of leaking secrets, but LeahAnn hadn’t a clue about the cottage. After it was dried in, Miriam and Helen went to work and took care of the interior. When LeahAnn’s cottage was ready, the community held another dinner, or cookout, at the Community Center. The men were going to BBQ on the back patio and cook chicken, hotdogs and hamburgers. When everyone had eaten, Ryan got up and stood at the front of the hall.
“I could call this just a crowd of people gathered here for fellowship, but it is more than that, it is more of a gathering of family. LeahAnn, all of the people gathered here cherish your friendship and want only the best for you. In your honor as their friend, fellow employee, and adopted little sister, they have decided you should be the first to live in the Still Waters development.” Up on the wall behind Ryan was projected a view of the cottage, which then gave the gathering a video walk-through tour of the dwelling.
Wide eyed, LeahAnn looked around the room then two of the men and Morgan escorted her to a side door and into a Gator to be transported to her new home. Everyone else followed on foot. When the pack of friends arrived at the cottage, LeahAnn came out, wiping her eyes with tissues.
“I don’t know what to say! I’ve haven’t felt this welcomed since I was in the service….” She broke down again and the women gathered around her and went into the cottage to plan the move to her new home. The men looked at each other with satisfied smiles.
“We’ve got equipment to prepare for the coming weather.” Harry said. “Weather lady says it’s going to be a humdinger.”
Ryan sat going over his financials and doing some estimating how much his next future endeavor was going to cost him. He was considering on buying out Drake’s Landscaping Service next door. It would mean picking up another 30+ employees but along with it, Landscape and Snow and Ice Management services. The downside was a lot of the equipment was dated and needed to be replaced. He had yet to look at their books and needed to do that in order to get a complete picture.
Ryan’s ear caught the conversation on TV of announcers complaining about right-wing disinformation crushing democracy.
Ryan shook his head slowly as he transcribed information to his notepad. Disinformation wasn’t the problem, government coverups and censorship were the problems.
Ryan tried not to let the idiots get to him and most of what they did didn’t faze him. However, While playing their petty B.S. games, the politicians were taking their eye off the ball and the economy was suffering. As a businessman, the economy concerned him. His mind drifted and he wondered if there would be a market for pre-built gallows kits that could be assembled on demand. They could be a form of relief for the sane people of the country. It wasn’t hard to miss the signs of the political, social, and economic diseases that first sapped and finally destroyed Rome encroaching on the country.
“Have you seen this?” Morgan asked.
Ryan got up and went over to where she was working on her computer.
“It’s an article in Business Insider about a company in Texas that is selling prime freeze-dried beef.” Morgan said.
“Well, if you think it is worth a look, order sample cases and let’s try it out. It wouldn’t hurt to have on hand in case we can’t raise cows for a while.”
FBI agents have arrested a Florida man in connection with an alleged plot to bomb the New York Stock Exchange, according to charging documents unsealed on Wednesday.
South Florida resident Harun Abdul-Malik Yener was charged with attempted use of an explosive to damage or destroy a building used in interstate commerce, according to court documents filed in the U.S. District Court Southern District of Florida. The FBI began investigating Yener in February after receiving a tip he was storing bomb-making schematics in an unlocked storage unit in Coral Springs, Florida. Agents obtained a search warrant and found numerous watches with timers, electronic circuit boards, and other electronics in the unit, according to court documents.
Morgan ordered several sample packs of the beef and they all turned out well after rehydration. You could dump them straight into soups and stews but had to remember to use extra water. The meat was expensive, but when Morgan made her order, she only ordered a 6-month supply. It would be an emergency protein source.
Ryan gave LeahAnn the job of keeping an eye on the employees when she wasn’t doing security rides. She was the little sister of all the male employees and close with the wives. If she saw a problem developing within a family or one of the single employees, she did what she could to correct it before going to Ryan.
Miriam finally said she had her house the way she wanted it but Morgan could see little changes every time she went over. Women can do that, you know. Miriam still changed out an item here and there and hovered around antique shops. Ryan considered himself lucky, in a way. One of the few antiques Morgan had was a pen and inkwell stand she kept on her desk. It had a couple of turkey feathers and the original penknife in the stand too. It must have been forged from what passed as surgical steel at the time because it quickly honed to razor sharpness when Ryan sharpened it.
Ryan kept his eye on the real estate situation in the area and pounced on the Thornton property next to the auto repair shop. He also got his nose under the tent with the Branson Brother’s Auto Repair next door. They were fined by the county for the junk cars they had around on the property. All the useable parts had been removed and they were worth less in scrap then the fines they owed the county. Ryan stepped in and signed a contract for them to keep regular services and maintenance on his vehicles. The contract was large enough for them to clear the derelicts from the yard, install a fence to hide cars as per county code, and expanded their business as a “pull your own” parts business.
The house on the Thornton property was beyond repair. Termites and carpenter ants had taken their toll. The garage building was in better repair than the house, but it needed roof repairs. So, Ryan decided to tear the house down and start with a clean slate. The crews kept up the regular services and Forest Service contracts but also began rotating over to the Thornton place and continue demolitions.
Ryan worked with his builder and an architectural firm to design a small housing development with the centerpiece a community center with an open floor plan. That had been Helen’s and Morgan’s idea. It would give them a space to hold children’s birthday parties, gatherings, and any other function that may pop up.
Morgan, and her part-time HR manager, LeahAnn Ryder, worked up the number of families and single personnel who would be first on the list for housing, mainly because they were already renting. When word slowly leaked out what Ryan was doing, the men got together and voted that LeahAnn should get the first house. They were a little uneasy as she drove in from Wartburg every day and should be given the opportunity to live closer. That changed Ryan’s plans only a little and he added a 1,096 sq. ft., 1 Story, 2 bedrooms, 2 baths cabin to his plans. Nevertheless, the Community Center was going up first.
Ryan was including single family homes and duplexes for unmarried people included in the development plan. The planning turned out to be a family affair with Helen, Morgan, and Miriam having a huge input to make sure Ryan didn’t forget anything. Some of their ideas were laughable at first, and he nixed them quickly. For now, the community would have to forget about a swimming pool and continue to use the lake.
Jamie and Ellie were already designing a solid wood entrance sign carved from three-inch oak to place at the drive. Ryan let them run with it. Everyone wanted to get their thumbprint on the development.
The weed and Chablis crowd continued to drift into the area, or was a spillover from the college, but the world still turned and life around Shiner’s Hill continued. Ryan kept a weather eye on the political situation locally and nationally. As they say, “politics begins at home.” Ryan donated to conservative candidates in local elections but stayed away from national politics as much as he could. He had learned his lesson. Every time he donated to a single candidate, his mailbox was inundated with letters from political candidates from all over the country asking for money. If you donated twice, you were on their lifetime list. Ryan had just so many fires to start in his lifetime to get rid of the junk mail.
The women planned a big meal for the christening of the community center, so everyone could see the amenities. There was a kitchen and preparation area, a grand hall, and male and female bathrooms large enough not to have to wait in line. Someone had thoughtfully added Nancy Pelosi targets to the urinals.
Jamie and Ellie had finished the carved sign and it was beautiful. Jamie had consulted with a veteran sign painter on the paints used to highlight the lettering and they really made the sign stand out. There was a comic depiction of a moonshine still and “Shiner’s Hill Community Center” Carved in raised relief on the sign. The ends of the sign were tenoned into the posts and the last pin to secure the sign was left out for everyone to take a whack to drive it in. The food was a mixture of many different cultures and the desserts mouth-watering.
Other than the employees and their families and friends of Shiner’s Hill LLC, Ryan also invited the Roane County Sheriff and the two deputies who usually patrolled the area. The LEO had left the dinner with full bellies after meeting every member of the tight-knit community.
Ryan didn’t know how it slipped the rumor mill in this era of leaking secrets, but LeahAnn hadn’t a clue about the cottage. After it was dried in, Miriam and Helen went to work and took care of the interior. When LeahAnn’s cottage was ready, the community held another dinner, or cookout, at the Community Center. The men were going to BBQ on the back patio and cook chicken, hotdogs and hamburgers. When everyone had eaten, Ryan got up and stood at the front of the hall.
“I could call this just a crowd of people gathered here for fellowship, but it is more than that, it is more of a gathering of family. LeahAnn, all of the people gathered here cherish your friendship and want only the best for you. In your honor as their friend, fellow employee, and adopted little sister, they have decided you should be the first to live in the Still Waters development.” Up on the wall behind Ryan was projected a view of the cottage, which then gave the gathering a video walk-through tour of the dwelling.
Wide eyed, LeahAnn looked around the room then two of the men and Morgan escorted her to a side door and into a Gator to be transported to her new home. Everyone else followed on foot. When the pack of friends arrived at the cottage, LeahAnn came out, wiping her eyes with tissues.
“I don’t know what to say! I’ve haven’t felt this welcomed since I was in the service….” She broke down again and the women gathered around her and went into the cottage to plan the move to her new home. The men looked at each other with satisfied smiles.
“We’ve got equipment to prepare for the coming weather.” Harry said. “Weather lady says it’s going to be a humdinger.”
Ryan sat going over his financials and doing some estimating how much his next future endeavor was going to cost him. He was considering on buying out Drake’s Landscaping Service next door. It would mean picking up another 30+ employees but along with it, Landscape and Snow and Ice Management services. The downside was a lot of the equipment was dated and needed to be replaced. He had yet to look at their books and needed to do that in order to get a complete picture.
Ryan’s ear caught the conversation on TV of announcers complaining about right-wing disinformation crushing democracy.
