Story Not As Simple As It Seems

Chapter Forty-Seven

Bud ordered the sconces and had them shipped priority. While he waited for delivery, he headed to the gazebo and began taking precise measurements for the wiring runs. He picked up two used batteries and two used solar panels from Dan, then stopped by NAPA to buy taillight assemblies and bulbs so he could rewire the sconces himself.

After seeing the insect control systems John had installed around the marina, Bud ordered four Dynatrap electrical discharge units to mount on the gazebo’s four outside support posts. Mosquitoes and flies weren’t usually a big problem on the property, but where people gathered, they could become one. Bud already had one in his yard and another at the end of his dock; both worked so well that fish waited expectantly whenever he emptied the traps.

Until the sconces arrived, Bud avoided most of the store’s day-to-day work. He had no interest in folding T-shirts or hanging bikini sets. There was still plenty to do before the Labor Day grand opening, but the women had the retail side well in hand. Instead, he focused on cleaning and prepping the selected antique pieces for display and sale.

When Joe and Diana returned from their trip, Bud picked them up at the airport. They were tired but clearly happy to be home. Diana insisted on stopping by the store first. The moment she walked in, a wave of female squeals and laughter erupted. Joe grabbed a Nehi grape soda from the cooler and joined Bud on the porch under the ceiling fan.

“You all got a lot done,” Joe said, looking around.

“Yeah,” Bud agreed. “The women brought it all together.”

“I ran into Jay Cross down in Kingston,” Joe said. “He’s working as a security consultant now.”

“Nice cushy gig,” Bud replied.

“He seems to like it.” Joe took a long pull from his soda. “By the way, Patty put fresh dairy in your fridge yesterday.”

“Did she include ice cream?”

“I don’t know. Better grab a quart before we leave, just to be safe.”

“Beer?”

“There’s a six-pack in the fridge and the rest of the case is in the pantry.”

“Thanks. That Jamaican stuff is pure rat piss.”

Joe chuckled. “It probably would’ve tasted better if you’d drunk it here.”

“I don’t think so. I can still taste the skunky flavor in the back of my throat.”

Diana and the other women spilled out onto the porch, still buzzing with excitement. Joe slipped back inside, bought a quart of Butter Pecan ice cream and a pint of peach yogurt for Diana, and then Bud drove them down to the house before heading home himself.

The next day, Bud spent a leisurely afternoon washing his boat and plane. Meanwhile, the security crew finished installing the full system—cameras, upgraded door locks, strobes, and panic buttons. The wiring had been run during construction, so the installation went smoothly. Once they left, Bud and Joe made a few adjustments to the panic buttons and installed two narrow gun safe mounts under the counter. Pressing the hidden button on the top edge would open the safes, but after a ten-second delay, the doors would lock, a siren would screech, and the strobes would flash—hopefully enough to distract any would-be thief.

Bud built a mockup down at the range, and Joe and Don trained the employees on procedures and warning signs. Surprisingly, the women unanimously chose the Glock Model 43X as their preferred pistol.

The day before the grand opening, Bud drove to Food Lion and bought six icebox melons and four cantaloupes. He placed two cantaloupes and four melons in the drink cooler to chill.

Sharon found the Olivers a house in Belhaven. Moving out was relatively easy—they still had an entire bay in the garage filled with boxes they’d never unpacked from their previous move. When Don and Lili inspected the property, they bought it on the spot. Once again, Bud found himself helping with the heavy lifting, carrying in the individual pieces Lili had selected while the furniture store delivered the larger sets. Lili now wore a beautiful diamond on her finger, though no wedding date had been set. She had decided the juice wasn’t worth the squeeze; a life with Don—wherever it led—was better than what she’d left behind. The other women immediately overwhelmed her with wedding ideas. Lili laughed most of it off, until Bud teased her about villages in the Pyrenees that roasted donkeys for wedding feasts, guaranteeing everyone “a piece of ass.”

He ended up with a butter knife at his throat and Lili growling, “Stop it!” followed by a string of colorful Basque phrases that could blister paint. She made it clear she would handle the wedding when—and how—she wanted to. In the meantime, Bud’s enclosed trailer logged many miles between Columbia and Greenville helping Don and Lili move.

Bud and John decided to hire Amanda “Mandy” Howard, a former Machinery Technician (MK) who had served at the Fuel Farm on the Coast Guard base in Elizabeth City. The next most qualified applicant had spent three years at a county solid waste site. Mandy was built like she could play hooker on a rugby team—strong, solid, and no-nonsense. She tossed cases of STA-BIL 360 Marine fuel stabilizer around like they were bags of potato chips. She quickly helped Pete and John create an efficient billing system that allowed receipts to be scanned straight into the computer. The accountant was thrilled. Everyone welcomed her with open arms.

At first, Pete set up a used travel trailer across the ten-foot-wide canal and built a small bridge so she could get to work. He also began renovating the upper floor of a barn on the same side into a cozy efficiency apartment. Mandy could park her restored 1955 Chevrolet 3100 Stepside pickup inside the barn hall. Don pitched in to help Bud and Ben build a handsome arched bridge over the canal.

The grand opening of the General Store and Marina drew a big crowd—mostly locals, but with a healthy number of summer tourists as well. They nearly sold out of the screen-printed T-shirts and aprons with the General Store Logo and moved several copies of the church cookbook. Charisse made a mental note to stock more local cookbooks; it seemed visitors loved collecting them. She even wondered if she could talk Bud into putting together a cookbook of his own recipes.

For the next week, Charisse kept a daily tally of customers. They were averaging twenty-five to thirty people a day—folks running in for last-minute meal items or simply unwilling to drive all the way into Columbia. Even the manager at Food Lion stopped by one afternoon, jokingly complaining that they were stealing his night customers. Because of the increased traffic, the Sheriff’s department began keeping a patrol car in the area. More often than not, the deputy could be found sitting on the porch with a cup of coffee and a honeybun or moon pie.

Just before Mandy’s apartment was ready, Pete had the phone company run a landline extension from the fuel pier to the barn in case of late-night customers. Half the barn hall floor was already covered in jet ski parts—Mandy was rebuilding one in her spare time.

The cooler winds of fall only slightly reduced business. They were drawing more locals, and the marina had become an overflow fuel stop for fishermen who usually used Cypress Cove. Local boaters often stopped in to add fuel stabilizer and top off their tanks before winter storage. Bud, Ben, Don, and Joe spent a weekend at Billy Harrington’s for his annual fall hog hunt. They came home with full freezers. Over two nights, the twelve men involved killed nearly 250 adult hogs. Joe had equipped everyone with rifles, ammunition, and night vision from his private stash. The 6.8mm rounds proved brutally effective.

Patty was well into her “waddle” stage of pregnancy. Bud had to constantly restrain himself from hovering, though he did buy her a cross-body purse so she could easily carry her radio and cell phone. (She didn’t tell him she had also started carrying her pistol.)

As September deepened, the snowbirds from the northern states and Canada began arriving. There was a strong run on home-canned goods and novelty items. The store sold three antiques: a nightstand with a tin door, a vintage oak wall-mount phone with bells, an oak pie safe with nail-punched door inserts, and an antique wooden bread bowl. Now the search was on for more unique replacements. Snowbirds, it seemed, would buy anything.

Don and Lili had little work to do to get their new house ready. They had the same company that installed Bud’s hurricane shutters add them to their home, along with the same water filtration system. The rest of their time was spent selecting and acquiring furniture, including a trip all the way to Raleigh for larger pieces.

One Saturday evening, Bud and Patty invited Joe and Diana, along with Don and Lili, over for a special dinner. Bud spent most of the day in the kitchen with Patty’s help, preparing dishes Patty had never heard of before. When everyone arrived, they were served wine and allowed to enjoy the wonderful aromas drifting from the kitchen.