Ryan shook his head slowly as he transcribed information to his notepad. Disinformation wasn’t the problem, government coverups and censorship were the problems.
Ryan tried not to let the idiots get to him and most of what they did didn’t faze him. However, While playing their petty B.S. games, the politicians were taking their eye off the ball and the economy was suffering. As a businessman, the economy concerned him. His mind drifted and he wondered if there would be a market for pre-built gallows kits that could be assembled on demand. They could be a form of relief for the sane people of the country. It wasn’t hard to miss the signs of the political, social, and economic diseases that first sapped and finally destroyed Rome encroaching on the country.
“Have you seen this?” Morgan asked.
Ryan got up and went over to where she was working on her computer.
“It’s an article in Business Insider about a company in Texas that is selling prime freeze-dried beef.” Morgan said.
“Well, if you think it is worth a look, order sample cases and let’s try it out. It wouldn’t hurt to have on hand in case we can’t raise cows for a while.”
FBI agents have arrested a Florida man in connection with an alleged plot to bomb the New York Stock Exchange, according to charging documents unsealed on Wednesday.
South Florida resident Harun Abdul-Malik Yener was charged with attempted use of an explosive to damage or destroy a building used in interstate commerce, according to court documents filed in the U.S. District Court Southern District of Florida. The FBI began investigating Yener in February after receiving a tip he was storing bomb-making schematics in an unlocked storage unit in Coral Springs, Florida. Agents obtained a search warrant and found numerous watches with timers, electronic circuit boards, and other electronics in the unit, according to court documents.
Morgan ordered several sample packs of the beef and they all turned out well after rehydration. You could dump them straight into soups and stews but had to remember to use extra water. The meat was expensive, but when Morgan made her order, she only ordered a 6-month supply. It would be an emergency protein source.
sssarawolf
We're just plugging along.
Thank you.
feralferret
Veteran Member
Thanks.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ryan visited a couple of the stove and fireplace shops his firewood business supplied, checking if there was anything he could do to help. Both had recently begun stocking pellet stoves, driven by growing demand from elderly customers who found the lighter pellets far easier to handle than traditional firewood.
Back home, Ryan dove into online research on pellet-making machinery. He learned that pellets could be produced from almost any organic material—in some countries, rice husks were common after harvest. Over the next two days, he compiled detailed notes before sitting down with Morgan to discuss his idea.
Research quickly gave way to action. Ryan ordered two industrial-grade biomass pellet presses and 500 heavy-duty paper sacks printed with the Shiner Hill logo and a 40-pound fill weight. A dedicated production and storage building would be needed, but that was straightforward. Morgan suggested including a giveaway item for new pellet customers—something the stove shops often did with new stove sales. Together they settled on options: reproduction 3-gallon coal hods, five-bladed heat-powered stove fans, cast-iron steam pots or kettles, 5.15-gallon galvanized ash buckets, or decorative fire-resistant hearth rugs. Ryan planned to coordinate with the shops to avoid duplicating gifts.
Next, he negotiated with Hammel’s Wood Products to buy truckloads of sawdust and shavings as initial feedstock. Come fall, they could collect fallen leaves—research suggested leaves could produce viable pellets, though with higher ash content than pure wood byproducts. That would be worth testing.
Ryan and three crew members began milling logs for the pellet production building's frame. Four days later, a concrete pad was poured for the foundation. Power would come from a 20kW propane generator.
Storage challenges nagged at him for days until he found an article about a cattle farmer near Arab, Alabama, who used aerated grain bins to manage moisture in humid conditions. The bins blew warm air from the bottom, venting moist air out the top and preventing caking on the walls. Fresh material entered at the top via auger, while drier material exited the bottom for the hammermill. Ryan ordered two modified bins—one for leafy material, one for sawdust—along with hopper systems for loading. Once the material reached the ideal moisture content (around 10-15%), it could be augered to the hammermill, then the pellet press, and turned into revenue.
The hammermill already sat on a flatbed trailer near the site. The bins, ordered from an Iowa manufacturer, arrived with their concrete bases poured as the building rose. Ryan had no illusions of dominating the pellet market—he just aimed to capture a solid share locally through name recognition and smart marketing.
Sample bags arrived from the printer: plastic-lined, with crisp printing. Ellie designed stick-on labels adding essential details—CO2 warnings, storage and handling guidelines—without the excessive requirements some states imposed. The bags featured a pull-wire loop to tear open the top for easy pouring into a hod. After Morgan tested one, she recommended a small, branded hook tool to help customers with limited hand strength pull the wire. One of Jamie’s college friends designed a simple version and 3D-printed prototypes. Ryan paid the student enough for the idea to launch a small side business producing the pulls for Shiner Hill LLC.
Spring brought a surge in compost and mulch sales, plus upcoming firebreak maintenance and right-of-way clearing—work that would yield more debris for pellets. Ryan designed a drying corridor and acquired another peanut dryer to precondition material before the hammermill. He hired six more veterans, including two women, to staff the pellet line.
Jamie, working with students from UT’s School of Natural Resources, compiled detailed binders and wall charts on wood pellet production—from raw material intake to bagging—for the new hires. Once the building had walls and a roof, the hammermill was bolted into place. Process drawings went up on the walls; employees studied them daily, suggesting improvements that eased material flow. Ryan incorporated their ideas into a gravity-assisted conveyor system powered partly by salvaged washing machine motors, speeding pellets from press to bagging.
He sourced an antique platform scale with counterweights and rigged it so pellets fed into a bag until the balance leveled at 40 pounds. The bag then slid under a hot-glue sealer before palletizing. A later tweak added a pre-fill box that stopped flow at the exact volume, improving accuracy and speed. Eventually, Ryan would hire an engineer to refine the entire post-press system for higher throughput.
Through Jamie, he invited Tickle College of Engineering students to analyze the setup and propose innovations. Promising designs earned patents in the students’ names, with Ryan gaining usage rights—a win-win that put money in their pockets and some impressive cars in campus parking lots. Marketing concepts poured in from Haslam College of Business class projects; Ryan bought the best ones outright, often with professors overseeing for credit.
By August, a climate-controlled warehouse rose off Laurel Bluff Road, complete with humidity and CO2 monitoring and alarms. Early September found Ryan and Morgan exhausted but ready for a break. Amid the expansion, they’d welcomed a baby boy, finished canning season, and dreamed up future plans. For one full week, Jamie oversaw operations while Ryan, Morgan, and little Davey escaped to Myrtle Beach for rest and relaxation. Refreshed, they returned eager for whatever came next.
Before leaving, Ryan had instructed his accountants to establish a sizable endowment at the University of Tennessee, a quiet thank-you for the school’s excellence and support. He didn’t yet know it would eventually earn him season tickets to home games. His name was becoming well-known locally, but he shunned press conferences and personal interviews. If attention came, it was for an employee’s community service or a student’s achievement—never his own plans. Truth was, he didn’t always know them himself. He took life day by day.
At a community gathering, Cristina Alejandro—daughter of Juan and Alexandra—received her UT admission letter. Ryan and Morgan surprised her with a full-ride scholarship, inspiring a noticeable uptick in grades among other employees’ children the following year.
Success brought sorrow too. They lost Daniel Hargraves, a longtime firebreak crew member, to pancreatic cancer. He left a young wife, Susan, and daughter grieving. Morgan promised Susan and her girl a permanent place at Shiner Hill—they’d moved into employee housing that spring. Ryan arranged a full military funeral and interment at Knoxville National Cemetery. With help from a local congresswoman, a detail came from Fort Campbell.
The funeral day was fitting: overcast and humid. Many veteran employees wore old uniforms. The first rifle volley made several flinch; tears mixed with sweat on more than one face, remembering other fallen comrades. Taps echoed, sending shivers through the crowd. Congresswoman Haines attended—not for a photo op, but out of genuine curiosity about why a man like Ryan O’Connor cared so deeply. She soon learned Daniel was simply one of the brothers Ryan looked after like family. Her respect for him grew.
Ryan and Morgan stood beside Susan for support, as the detail officer offered condolences and presented her with the folded flag—representing the one Daniel had served under.
During the wake t the Community Center, Congresswoman Haines finally cornered Ryan and told him she was running for Senator the next election and he would be the perfect person to replace her.
“Ma’am, no disrespect, but I wouldn’t risk nor sully my reputation serving this rotten government. I and a lot more men and women in this building have proudly served and shed blood for this country and want to be able to look our grandchildren in the eye.”
Ryan visited a couple of the stove and fireplace shops his firewood business supplied, checking if there was anything he could do to help. Both had recently begun stocking pellet stoves, driven by growing demand from elderly customers who found the lighter pellets far easier to handle than traditional firewood.
Back home, Ryan dove into online research on pellet-making machinery. He learned that pellets could be produced from almost any organic material—in some countries, rice husks were common after harvest. Over the next two days, he compiled detailed notes before sitting down with Morgan to discuss his idea.
Research quickly gave way to action. Ryan ordered two industrial-grade biomass pellet presses and 500 heavy-duty paper sacks printed with the Shiner Hill logo and a 40-pound fill weight. A dedicated production and storage building would be needed, but that was straightforward. Morgan suggested including a giveaway item for new pellet customers—something the stove shops often did with new stove sales. Together they settled on options: reproduction 3-gallon coal hods, five-bladed heat-powered stove fans, cast-iron steam pots or kettles, 5.15-gallon galvanized ash buckets, or decorative fire-resistant hearth rugs. Ryan planned to coordinate with the shops to avoid duplicating gifts.
Next, he negotiated with Hammel’s Wood Products to buy truckloads of sawdust and shavings as initial feedstock. Come fall, they could collect fallen leaves—research suggested leaves could produce viable pellets, though with higher ash content than pure wood byproducts. That would be worth testing.