Finally, they were called to the table. Lili’s eyes lit up at the first course.

“Baked spider crab!” she squealed.

“Well, it’s crab stuffed into a shell,” Bud explained, “but the meat is blue crab. All the other ingredients are traditional. To me, it tastes the same.”

“What is baked spider crab?” Don asked.

“It’s a traditional dish from the Basque Country!” Lili explained excitedly.

Everyone agreed it was delicious, if different from the stuffed crab they were used to.

Next came Basque txuleton steak, served with Basque potato salad with green beans and eggs, and seeded baguettes. Bud kept the wine and water glasses filled, quietly watching his guests’ expressions. They were clearly enjoying themselves.

Dessert was a Basque burnt cheesecake with blueberry sauce.

When he finished, Don literally pushed away from the table.

“I don’t remember the last time I enjoyed a meal more,” he declared.

“And it was so authentic!” Lili added.

“I wanted to cook something special to welcome you both to the community,” Bud admitted.

“Tell me what else I can do to get more meals like that,” Don said.

Bud grinned. “I need to bale hay next week.”
 
Bailing hay is a very hard and dirty task. I used to just jump into the spring house tank to get the chaff off before I went into the house. Yes it was COLD, but felt good. I was much younger then. Today it might just stop my heart. Thanks for the update.
 
Chapter Forty-Eight

While Bud, Pete, and Regan were out crabbing, Lili stopped by to visit Patty. Patty had offered to show her some of her favorite bread recipes. Lili already knew how to make the simple three-ingredient farmer’s bread her grandmother had taught her, but she was curious about the heartier, more complex loaves Patty regularly baked.

“I think Bud likes this one the best,” Patty said as she kneaded the soft mound of dough, “though sometimes I wonder if I really know what he likes anymore.”

Lili smiled gently. “Roberto—Bud—is simple in the ways that matter. He likes things straightforward on the surface, but his soul doesn’t live there. He carries a constant search inside him—for meaning, for truth, for something beyond what the eyes can see. He’s not easily surprised, yet he can still be surprised by what moves him. His energy is one of introspection, wisdom, and genuine spirituality. People with this kind of depth aren’t satisfied with the obvious. They need to understand the why of things. They dive deep, take everything apart until they reach the essence.”

She continued, her voice warm and thoughtful. “From a young age, he probably realized he didn’t think like others. While everyone else chased the external world, he was trying to understand the internal one. He might have been that quiet, observant child full of questions no one could answer. Because of that, he likely felt out of place—different, maybe even misunderstood. But that difference is what made him who he is. He has a natural connection with the invisible, with spirituality, with ancestral wisdom. He may not follow a specific religion, but he feels there’s something bigger guiding him—something that speaks through signs, dreams, intuition… When he connects with that—whether through meditation, art, silence, or simply pausing—everything starts to make sense. It’s as if his soul already remembers the path.”

Lili’s expression grew more serious. “With that depth, though, comes the risk of isolation. He needs time alone, moments of retreat and silence. That’s essential for him. But too much of it can pull him away from the world—from practical life and real relationships. One of your biggest challenges will be helping him find balance: spirituality with presence, introspection with connection, wisdom with simplicity. You’ll have to learn when to gently pull him back from the edge.”

Patty listened with quiet interest, though a concerned crease had formed between her brows.

Lili went on, “He’s the kind of man people come to when they need to confide or ask for advice. He gives off a calm, a clarity, a presence that comforts others. But he doesn’t always feel that way inside. Sometimes he’s in pieces too. He’s just learned to hide it well. His soul only truly thrives when it’s allowed to be real—when he has the courage to show his doubts, his fragility, his voids. This same energy brings an enormous thirst for learning, for reading, for fertile silence, and for knowledge that frees. When he transforms that into practice—when he shares what he knows, when he teaches or guides others—he fulfills one of the most beautiful purposes of his soul: illuminating paths with words that come from within.”