Ryan and three crew members began milling logs for the pellet production building's frame. Four days later, a concrete pad was poured for the foundation. Power would come from a 20kW propane generator.
Storage challenges nagged at him for days until he found an article about a cattle farmer near Arab, Alabama, who used aerated grain bins to manage moisture in humid conditions. The bins blew warm air from the bottom, venting moist air out the top and preventing caking on the walls. Fresh material entered at the top via auger, while drier material exited the bottom for the hammermill. Ryan ordered two modified bins—one for leafy material, one for sawdust—along with hopper systems for loading. Once the material reached the ideal moisture content (around 10-15%), it could be augered to the hammermill, then the pellet press, and turned into revenue.
The hammermill already sat on a flatbed trailer near the site. The bins, ordered from an Iowa manufacturer, arrived with their concrete bases poured as the building rose. Ryan had no illusions of dominating the pellet market—he just aimed to capture a solid share locally through name recognition and smart marketing.
Sample bags arrived from the printer: plastic-lined, with crisp printing. Ellie designed stick-on labels adding essential details—CO2 warnings, storage and handling guidelines—without the excessive requirements some states imposed. The bags featured a pull-wire loop to tear open the top for easy pouring into a hod. After Morgan tested one, she recommended a small, branded hook tool to help customers with limited hand strength pull the wire. One of Jamie’s college friends designed a simple version and 3D-printed prototypes. Ryan paid the student enough for the idea to launch a small side business producing the pulls for Shiner Hill LLC.
Spring brought a surge in compost and mulch sales, plus upcoming firebreak maintenance and right-of-way clearing—work that would yield more debris for pellets. Ryan designed a drying corridor and acquired another peanut dryer to precondition material before the hammermill. He hired six more veterans, including two women, to staff the pellet line.
Jamie, working with students from UT’s School of Natural Resources, compiled detailed binders and wall charts on wood pellet production—from raw material intake to bagging—for the new hires. Once the building had walls and a roof, the hammermill was bolted into place. Process drawings went up on the walls; employees studied them daily, suggesting improvements that eased material flow. Ryan incorporated their ideas into a gravity-assisted conveyor system powered partly by salvaged washing machine motors, speeding pellets from press to bagging.
He sourced an antique platform scale with counterweights and rigged it so pellets fed into a bag until the balance leveled at 40 pounds. The bag then slid under a hot-glue sealer before palletizing. A later tweak added a pre-fill box that stopped flow at the exact volume, improving accuracy and speed. Eventually, Ryan would hire an engineer to refine the entire post-press system for higher throughput.
Through Jamie, he invited Tickle College of Engineering students to analyze the setup and propose innovations. Promising designs earned patents in the students’ names, with Ryan gaining usage rights—a win-win that put money in their pockets and some impressive cars in campus parking lots. Marketing concepts poured in from Haslam College of Business class projects; Ryan bought the best ones outright, often with professors overseeing for credit.
By August, a climate-controlled warehouse rose off Laurel Bluff Road, complete with humidity and CO2 monitoring and alarms. Early September found Ryan and Morgan exhausted but ready for a break. Amid the expansion, they’d welcomed a baby boy, finished canning season, and dreamed up future plans. For one full week, Jamie oversaw operations while Ryan, Morgan, and little Davey escaped to Myrtle Beach for rest and relaxation. Refreshed, they returned eager for whatever came next.
Before leaving, Ryan had instructed his accountants to establish a sizable endowment at the University of Tennessee, a quiet thank-you for the school’s excellence and support. He didn’t yet know it would eventually earn him season tickets to home games. His name was becoming well-known locally, but he shunned press conferences and personal interviews. If attention came, it was for an employee’s community service or a student’s achievement—never his own plans. Truth was, he didn’t always know them himself. He took life day by day.
At a community gathering, Cristina Alejandro—daughter of Juan and Alexandra—received her UT admission letter. Ryan and Morgan surprised her with a full-ride scholarship, inspiring a noticeable uptick in grades among other employees’ children the following year.
Success brought sorrow too. They lost Daniel Hargraves, a longtime firebreak crew member, to pancreatic cancer. He left a young wife, Susan, and daughter grieving. Morgan promised Susan and her girl a permanent place at Shiner Hill—they’d moved into employee housing that spring. Ryan arranged a full military funeral and interment at Knoxville National Cemetery. With help from a local congresswoman, a detail came from Fort Campbell.
The funeral day was fitting: overcast and humid. Many veteran employees wore old uniforms. The first rifle volley made several flinch; tears mixed with sweat on more than one face, remembering other fallen comrades. Taps echoed, sending shivers through the crowd. Congresswoman Haines attended—not for a photo op, but out of genuine curiosity about why a man like Ryan O’Connor cared so deeply. She soon learned Daniel was simply one of the brothers Ryan looked after like family. Her respect for him grew.
Ryan and Morgan stood beside Susan for support, as the detail officer offered condolences and presented her with the folded flag—representing the one Daniel had served under.
During the wake t the Community Center, Congresswoman Haines finally cornered Ryan and told him she was running for Senator the next election and he would be the perfect person to replace her.
“Ma’am, no disrespect, but I wouldn’t risk nor sully my reputation serving this rotten government. I and a lot more men and women in this building have proudly served and shed blood for this country and want to be able to look our grandchildren in the eye.”
Last edited:
sssarawolf
We're just plugging along.
Thank you.
223shootersc
Veteran Member
GOD, Family and Country!
feralferret
Veteran Member
Ncsfsgm, thank you.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Twenty-Nine
When the newly updated pellet bags arrived, Ryan supplied stove and fireplace stores with free samples to give to new pellet stove owners. Each bag featured a loop-pull assist tool hot-glued to the top, printed with the Shiner Hill name and phone number. The promotion paid off: they gained ten new customers in the first month alone.
The stores shared sales data with Ryan, detailing the stoves they carried—models with 40-, 60-, or 80-pound hoppers. Typical burn rates ranged from 1 to 2 pounds per hour, averaging around 1.5 pounds on low to medium settings. This helped Ryan forecast inventory needs more accurately. Pellet grills were also gaining popularity, and without reliable data on future demand, he decided to keep a 500-bag surplus in the warehouse at all times. Grilling pellets came exclusively from oak and hickory, chipped and processed through the hammermill. To distinguish them, Ryan ordered color-coded bags.
The clearing crews, now vacuuming debris for pellet production, grew vigilant about spotting poison oak, sumac, and ivy. Including those plants in pellets could cause serious allergic reactions—through contact or even smoke inhalation—so affected areas were simply mulched and left to decompose naturally.
Bill's canning operation thrived. He bought produce from local hobby farmers and experimented with freeze-drying, especially fruits. Millie served as his key advisor. He had a large order for apples from the August harvest in Western North Carolina, planning to can and freeze-dry them. Expansion was already underway to process a wider variety of vegetables and fruits. To create jobs, Bill partnered with churches supporting local food banks for hiring. While automation machines existed that could streamline packing, he avoided them to preserve employment. He invested in equipment that still required operators trained to manage and troubleshoot it. Profits were solid, but Bill wasn't chasing wealth—he wanted sustainability and community benefit.
Employee housing construction progressed steadily. As each home finished, families gathered at the community center for an "eat and greet" potluck and a lottery draw—if their family size matched the house layout. The winning family chose their move-in date, and unless critical tasks demanded otherwise, employees were released to help them relocate. With Shiner Hill's workforce size, a full move took just one day.
The firehouse neared occupancy. Full-time firefighters were assigned, backed by a growing volunteer roster. A last-minute addition was a vintage brass fireman's pole Ryan salvaged from a Pennsylvania architectural supplier. The local OSHA representative eyed it skeptically until shown that pole-use training was included in the department's program syllabus—for a two-story building, it was safe and practical.
Ryan's son, Davey, grew like a weed and shared his father's preferences—he was already a little "breast man," making cheeky grabs at any woman who held him. Morgan, noticing the pattern, openly wished for a girl next and made sure Ryan knew it.
Production tweaks to the pellet line boosted output to 200 bags per day. With pellet grills now appearing in big-box store spring inventories, oak and hickory logs, debris, and Hammel scrap were diverted into dedicated grilling pellets. Local Walmarts, Home Depots, and Lowe's each placed orders for 200 bags.
Ryan considered buying a pellet grill but hesitated after research. In their humid climate, even stainless-steel models suffered: non-stainless internal parts corroded quickly, and electric auger motors (activated by heat sensors) often jammed when humidity caused pellets to swell, crumble into sawdust, or clog the feed system. A spring-wound mechanical feed with battery-powered sensor sounded promising, but for now, he stuck with his reliable Kitchenaire gas grill, complete with stainless-steel burners and a dedicated smoke box.
To support growing deliveries, Ryan added two more 2.5-ton trucks with crane booms to the shipping warehouse. Orders were assembled, verified, and dispatched from there—either by road or down to the dock for loading onto the landing craft. He dreamed of consolidating operations someday, but the current setup was efficient, and the built-in redundancy improved delivery accuracy.
Hyponnia Chavez, Gilbert's wife from Guam, brought her skill at weaving palm hats. With no palms nearby, she used reeds from lake coves. Split and pressed through a steel roller, the reeds substituted well for fronds. She made practical yard-work hats, sold them at the nursery, and when interest grew, enlisted friends to add ribbons and headbands. Custom designs brought in nice pocket money. Ryan let her use the wood-drying tunnel for final curing.