Lili paused and gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “I know that sounded like a jumble of spiritual thoughts. But it really boils down to this: give him support when he’s deep in his own world. And remember—it doesn’t have to be lonely for him. There’s wisdom in a hug, in simple conversation, in the presence of others. He doesn’t always have to be isolated for his mind to work.”

Patty tilted her head, still kneading. “When you and Bud worked together, did you hug him a lot?”

“Sure,” Lili said with an easy smile. “I come from a hugging family. But it never went farther than that. A good hug and a strong cup of coffee usually kept him on track.”

When the boat returned later that afternoon, the men emptied the crabs into the holding cage at the dock, stacked the empty traps at the end of the pier, and stored the lines.

“That was a good run,” Pete said, wiping his hands.

“Yeah, it was,” Bud agreed. “Y’all come on over tomorrow afternoon and I’ll put them on to boil.”

Early the next morning, Bud was down at the cow pasture weed-whacking the grass from under the electric fence when Pete and Regan pulled up in Pete’s truck.

“Morning,” Bud called. “How’d I earn this nice visit?”

“I wanted to ask if I could borrow your stock trailer,” Pete said. “Little bit here wants a cow.”

Bud’s eyebrows rose. “A cow? What in the world are you going to do with a cow?”

“Oh, Bud! He is the sweetest thing! I love him!” Regan said, practically bouncing.

Bud looked over at Pete, who shrugged.

“This ain’t no regular cow,” Pete explained. “It’s a miniature Highland bull.”

“What in the world?” Bud repeated, half-laughing.

“She wants it as a pet,” Pete said, as if that explained everything.

“Well… yeah,” Bud said, shaking his head in amusement. “The trailer’s next to the barn. Just back up to it and I’ll help you hitch it up.”

Pete backed the truck to the trailer tongue and attached the wiring adapter. Once the lights checked out, he and Regan were soon on their way with the empty trailer rattling behind them.

Bud finished clearing the weeds from under the fence, then headed back to the house to prepare for the crab boil. He slapped the grass off his clothes, grabbed a large plastic garbage can from the silo, loaded it into the back of the Haflinger, and went inside.

Patty was already busy sorting onions, corn, and potatoes. The smoked sausage had been neatly cut into pieces.

“Oh, thank you,” Bud said gratefully when he saw how much she’d already done. “I’ll go get the pots set up.”

He carried the big pots outside, set up the burners, and attached the propane tanks. After spreading plastic tablecloths over the picnic tables on the deck, he filled the pots with water from the outdoor faucet. Back inside, he returned with a pint jar of his homemade crab boil, carefully estimating the pour before adding the spices. He’d wait to light the burners until closer to serving time.

Bud helped Patty finish sorting the vegetables and sausage into stainless-steel bowls, then gently made her sit down.

“I’m okay,” she protested. “I sit too much. My butt’s getting flat from sitting so much!”

“Your butt is still just fine,” Bud said with a grin, pouring her a cup of tea.

“Could I have a glass of cold juice instead? It’s a little warm this morning.”

“Of course.”

“I’ve got strawberries thawing for shortcake. I just need to make up some Dream Whip.”

“I can do that,” Bud offered.

He went into the pantry, returned with two envelopes of Dream Whip, and got out the hand mixer and milk. When the mixture began to thicken, he added a few drops of lemon juice. A few minutes later, he had a perfect bowl of whipped cream.

“There. Anything else that needs doing?” Bud asked.

“I need a hug and a kiss.”

She eased off the stool. Bud pulled her close and kissed her softly on the lips. “You don’t even have to ask.”

About thirty minutes before the guests were due to arrive, Bud lit the gas burners and drove the Haflinger down to the dock to collect the crabs. After giving them a good rinse, he and Patty began filling the baskets with the seasoned vegetables, sausage, and crabs. He started the timer on his phone.

Soon Don and Lili arrived, followed by the Parsons and then Pete. Bud handed out cold beers from the outdoor fridge, and the low, comfortable hum of conversation filled the deck.

“Do you want to see a picture of Butch?” Regan asked Bud excitedly.