In burn tests using an IR thermometer (the same one for compost checks), Ryan compared leaf-based pellets to those from Hammel's wood. Surprisingly, the leaf pellets burned hotter.
Firebreak crews now targeted hickory, oak, and maple, cutting them into three-foot sections—the ideal length for the grinder. Fruitwoods came sporadically via landscapers at the nursery; too little for dedicated runs, they were mixed in or chipped for Ryan's personal smoker.
The employees' wives, inspired by potluck dishes, wanted to learn the recipes. Bread was a favorite. Marsha led the effort, organizing classes at the community center. The downside? The men were developing "Dunlap" bellies—Ed and Harry vowed to start a pre-work PT program. Marsha brought in a nutrition specialist for classes on balanced, nutritious meals.
A large flea market was planned in the field beside the new fire station to sell donated items for equipping it. Locals cleared basements, sheds, and attics for a good cause. Dave and Eileen Bronson organized it, lining up food vendors from as far as Knoxville. Ellie Johnson handled advertising, securing donated radio spots across stations.
The event didn't delay certification. Ryan coordinated with the station chief to ensure all required gear was in place and the department met standards. Paying ahead for a worthy cause never hurt.
New construction sprouted along Laurel Bluff Road. After inspections, the county added more fire hydrants to the water line. Commissioners took notice of the area's growth, tallying rising tax receipts. Walmart planned a new store at the corner of Laurel Bluff and TN-72. The county sheriff negotiated for a substation co-located with the fire station.
When the newly updated pellet bags arrived, Ryan supplied stove and fireplace stores with free samples to give to new pellet stove owners. Each bag featured a loop-pull assist tool hot-glued to the top, printed with the Shiner Hill name and phone number. The promotion paid off: they gained ten new customers in the first month alone.
The stores shared sales data with Ryan, detailing the stoves they carried—models with 40-, 60-, or 80-pound hoppers. Typical burn rates ranged from 1 to 2 pounds per hour, averaging around 1.5 pounds on low to medium settings. This helped Ryan forecast inventory needs more accurately. Pellet grills were also gaining popularity, and without reliable data on future demand, he decided to keep a 500-bag surplus in the warehouse at all times. Grilling pellets came exclusively from oak and hickory, chipped and processed through the hammermill. To distinguish them, Ryan ordered color-coded bags.
The clearing crews, now vacuuming debris for pellet production, grew vigilant about spotting poison oak, sumac, and ivy. Including those plants in pellets could cause serious allergic reactions—through contact or even smoke inhalation—so affected areas were simply mulched and left to decompose naturally.
Bill's canning operation thrived. He bought produce from local hobby farmers and experimented with freeze-drying, especially fruits. Millie served as his key advisor. He had a large order for apples from the August harvest in Western North Carolina, planning to can and freeze-dry them. Expansion was already underway to process a wider variety of vegetables and fruits. To create jobs, Bill partnered with churches supporting local food banks for hiring. While automation machines existed that could streamline packing, he avoided them to preserve employment. He invested in equipment that still required operators trained to manage and troubleshoot it. Profits were solid, but Bill wasn't chasing wealth—he wanted sustainability and community benefit.
Employee housing construction progressed steadily. As each home finished, families gathered at the community center for an "eat and greet" potluck and a lottery draw—if their family size matched the house layout. The winning family chose their move-in date, and unless critical tasks demanded otherwise, employees were released to help them relocate. With Shiner Hill's workforce size, a full move took just one day.
The firehouse neared occupancy. Full-time firefighters were assigned, backed by a growing volunteer roster. A last-minute addition was a vintage brass fireman's pole Ryan salvaged from a Pennsylvania architectural supplier. The local OSHA representative eyed it skeptically until shown that pole-use training was included in the department's program syllabus—for a two-story building, it was safe and practical.
Ryan's son, Davey, grew like a weed and shared his father's preferences—he was already a little "breast man," making cheeky grabs at any woman who held him. Morgan, noticing the pattern, openly wished for a girl next and made sure Ryan knew it.
Production tweaks to the pellet line boosted output to 200 bags per day. With pellet grills now appearing in big-box store spring inventories, oak and hickory logs, debris, and Hammel scrap were diverted into dedicated grilling pellets. Local Walmarts, Home Depots, and Lowe's each placed orders for 200 bags.
Ryan considered buying a pellet grill but hesitated after research. In their humid climate, even stainless-steel models suffered: non-stainless internal parts corroded quickly, and electric auger motors (activated by heat sensors) often jammed when humidity caused pellets to swell, crumble into sawdust, or clog the feed system. A spring-wound mechanical feed with battery-powered sensor sounded promising, but for now, he stuck with his reliable Kitchenaire gas grill, complete with stainless-steel burners and a dedicated smoke box.
To support growing deliveries, Ryan added two more 2.5-ton trucks with crane booms to the shipping warehouse. Orders were assembled, verified, and dispatched from there—either by road or down to the dock for loading onto the landing craft. He dreamed of consolidating operations someday, but the current setup was efficient, and the built-in redundancy improved delivery accuracy.
Hyponnia Chavez, Gilbert's wife from Guam, brought her skill at weaving palm hats. With no palms nearby, she used reeds from lake coves. Split and pressed through a steel roller, the reeds substituted well for fronds. She made practical yard-work hats, sold them at the nursery, and when interest grew, enlisted friends to add ribbons and headbands. Custom designs brought in nice pocket money. Ryan let her use the wood-drying tunnel for final curing.
In burn tests using an IR thermometer (the same one for compost checks), Ryan compared leaf-based pellets to those from Hammel's wood. Surprisingly, the leaf pellets burned hotter.
Firebreak crews now targeted hickory, oak, and maple, cutting them into three-foot sections—the ideal length for the grinder. Fruitwoods came sporadically via landscapers at the nursery; too little for dedicated runs, they were mixed in or chipped for Ryan's personal smoker.
The employees' wives, inspired by potluck dishes, wanted to learn the recipes. Bread was a favorite. Marsha led the effort, organizing classes at the community center. The downside? The men were developing "Dunlap" bellies—Ed and Harry vowed to start a pre-work PT program. Marsha brought in a nutrition specialist for classes on balanced, nutritious meals.
A large flea market was planned in the field beside the new fire station to sell donated items for equipping it. Locals cleared basements, sheds, and attics for a good cause. Dave and Eileen Bronson organized it, lining up food vendors from as far as Knoxville. Ellie Johnson handled advertising, securing donated radio spots across stations.
The event didn't delay certification. Ryan coordinated with the station chief to ensure all required gear was in place and the department met standards. Paying ahead for a worthy cause never hurt.
New construction sprouted along Laurel Bluff Road. After inspections, the county added more fire hydrants to the water line. Commissioners took notice of the area's growth, tallying rising tax receipts. Walmart planned a new store at the corner of Laurel Bluff and TN-72. The county sheriff negotiated for a substation co-located with the fire station.
feralferret
Veteran Member
Ncsfsgm, thank you.
sssarawolf
We're just plugging along.
Thank you.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Thirty
The first responders were soon needed. An M2.9 earth tremor rattled the ridge just west of them at Bacon Gap. Though slightly outside the fire station’s primary jurisdiction, they rolled anyway.
A Conoco gas station suffered partial collapse of its concrete block walls, but the real concern came at Midway High School and Elementary: dropped ceiling tiles and a couple of burst pipes. Students evacuated without injury, and repairs began almost immediately. The Red Cross dispatched an emergency food trailer, serving drinks and handheld food to relief workers and first responders. Grilled cheese sandwiches and cups of tomato soup proved the clear favorites that day.
It had been a tense one. Earth tremors weren’t frequent in the area, but they did happen.
The next time—because there would be a next time—Bill wanted to be ready to do more. He and Ryan pooled resources and commissioned a custom food trailer from one of the country’s top manufacturers. The eight-by-thirty-foot unit would be towed by a heavy-duty Dodge Ram pickup (donated near cost by a local dealer—thanks, Morgan!). It came with a separate logistics trailer and truck for extra food storage and resupply. Tom Shaughnessy agreed to build a dedicated storage shed beside the Community Center to house the rigs. The trailers would stay fully stocked for instant deployment, with volunteers called in as needed to staff them.
Ryan contacted the company that had built their Water Buffalo trailer for soil compaction on the firebreaks and ordered a 550-gallon potable water trailer to pair with the food unit when situations demanded it. People always needed extra water for drinking and cleanup.
The tremor, just shy of qualifying as an earthquake on some scales, opened eyes across the county. Homeowners double-checked foundations and securing straps. The bridge on TN-72 over Stamp Creek, already showing wear, was found to have hidden damage; rather than patch it, the county tore it out and replaced it entirely. Local civil defense and disaster preparedness programs gained real funding and momentum. Neighbors came together with unusual intensity—not that helping one another was rare here, but the urgency felt new.
On a lighter note, Ryan bought a four-seat electric golf cart with an enclosed cab. Sunday afternoons became trail-riding time. Little Davey grew so accustomed to the soft whine of the electric motor that he’d fall fast asleep within minutes. Unless a severe thunderstorm rolled through, the O’Connor family headed out for an hour or two every Sunday. Friends and relatives learned to book visits around it.
At the business, employees formed their own veterans’ association. Unlike the VFW or American Legion, it welcomed anyone who had served at least one day on active duty in the regular branches, National Guard, or Reserves—no combat required, no medals or special pays needed. They began meeting at the Community Center but soon wanted their own space, complete with a bar. Ryan donated land near the nursery and landscaping operation for the building. He joined the Stamp Creek Veterans’ Association from day one but refused any leadership role. “Let the men and women drive their own train,” he said. He did commit to monthly donations for construction and upkeep.