“Butch? Who’s Butch?”

“My baby cow!”

“Not quite a baby, honey. He’s a year old,” Pete corrected with a chuckle.

Bud took Regan’s phone and studied the photo of her standing beside a small, shaggy Highland cow that barely reached her armpits.

“He’s good-looking,” Bud said, genuinely impressed.

“I have to keep him brushed or his hair gets all tangled.”

“I imagine so,” Bud replied, glancing sideways at Pete.

Pete just shrugged, a helpless smile on his face. “I’d give her the moon if she asked for it.”
 
Bailing hay is a very hard and dirty task. I used to just jump into the spring house tank to get the chaff off before I went into the house. Yes it was COLD, but felt good. I was much younger then. Today it might just stop my heart. Thanks for the update.
You've got that right. Take the "square" bales off the bailer chute and stack them on the back of the wagon. Do it again.
 
Chapter Forty-Nine

Bud kept a pot of garlic butter melting on the stove in the outdoor kitchen. Patty brought out fresh sections of baguette as needed, and the guests ate until they were in a stupor. Chilled cider—both hard and sweet—was available for after-dinner drinks (the men added a splash of 148-proof vodka to theirs). There were only three crabs left over, so Bud sat and picked them, munching contentedly while the conversation flowed from one subject to another.

“Bud, I don’t know how you do it!” Pete said. “You eat that much rich crab meat and butter, you should look like that old-time wrestler, Haystacks Calhoun!”

“I have a high metabolic rate,” Bud replied.

“Oh, believe me, Bud has no problem burning off calories!” Patty said, blushing.

“I can’t believe we sold out of the General Store T-shirts and aprons!” Charisse said. “I’ve ordered twenty-five dozen more of each!”

“They’ve gone viral on TikTok!” Regan added.

“Men, just a reminder—we need to head down to Creswell Tuesday to pick up our pork at the meat processor,” Bud said, wiping butter from his fingers with a paper towel.

“We gonna need coolers?” Ben asked.

“Nah, they flash-freeze it. The frost on the paper won’t even have melted by the time you get home,” Bud replied. “I just throw some tow sacks over the bundles and they stay cold enough. A moving blanket works too.”

After the cider had helped everyone digest the meal, Patty and Lili served strawberry shortcake with coffee or tea for dessert. The men moved out to the fire pit afterward, while the women began cleaning up the deck, leaving full garbage bags for the men to haul away later.

“How’s the marina going, John?” Bud asked.

“I’m getting a lot more business than I expected. Had to call the distributor to refill the diesel tank. Our setup is easier to navigate than Cypress Cove. The boys seem eager to get out and enjoy the last good fishing weather. Herring will be running soon.”

“Yeah, I want to do some basket fishing on the streams and canals off the Alligator River this year,” Bud said.

“What’s basket fishing?” Don asked.

“Herring are saltwater fish, but they come up into the streams and canals to spawn. You build a basket out of chicken wire, set it in the stream with the mouth facing downstream. The herring swim right in. When you feel the bumps vibrating on the control rope, you could have anywhere from five to five hundred fish in there. They flop around so much they practically descale themselves. You whack their heads off, gut them, rake your knife along the body to get the rest of the scales, and you’re done. I want to smoke and can some—like kippers.”

“Sounds like an adventure,” Joe said.

“Oh, it is! You have to do it at night, and you’ve got to watch out for water moccasins.”

“Looks like I’ll finally get a chance to try out those snake-proof boots!” Joe said.

“It’s not so bad,” Bud said, “but sometimes your headlamp misses them in the underbrush.”

As the sun went down, Bud built a fire in the pit. Regan joined them with an extendable campfire roasting fork and all the fixings for s’mores.

“Do you want one, Dad?” Regan asked Ben.

“Heaven’s no! I’m still filled to the gills, girl!”

“I’ve got a load coming in Thursday for the container in the barn,” Joe said.

“I’ll make sure the forks are on the loader and help you,” Bud replied.