To support the food trailer and rigs, Ryan hired more veterans. At first reluctantly, he brought on a female National Guard vet who’d lost a leg in Iraq to a missile strike. She seemed iffy on paper, but she moved as well as anyone and turned wrenches with the best mechanics. He put her in charge of the food trailer rig; she adopted it as her “baby.” Nothing happened with the trailer or its truck unless it went through her first.
Her counterpart on the support rig was a bent-but-not-broken wheeled-vehicle mechanic from the 10th Mountain Division. Between the two of them, the rigs stayed mission-ready around the clock.
The setting sun streaked the sky in orange as Ryan heard tires crunching gravel. He paid it no mind, adding a couple of logs to the fire pit. A car door slammed; two sets of footsteps approached. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Bill with a vaguely familiar face.
“Ryan, meet George Beucher. He’s running for our district’s county commissioner seat.”
Ryan stood and shook George’s extended hand. “Good to meet you, George. Politicians don’t make house calls unless they need something. How can I help?”
George chuckled. “Fair point. But Bill was telling me about everything you’ve built here, and I had to meet the man behind it.”
Ryan grunted. “You just make do with what you’ve got—and what God gives you. Let me tell you a story.”
He recounted a young-man memory: a communications exercise in the mountains west of Asheville. His team had to send Morse code messages to Fort Bragg on a random schedule. He’d mouthed off to a smart-ass Buck Sergeant (who was also cadre), earning the whole team a rainy-night relocation a few kilometers away. They landed in a muddy former apple orchard. Wet, cold, contact time looming. Normally, everyone pitched in to adjust antennas and stand by for each transmission. But Ryan hadn’t missed one yet.
“I told them to forget it,” he said. “Let’s build a fire and dry out. One missed contact wasn’t going to break me.”
The team gathered wood, rigged a poncho over the ring to block rain, got flames going, dried clothes, set up hooches, and slept well. Next morning, they salvaged an old deer trap, broke it down with a hatchet and camp saw, and built benches around the fire from the planks. They looked less like junkies huddled around a barrel and more like a proper camp. Tight-knit, they helped each other—and soon guys from nearby sites drifted over for their own contacts, drawn by the one place that hadn’t missed but one transmission.
“That exercise made me glad I’d joined up,” Ryan finished. “Most Army units would’ve just bitched. For the first time, I was with adults, not overgrown kids. I’ve carried that lesson ever since: when we work together, everyone’s better off, and it feels good. You’ve got my sympathy running for commissioner. Plenty of complainers around here, few with solutions—even bad ones—and fewer still willing to step up.”
George nodded. “That’s exactly why I wanted to meet you. If I win, I’d like to lean on you now and then for input. You seem to pull gold out of scraps.”
“I don’t know about gold,” Ryan said. “I just take what’s there and make something useful. I only know what I know.”
“When life gives you lemons…?”
Ryan chuckled. “Yeah, something like that.”
They sat a while longer, sipping vodka iced tea and talking county-government headaches.
When George rose to leave, Bill waved him off. “Go on. I’ll cut across the pasture.”
As George’s car faded down the hill, Bill turned. “What do you think?”
“Seems solid. Better head than some up there who think their armpits don’t stink. I’d probably vote for him.”
The first responders were soon needed. An M2.9 earth tremor rattled the ridge just west of them at Bacon Gap. Though slightly outside the fire station’s primary jurisdiction, they rolled anyway.
A Conoco gas station suffered partial collapse of its concrete block walls, but the real concern came at Midway High School and Elementary: dropped ceiling tiles and a couple of burst pipes. Students evacuated without injury, and repairs began almost immediately. The Red Cross dispatched an emergency food trailer, serving drinks and handheld food to relief workers and first responders. Grilled cheese sandwiches and cups of tomato soup proved the clear favorites that day.
It had been a tense one. Earth tremors weren’t frequent in the area, but they did happen.
The next time—because there would be a next time—Bill wanted to be ready to do more. He and Ryan pooled resources and commissioned a custom food trailer from one of the country’s top manufacturers. The eight-by-thirty-foot unit would be towed by a heavy-duty Dodge Ram pickup (donated near cost by a local dealer—thanks, Morgan!). It came with a separate logistics trailer and truck for extra food storage and resupply. Tom Shaughnessy agreed to build a dedicated storage shed beside the Community Center to house the rigs. The trailers would stay fully stocked for instant deployment, with volunteers called in as needed to staff them.
Ryan contacted the company that had built their Water Buffalo trailer for soil compaction on the firebreaks and ordered a 550-gallon potable water trailer to pair with the food unit when situations demanded it. People always needed extra water for drinking and cleanup.
The tremor, just shy of qualifying as an earthquake on some scales, opened eyes across the county. Homeowners double-checked foundations and securing straps. The bridge on TN-72 over Stamp Creek, already showing wear, was found to have hidden damage; rather than patch it, the county tore it out and replaced it entirely. Local civil defense and disaster preparedness programs gained real funding and momentum. Neighbors came together with unusual intensity—not that helping one another was rare here, but the urgency felt new.
On a lighter note, Ryan bought a four-seat electric golf cart with an enclosed cab. Sunday afternoons became trail-riding time. Little Davey grew so accustomed to the soft whine of the electric motor that he’d fall fast asleep within minutes. Unless a severe thunderstorm rolled through, the O’Connor family headed out for an hour or two every Sunday. Friends and relatives learned to book visits around it.
At the business, employees formed their own veterans’ association. Unlike the VFW or American Legion, it welcomed anyone who had served at least one day on active duty in the regular branches, National Guard, or Reserves—no combat required, no medals or special pays needed. They began meeting at the Community Center but soon wanted their own space, complete with a bar. Ryan donated land near the nursery and landscaping operation for the building. He joined the Stamp Creek Veterans’ Association from day one but refused any leadership role. “Let the men and women drive their own train,” he said. He did commit to monthly donations for construction and upkeep.
To support the food trailer and rigs, Ryan hired more veterans. At first reluctantly, he brought on a female National Guard vet who’d lost a leg in Iraq to a missile strike. She seemed iffy on paper, but she moved as well as anyone and turned wrenches with the best mechanics. He put her in charge of the food trailer rig; she adopted it as her “baby.” Nothing happened with the trailer or its truck unless it went through her first.
Her counterpart on the support rig was a bent-but-not-broken wheeled-vehicle mechanic from the 10th Mountain Division. Between the two of them, the rigs stayed mission-ready around the clock.
The setting sun streaked the sky in orange as Ryan heard tires crunching gravel. He paid it no mind, adding a couple of logs to the fire pit. A car door slammed; two sets of footsteps approached. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Bill with a vaguely familiar face.
“Ryan, meet George Beucher. He’s running for our district’s county commissioner seat.”
Ryan stood and shook George’s extended hand. “Good to meet you, George. Politicians don’t make house calls unless they need something. How can I help?”
George chuckled. “Fair point. But Bill was telling me about everything you’ve built here, and I had to meet the man behind it.”
Ryan grunted. “You just make do with what you’ve got—and what God gives you. Let me tell you a story.”
He recounted a young-man memory: a communications exercise in the mountains west of Asheville. His team had to send Morse code messages to Fort Bragg on a random schedule. He’d mouthed off to a smart-ass Buck Sergeant (who was also cadre), earning the whole team a rainy-night relocation a few kilometers away. They landed in a muddy former apple orchard. Wet, cold, contact time looming. Normally, everyone pitched in to adjust antennas and stand by for each transmission. But Ryan hadn’t missed one yet.
“I told them to forget it,” he said. “Let’s build a fire and dry out. One missed contact wasn’t going to break me.”
The team gathered wood, rigged a poncho over the ring to block rain, got flames going, dried clothes, set up hooches, and slept well. Next morning, they salvaged an old deer trap, broke it down with a hatchet and camp saw, and built benches around the fire from the planks. They looked less like junkies huddled around a barrel and more like a proper camp. Tight-knit, they helped each other—and soon guys from nearby sites drifted over for their own contacts, drawn by the one place that hadn’t missed but one transmission.
“That exercise made me glad I’d joined up,” Ryan finished. “Most Army units would’ve just bitched. For the first time, I was with adults, not overgrown kids. I’ve carried that lesson ever since: when we work together, everyone’s better off, and it feels good. You’ve got my sympathy running for commissioner. Plenty of complainers around here, few with solutions—even bad ones—and fewer still willing to step up.”
George nodded. “That’s exactly why I wanted to meet you. If I win, I’d like to lean on you now and then for input. You seem to pull gold out of scraps.”
“I don’t know about gold,” Ryan said. “I just take what’s there and make something useful. I only know what I know.”
“When life gives you lemons…?”
Ryan chuckled. “Yeah, something like that.”
They sat a while longer, sipping vodka iced tea and talking county-government headaches.
When George rose to leave, Bill waved him off. “Go on. I’ll cut across the pasture.”
As George’s car faded down the hill, Bill turned. “What do you think?”
“Seems solid. Better head than some up there who think their armpits don’t stink. I’d probably vote for him.”
sssarawolf
We're just plugging along.
Thank you for the new chapter.
feralferret
Veteran Member
Thanks!
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Thirty-One
Ryan called another town hall at the Community Center. These meetings usually served to announce new contracts and share updates the employees needed to hear. This time, he had something more personal to celebrate.
He stood before the gathered crowd and named three employees whose children had earned full-ride scholarships—one to the University of Tennessee, one to a local trade school, and one to a respected gunsmithing school outside Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. “I’m proud of every one of these kids,” Ryan said, his voice warm with genuine pride. “They kept their grades up, stayed focused, and became the shining lights of this community. The study sessions, the tutors we brought in—some from right here, some from outside on the company’s dime—made a real difference. This is what we’re building together.”
A few weeks later, Jamie turned twenty-one. Ryan released the balance of his trust fund that same day. Jamie and Ellie still planned to finish college before marrying, but they were ready to start building their future. They had chosen a beautiful one-acre clearing on Burke’s Mountain, roughly five hundred meters south of Shiner Hill. The lot was part of the old Henderson Tract. Though the elevation sat a little lower than Shiner Hill, the southeast view across the valley was breathtaking.
They already knew the house they wanted. After weeks of discussion, they had worked with an architect at a log-home company in Knoxville to modify the plans to their exact specifications. Bill and Helen insisted on giving them the house as a wedding gift. Ryan, in turn, deeded Jamie five acres and granted a permanent road easement connecting the new lot to the existing driveway that served Bill and Helen’s home.
During a lull in other projects, Ryan assigned one of the clearing crews to open the easement and stockpile the harvested wood at the building site for future firewood. Jamie ran the company excavators himself, digging out the walk-in basement and the lower-level garage. He and Ellie had clever ideas: a three-car garage on the same level as the basement, with a large patio covering it, and a service lift rising directly from the basement into the pantry beside the kitchen upstairs. Groceries could be rolled in on a cart, loaded onto the lift, and delivered dry and easy—no matter how hard the winter rain or snow was falling.
Around the same time, Ryan closed on a quick-sale forty-five-acre parcel that included the Branson Brothers’ auto repair shop. Since the brothers already handled equipment maintenance for Shiner Hill, the deal made perfect sense. They retained full right of occupancy for both their business and homes. Ryan extended a road from Bill’s property to the garage, tying the new tract into the main Shiner Hill drive and reducing reliance on the county road.
Tom Shaughnessy was tasked with consolidating accounting and administrative operations into a single, efficient space. Morgan had been hinting strongly about wanting a daughter, so Miriam had quietly taken over most of Morgan’s day-to-day duties. Ellie, with her natural eye for design, began planning the new workspace. She intended to bring in architecture and interior-design students from UT once she finalized the requirements and location.
Life at Shiner Hill seemed to be clicking along in perfect rhythm.
Then the sky turned the color of a bruise.
Late that afternoon, the air over Ponder’s Gap grew unnaturally still and heavy, carrying the sharp, metallic scent of ozone. The narrow valley between the ridges of Roane County fell silent—until a roar rose that wasn’t thunder. It sounded like a freight train barreling straight through the hills.
An F4 tornado touched down near the mouth of Ponder’s Gap, its winds screaming past two hundred miles per hour. The funnel, nearly a mile wide at the base, ripped up the west side of Stamp Creek like a living thing, snapping century-old trees into matchsticks and hurling them skyward in a swirling cloud of green and brown debris.
It zigzagged northeast, locking onto the high-tension powerline corridor as if guided by malice. Transmission towers crumpled like tinfoil. Power lines lashed wildly before snapping and wrapping around uprooted oaks and pines. The tornado scoured the earth, stripping soil and pavement, flinging cars and trucks into the woods like children’s toys.
Homes and farms in the valley simply vanished. Roofs lifted off and disintegrated mid-air. Walls exploded outward. Livestock and debris were sucked into the vortex and spat out miles away. The roar swallowed every scream.
Climbing the western ridge, the monster stayed locked on the powerline right-of-way, debarking ancient hardwoods and leaving them as pale, naked skeletons. Boulders rolled like pebbles. In places, the ground was scoured down to bare rock.
Then it crested the ridge and slammed into Grace Point Camp and Retreat Center.
The 250-acre sanctuary along Watts Bar Lake never had a chance. Cabins were torn from their foundations and shredded into kindling. The main retreat building collapsed in on itself as the roof peeled away and the walls blew outward. The chapel’s steeple was ripped off and driven into the earth like a spear. Trees were not merely uprooted—they were pulverized, leaving only craters where their root balls had been.
In less than two minutes, the peaceful retreat of bunkhouses, hiking trails, and lakeside serenity was reduced to a blasted wasteland of twisted metal, splintered wood, and scattered belongings. The tornado continued northeast, weakening only after carving a miles-long scar across the Tennessee countryside. Its final act was to rope out and turn white over the waters of Watts Bar Lake.
Shiner Hill, LLC, responded as one.
Some workers had already reported to the fire station before the warning siren even stopped screaming. The nursery closed, leaving only a skeleton crew. Trail teams were recalled for cleanup. Mercifully, the tornado’s path had missed Shiner Hill property entirely, sparing them from destruction—though debris still needed hauling away.
With power out across the valley, a special team formed to work with the fire department, locating residents who depended on electricity for home health equipment. Portable generators and oxygen bottles were delivered door-to-door. The company’s mobile food trailer stood ready, waiting for direction from Emergency Management on the best location to set up. So far, no deaths had been reported—only injuries from tossed vehicles and two Grace Point workers trapped beneath a collapsed gazebo.
Bill shut down his plant immediately. His employees turned the Community Center into a temporary shelter, setting up cots and preparing hot meals. The Red Cross staged operations out of the same building. Volunteers poured in from Roane and surrounding counties. Construction companies from across the region sent heavy equipment and crews to clear roads and open access to the devastated powerline corridor.
Ryan had two office trailers delivered and connected at the Community Center to bolster Emergency Management’s command post.
The next afternoon, under a sky still bruised with lingering storm clouds, hundreds gathered at the Shiner Hill Community Center. A makeshift stage of sawhorses and tarps stood in the parking lot. At its center rose a simple wooden cross fashioned from beams salvaged from a collapsed barn.
Families arrived clutching one another—some still wearing the clothes they’d had on when the sirens sounded. Neighbors who rarely spoke stood shoulder to shoulder. Pastors from Baptist, Methodist, Pentecostal, and non-denominational churches moved quietly among them, offering hugs, handshakes, and murmured prayers.
Reverend Marcus Hayes of Laurel Bluff Baptist Church stepped to the microphone, his deep voice steady. “We’re not here because the storm passed easily,” he said, “but because we know the One who calms the winds and the waves still walks with us through the wreckage.”
They sang old hymns—“Amazing Grace,” “How Great Thou Art”—voices raw but united, rising into the clearing air. Then Pastor Elena Ruiz read from Psalm 46: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth be removed…”
She spoke of the tornado’s fury, but quickly turned to deliverance: neighbors pulling one another from rubble, strangers arriving with chainsaws and water, a baby found unharmed in her grandmother’s arms.
One by one, other pastors stepped forward. A young Assemblies of God associate opened the floor to prayer. Voices rose—trembling, grateful, angry, hopeful. A father thanked God for sparing his family while mourning his workshop. A mother prayed for the still-missing. A teenager asked for strength to rebuild.
Reverend Hayes closed the service as twilight softened the edges of the day. He invited everyone to join hands, forming long chains across the parking lot—black, white, Hispanic, young, old, believer and doubter alike.
“We don’t have all the answers tonight,” he said, his voice carrying on the evening breeze, “but we have each other, and we have a God who promises never to leave us nor forsake us. This community will rise again.”
They sang “It Is Well With My Soul,” the words carrying a hard-won resonance. As the final notes faded, people lingered, unwilling to release the fragile peace they had found together. Some stayed in small prayer circles. Others drifted toward tables where church volunteers had set out coffee, sandwiches, and diapers.
The tornado had taken much.
But in that battered parking lot beside the Community Center, something unbreakable had been reaffirmed: faith, community, and the stubborn will to begin again at first light.
The sky deepened to violet, and somewhere in the distance, a whip-poor-will called.
Ryan called another town hall at the Community Center. These meetings usually served to announce new contracts and share updates the employees needed to hear. This time, he had something more personal to celebrate.
He stood before the gathered crowd and named three employees whose children had earned full-ride scholarships—one to the University of Tennessee, one to a local trade school, and one to a respected gunsmithing school outside Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. “I’m proud of every one of these kids,” Ryan said, his voice warm with genuine pride. “They kept their grades up, stayed focused, and became the shining lights of this community. The study sessions, the tutors we brought in—some from right here, some from outside on the company’s dime—made a real difference. This is what we’re building together.”
A few weeks later, Jamie turned twenty-one. Ryan released the balance of his trust fund that same day. Jamie and Ellie still planned to finish college before marrying, but they were ready to start building their future. They had chosen a beautiful one-acre clearing on Burke’s Mountain, roughly five hundred meters south of Shiner Hill. The lot was part of the old Henderson Tract. Though the elevation sat a little lower than Shiner Hill, the southeast view across the valley was breathtaking.
They already knew the house they wanted. After weeks of discussion, they had worked with an architect at a log-home company in Knoxville to modify the plans to their exact specifications. Bill and Helen insisted on giving them the house as a wedding gift. Ryan, in turn, deeded Jamie five acres and granted a permanent road easement connecting the new lot to the existing driveway that served Bill and Helen’s home.
During a lull in other projects, Ryan assigned one of the clearing crews to open the easement and stockpile the harvested wood at the building site for future firewood. Jamie ran the company excavators himself, digging out the walk-in basement and the lower-level garage. He and Ellie had clever ideas: a three-car garage on the same level as the basement, with a large patio covering it, and a service lift rising directly from the basement into the pantry beside the kitchen upstairs. Groceries could be rolled in on a cart, loaded onto the lift, and delivered dry and easy—no matter how hard the winter rain or snow was falling.
Around the same time, Ryan closed on a quick-sale forty-five-acre parcel that included the Branson Brothers’ auto repair shop. Since the brothers already handled equipment maintenance for Shiner Hill, the deal made perfect sense. They retained full right of occupancy for both their business and homes. Ryan extended a road from Bill’s property to the garage, tying the new tract into the main Shiner Hill drive and reducing reliance on the county road.
Tom Shaughnessy was tasked with consolidating accounting and administrative operations into a single, efficient space. Morgan had been hinting strongly about wanting a daughter, so Miriam had quietly taken over most of Morgan’s day-to-day duties. Ellie, with her natural eye for design, began planning the new workspace. She intended to bring in architecture and interior-design students from UT once she finalized the requirements and location.
Life at Shiner Hill seemed to be clicking along in perfect rhythm.
Then the sky turned the color of a bruise.
Late that afternoon, the air over Ponder’s Gap grew unnaturally still and heavy, carrying the sharp, metallic scent of ozone. The narrow valley between the ridges of Roane County fell silent—until a roar rose that wasn’t thunder. It sounded like a freight train barreling straight through the hills.
An F4 tornado touched down near the mouth of Ponder’s Gap, its winds screaming past two hundred miles per hour. The funnel, nearly a mile wide at the base, ripped up the west side of Stamp Creek like a living thing, snapping century-old trees into matchsticks and hurling them skyward in a swirling cloud of green and brown debris.
It zigzagged northeast, locking onto the high-tension powerline corridor as if guided by malice. Transmission towers crumpled like tinfoil. Power lines lashed wildly before snapping and wrapping around uprooted oaks and pines. The tornado scoured the earth, stripping soil and pavement, flinging cars and trucks into the woods like children’s toys.
Homes and farms in the valley simply vanished. Roofs lifted off and disintegrated mid-air. Walls exploded outward. Livestock and debris were sucked into the vortex and spat out miles away. The roar swallowed every scream.
Climbing the western ridge, the monster stayed locked on the powerline right-of-way, debarking ancient hardwoods and leaving them as pale, naked skeletons. Boulders rolled like pebbles. In places, the ground was scoured down to bare rock.
Then it crested the ridge and slammed into Grace Point Camp and Retreat Center.
The 250-acre sanctuary along Watts Bar Lake never had a chance. Cabins were torn from their foundations and shredded into kindling. The main retreat building collapsed in on itself as the roof peeled away and the walls blew outward. The chapel’s steeple was ripped off and driven into the earth like a spear. Trees were not merely uprooted—they were pulverized, leaving only craters where their root balls had been.
In less than two minutes, the peaceful retreat of bunkhouses, hiking trails, and lakeside serenity was reduced to a blasted wasteland of twisted metal, splintered wood, and scattered belongings. The tornado continued northeast, weakening only after carving a miles-long scar across the Tennessee countryside. Its final act was to rope out and turn white over the waters of Watts Bar Lake.
Shiner Hill, LLC, responded as one.
Some workers had already reported to the fire station before the warning siren even stopped screaming. The nursery closed, leaving only a skeleton crew. Trail teams were recalled for cleanup. Mercifully, the tornado’s path had missed Shiner Hill property entirely, sparing them from destruction—though debris still needed hauling away.
With power out across the valley, a special team formed to work with the fire department, locating residents who depended on electricity for home health equipment. Portable generators and oxygen bottles were delivered door-to-door. The company’s mobile food trailer stood ready, waiting for direction from Emergency Management on the best location to set up. So far, no deaths had been reported—only injuries from tossed vehicles and two Grace Point workers trapped beneath a collapsed gazebo.
Bill shut down his plant immediately. His employees turned the Community Center into a temporary shelter, setting up cots and preparing hot meals. The Red Cross staged operations out of the same building. Volunteers poured in from Roane and surrounding counties. Construction companies from across the region sent heavy equipment and crews to clear roads and open access to the devastated powerline corridor.
Ryan had two office trailers delivered and connected at the Community Center to bolster Emergency Management’s command post.
The next afternoon, under a sky still bruised with lingering storm clouds, hundreds gathered at the Shiner Hill Community Center. A makeshift stage of sawhorses and tarps stood in the parking lot. At its center rose a simple wooden cross fashioned from beams salvaged from a collapsed barn.
Families arrived clutching one another—some still wearing the clothes they’d had on when the sirens sounded. Neighbors who rarely spoke stood shoulder to shoulder. Pastors from Baptist, Methodist, Pentecostal, and non-denominational churches moved quietly among them, offering hugs, handshakes, and murmured prayers.
Reverend Marcus Hayes of Laurel Bluff Baptist Church stepped to the microphone, his deep voice steady. “We’re not here because the storm passed easily,” he said, “but because we know the One who calms the winds and the waves still walks with us through the wreckage.”
They sang old hymns—“Amazing Grace,” “How Great Thou Art”—voices raw but united, rising into the clearing air. Then Pastor Elena Ruiz read from Psalm 46: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth be removed…”
She spoke of the tornado’s fury, but quickly turned to deliverance: neighbors pulling one another from rubble, strangers arriving with chainsaws and water, a baby found unharmed in her grandmother’s arms.
One by one, other pastors stepped forward. A young Assemblies of God associate opened the floor to prayer. Voices rose—trembling, grateful, angry, hopeful. A father thanked God for sparing his family while mourning his workshop. A mother prayed for the still-missing. A teenager asked for strength to rebuild.
Reverend Hayes closed the service as twilight softened the edges of the day. He invited everyone to join hands, forming long chains across the parking lot—black, white, Hispanic, young, old, believer and doubter alike.
“We don’t have all the answers tonight,” he said, his voice carrying on the evening breeze, “but we have each other, and we have a God who promises never to leave us nor forsake us. This community will rise again.”
They sang “It Is Well With My Soul,” the words carrying a hard-won resonance. As the final notes faded, people lingered, unwilling to release the fragile peace they had found together. Some stayed in small prayer circles. Others drifted toward tables where church volunteers had set out coffee, sandwiches, and diapers.
The tornado had taken much.
But in that battered parking lot beside the Community Center, something unbreakable had been reaffirmed: faith, community, and the stubborn will to begin again at first light.
The sky deepened to violet, and somewhere in the distance, a whip-poor-will called.
sssarawolf
We're just plugging along.
Tornado's are always awful. Thank you for the chapter.
feralferret
Veteran Member
Thank you.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Thirty-Two
The worst of the recovery was finally over. County sheriff’s deputies still directed traffic, giving trucks hauling storm debris priority access to the county dump. Damaged homes were being repaired, while some condemned foundations were simply bulldozed flat. A few families chose not to rebuild and moved to more developed areas.
Ryan flew the SuperSTOL the entire length of the tornado’s path, surveying the full extent of the destruction. Shiner Hill had been extremely lucky. God must have had an angel watching over them. He buzzed low over the Grace Point site and saw crews working to clear debris and salvage what they could. Ryan had sent two of his own teams down to help.
When he landed, he headed straight to the Community Center. Most of the refugees had already left. A handful of women and teenagers were busy cleaning up the last of the mess. Ryan had already spread the word that he wanted to hold a town hall meeting once things calmed down. He wanted honest input from the community: what had worked, what hadn’t, and how they could do better next time.
The food trailer had been returned to the firehouse for cleaning and restocking, and the Red Cross had pulled out. In the aftermath, several homeowners—or what was left of them—approached Ryan about selling their land. A few opportunistic speculators had also started circling, making lowball offers. Most residents turned to Ryan instead, trusting he would give them a fair price.
He ended up acquiring another forty-four acres. Two landowners sold off portions of their property to cover the cost of repairing their homes, since insurance companies were painfully slow in issuing checks. Ryan had his real estate attorney handle the paperwork and paid the sellers in cash the moment the documents were signed.
That weekend, Ryan invited Jorge Menendez over for a cookout to discuss setting up a gun range and retail shop. Jorge was a retired Army Special Forces Senior Sergeant (18Z) with an extensive 18B weapons background. He had run Range 39 at Fort Bragg and was exactly the kind of man Ryan needed. Ryan asked him to assemble a team of skilled trainers to operate the range and gun shop. Experience as a gunsmith was a big plus, though they already had one student training at the Pennsylvania Gunsmith School.
The storm had left Shiner Hill with a massive amount of downed timber. Most of it would be turned into wood pellets and mulch—more than enough to supply their needs well into the following year. Many of the men picked up extra hours volunteering with the local nursery and landscaping company, which was handling the bulk of the area’s debris cleanup. Ryan had Harry Givens keep a close eye on staffing to make sure no crews were left shorthanded, while still giving anyone who wanted to volunteer the opportunity to do so.
Morgan decided the family needed a break. She booked a weekend at a quiet bed-and-breakfast near Muddy Pond and insisted Ryan, Davey, and she get away for a couple of days. She also wanted to start gathering Christmas gifts early. Ryan gave a few last-minute instructions, then agreed. He admitted he could use the downtime too.
They left Friday morning and took their time on the scenic fifty-mile drive. Ryan kept his speed at or below the limit, enjoying the countryside. He stopped twice at roadside stands to buy fresh-pressed apple cider. One vendor thoughtfully sold champagne yeast so customers could turn the sweet cider into hard cider later.
Their first stop was the Mountain Leather store, where they picked up several belts and wallets as gifts. Next came the Country Porch, where Ryan took charge of the stroller and Davey while Morgan swept through the aisles, gathering armfuls of non-perishable items. Her plan was to return Saturday for the fresh goods before heading home. She took careful notes of what she wanted.
Their final stop of the day was the Muddy Pond General Store. Morgan didn’t buy as much there, but she still came away with several bags. Bud was glad he had installed the camper shell on the truck—otherwise there wouldn’t have been nearly enough room. Davey’s carrier would have ended up strapped to the roof rack.
They checked into the B&B and enjoyed a wonderful supper that evening.
Meanwhile, Jamie had quietly found the diamond he wanted for Ellie. It was raw and uncut, but guaranteed to yield at least one-and-three-quarter carats once cut and polished. He kept the purchase secret and commissioned a firm in New York City to cut and mount it in a platinum setting.
After a hearty breakfast Saturday morning, the O’Connor family headed to the Muddy Pond Variety Store, the last of the Mennonite-run shops in the area. Ryan had considered stopping at the Gunther farm for fresh sorghum syrup, but the variety store had plenty in stock.
He spent a few minutes rearranging the truck bed to make room for Morgan’s planned haul on the way home. Ryan selected six gallon jugs of sorghum syrup and two gallons of raw honey. Morgan loaded up on soaps, candles, spices, pints of jellies and preserves, and several more personal gifts. Davey watched his mother’s frantic shopping for a while, then drifted off to sleep, clutching a small toy beaver to his chest, thoroughly unimpressed.
On the way back, they stopped again at the other stores so Morgan could check the remaining items off her list. She bought a few loaves of fresh bread—not to eat immediately, but to study so she could try baking her own later. At the Country Porch, Ryan grabbed several bags of spicy pork rinds. “They go great with beer,” he said with a grin.
Jamie and Ellie were at the house when the O’Connors returned. Jamie laughed at the overflowing truck bed and pitched in to help unload.
“Don’t laugh too hard,” Ryan warned. “Your time is coming.”
Ellie had a Dutch oven of beef stew simmering on the stove. The fresh bread Morgan had picked up paired perfectly with it.
In the weeks leading up to the holiday season, Bill began receiving large shipments: five hundred pound cardboard cartons of English walnuts from Tulare County, California; black walnuts from Stockton, Missouri; pecans from Georgia; and raw peanuts from North Carolina. He was also sourcing cool-weather crops and produce from local hobby farmers eager to make a little extra money under the table.
Bill had expanded his produce market, adding a Prodew misting system to keep everything fresh longer. He’d also enlarged the parking lot—customers had been spending too much time circling for spots.
Wood and heating pellet sales continued to grow, along with demand for grilling pellets to stock up for winter. Once they built up a sufficient buffer in the warehouse, Ryan instructed the crew to produce no more than a hundred bags of pellets per day. This kept inventory rotating so the oldest stock sold first.
Business was so strong that Ryan’s accountant warned him he needed significant tax write-offs before year-end or he’d face a hefty tax bill. Ryan put Hellen and Miriam in charge of coordinating with local churches and relief agencies to organize holiday food box giveaways before Thanksgiving. He wanted the fire station to serve as the main distribution point, giving the volunteer department some well-deserved positive attention. He also planned to make a generous donation to the station.
Jorge Menendez got back to Ryan a few days later. He had found the weapons trainers: two who had worked Range 39 at Bragg, and two others who had deployed overseas training foreign troops in weapons handling. Ryan asked Jorge to gather the group for a meeting to discuss his vision for the gun shop and firing range—including one 1,000-meter lane
The worst of the recovery was finally over. County sheriff’s deputies still directed traffic, giving trucks hauling storm debris priority access to the county dump. Damaged homes were being repaired, while some condemned foundations were simply bulldozed flat. A few families chose not to rebuild and moved to more developed areas.
Ryan flew the SuperSTOL the entire length of the tornado’s path, surveying the full extent of the destruction. Shiner Hill had been extremely lucky. God must have had an angel watching over them. He buzzed low over the Grace Point site and saw crews working to clear debris and salvage what they could. Ryan had sent two of his own teams down to help.
When he landed, he headed straight to the Community Center. Most of the refugees had already left. A handful of women and teenagers were busy cleaning up the last of the mess. Ryan had already spread the word that he wanted to hold a town hall meeting once things calmed down. He wanted honest input from the community: what had worked, what hadn’t, and how they could do better next time.
The food trailer had been returned to the firehouse for cleaning and restocking, and the Red Cross had pulled out. In the aftermath, several homeowners—or what was left of them—approached Ryan about selling their land. A few opportunistic speculators had also started circling, making lowball offers. Most residents turned to Ryan instead, trusting he would give them a fair price.
He ended up acquiring another forty-four acres. Two landowners sold off portions of their property to cover the cost of repairing their homes, since insurance companies were painfully slow in issuing checks. Ryan had his real estate attorney handle the paperwork and paid the sellers in cash the moment the documents were signed.
That weekend, Ryan invited Jorge Menendez over for a cookout to discuss setting up a gun range and retail shop. Jorge was a retired Army Special Forces Senior Sergeant (18Z) with an extensive 18B weapons background. He had run Range 39 at Fort Bragg and was exactly the kind of man Ryan needed. Ryan asked him to assemble a team of skilled trainers to operate the range and gun shop. Experience as a gunsmith was a big plus, though they already had one student training at the Pennsylvania Gunsmith School.
The storm had left Shiner Hill with a massive amount of downed timber. Most of it would be turned into wood pellets and mulch—more than enough to supply their needs well into the following year. Many of the men picked up extra hours volunteering with the local nursery and landscaping company, which was handling the bulk of the area’s debris cleanup. Ryan had Harry Givens keep a close eye on staffing to make sure no crews were left shorthanded, while still giving anyone who wanted to volunteer the opportunity to do so.
Morgan decided the family needed a break. She booked a weekend at a quiet bed-and-breakfast near Muddy Pond and insisted Ryan, Davey, and she get away for a couple of days. She also wanted to start gathering Christmas gifts early. Ryan gave a few last-minute instructions, then agreed. He admitted he could use the downtime too.
They left Friday morning and took their time on the scenic fifty-mile drive. Ryan kept his speed at or below the limit, enjoying the countryside. He stopped twice at roadside stands to buy fresh-pressed apple cider. One vendor thoughtfully sold champagne yeast so customers could turn the sweet cider into hard cider later.
Their first stop was the Mountain Leather store, where they picked up several belts and wallets as gifts. Next came the Country Porch, where Ryan took charge of the stroller and Davey while Morgan swept through the aisles, gathering armfuls of non-perishable items. Her plan was to return Saturday for the fresh goods before heading home. She took careful notes of what she wanted.
Their final stop of the day was the Muddy Pond General Store. Morgan didn’t buy as much there, but she still came away with several bags. Bud was glad he had installed the camper shell on the truck—otherwise there wouldn’t have been nearly enough room. Davey’s carrier would have ended up strapped to the roof rack.
They checked into the B&B and enjoyed a wonderful supper that evening.
Meanwhile, Jamie had quietly found the diamond he wanted for Ellie. It was raw and uncut, but guaranteed to yield at least one-and-three-quarter carats once cut and polished. He kept the purchase secret and commissioned a firm in New York City to cut and mount it in a platinum setting.
After a hearty breakfast Saturday morning, the O’Connor family headed to the Muddy Pond Variety Store, the last of the Mennonite-run shops in the area. Ryan had considered stopping at the Gunther farm for fresh sorghum syrup, but the variety store had plenty in stock.
He spent a few minutes rearranging the truck bed to make room for Morgan’s planned haul on the way home. Ryan selected six gallon jugs of sorghum syrup and two gallons of raw honey. Morgan loaded up on soaps, candles, spices, pints of jellies and preserves, and several more personal gifts. Davey watched his mother’s frantic shopping for a while, then drifted off to sleep, clutching a small toy beaver to his chest, thoroughly unimpressed.
On the way back, they stopped again at the other stores so Morgan could check the remaining items off her list. She bought a few loaves of fresh bread—not to eat immediately, but to study so she could try baking her own later. At the Country Porch, Ryan grabbed several bags of spicy pork rinds. “They go great with beer,” he said with a grin.
Jamie and Ellie were at the house when the O’Connors returned. Jamie laughed at the overflowing truck bed and pitched in to help unload.
“Don’t laugh too hard,” Ryan warned. “Your time is coming.”
Ellie had a Dutch oven of beef stew simmering on the stove. The fresh bread Morgan had picked up paired perfectly with it.
In the weeks leading up to the holiday season, Bill began receiving large shipments: five hundred pound cardboard cartons of English walnuts from Tulare County, California; black walnuts from Stockton, Missouri; pecans from Georgia; and raw peanuts from North Carolina. He was also sourcing cool-weather crops and produce from local hobby farmers eager to make a little extra money under the table.
Bill had expanded his produce market, adding a Prodew misting system to keep everything fresh longer. He’d also enlarged the parking lot—customers had been spending too much time circling for spots.
Wood and heating pellet sales continued to grow, along with demand for grilling pellets to stock up for winter. Once they built up a sufficient buffer in the warehouse, Ryan instructed the crew to produce no more than a hundred bags of pellets per day. This kept inventory rotating so the oldest stock sold first.
Business was so strong that Ryan’s accountant warned him he needed significant tax write-offs before year-end or he’d face a hefty tax bill. Ryan put Hellen and Miriam in charge of coordinating with local churches and relief agencies to organize holiday food box giveaways before Thanksgiving. He wanted the fire station to serve as the main distribution point, giving the volunteer department some well-deserved positive attention. He also planned to make a generous donation to the station.
Jorge Menendez got back to Ryan a few days later. He had found the weapons trainers: two who had worked Range 39 at Bragg, and two others who had deployed overseas training foreign troops in weapons handling. Ryan asked Jorge to gather the group for a meeting to discuss his vision for the gun shop and firing range—including one 1,000-meter lane