Patty brought out a bowl of crab meat swimming in garlic butter and handed it to Bud.

“Finish this up—I heated it for you.”

Bud took the bowl and fork, quickly strained the crab meat out of the butter and ate it, then tossed the butter into the fire. A cloud of steam and smoke rose from the burning butter in the pit.

Joe just shook his head. “I couldn’t have eaten another bite!”

Bud grinned. “Makes the hair on your toes grow longer!”

The first guests began leaving around 7:30, until only Joe and Diana remained.

“Bud, what kind of range can you get on that de Havilland?” Joe asked.

“Oh, about 550 nautical miles with the wing tanks, but I don’t like to stretch it before refueling. Why?”

“Well, I’d kind of like to check up on things at my place in Tennessee. I still think of it as a fallback.”

“How far is it?”

“Google Earth shows 483 miles.”

“Yeah, the Beaver could make it in one hop, but I’d still want to refuel before we get there. When do you want to do this?”

“Whenever you have some free time.”

“Let me figure out the logistics, draw up a plan, and I’ll let you know. I just need the coordinates of the lake on your property.”

When Joe got home, he called Tom, his farm manager, to catch up. Tom gave him a rundown of the month’s activities and recent cattle births.

Tom and Joe had met years earlier in Jacksboro, Tennessee. Joe had been between assignments, and Tom had been traveling the country—stopping only long enough to work and move on. He had started touring the U.S. on his twenty-fifth birthday with a small RV, mostly self-sufficient. His goal was to check out the places on Google Earth people had blocked from view. Tom was curious as to why they thought their place was so all-fired important. Two months in, he ran out of money and decided to work his way across the country. Occasional breakdowns cost him when he couldn’t fix them himself—sometimes a lot of money.

Still, he was having a good time and just kept going. In two years, he had seen a lot of America, but he figured there was more to see.

He stopped in a rural area for a job delivering LP gas to outlying farms and homes. During one delivery, the co-owner of the distributor offered him another position. With his farming background, Tom was a natural fit. Six years later, he was still managing Joe’s farm—and under his care, it had thrived.

Joe had every intention of returning one day. He had invested locally too: half of a successful grocery store, half of a fuel distributor (which gave him a great deal on fuel), and seed money for a family-owned construction company that built Tom’s house at the end of an 805-foot driveway sheltered by hickory and oak trees. Tom had just finished filling the farm’s fuel tanks before winter set in.

Even though Joe loved the home he and Lili had made, he still wanted options if things ever went sideways.

Bud worked out a flight plan. With full tanks, including the wing tanks, and just Joe as a passenger, they could fly direct and refuel at Campbell County Airport—about thirty-two nautical miles from Joe’s farm—before heading to the lake. At normal cruise speed, it would be roughly a three-hour flight. He could refuel on the return at Wilson Industrial Air Center. Since he didn’t want to fly back in the dark, they could overnight at the farm. It might take Joe several hours to check on everything.

Bud reviewed the plan with Joe, who liked it. They could leave at daylight Saturday morning and return Sunday.


Later that week, Bud pushed his cart through the produce section at Food Lion and froze at a bin. Kohlrabi! Stuffed kohlrabi—Töltött Karalábé in Hungary—was something he had completely forgotten about. He had eaten it a few times in Budapest, and it reminded him of stuffed cabbage. These weren’t the young spring bulbs ideal for the recipe (those had a milder, sweeter flavor), but he had everything else at the house to make it work. He picked out four decent ones, grabbed sour cream, and headed to checkout.

Back home, Bud told Patty he was making stuffed kohlrabi, roasted garlic potatoes, and grilled pork tenderloin for supper—and to invite Lili and Don.

It was already after two, so he got to work immediately. He peeled the kohlrabi, trimmed a bit off the base so each bulb sat flat, and sliced off about a third of the top. He placed them in beef broth to tenderize, adding a pinch of turbinado sugar to cut the bitterness of the late-season bulbs.

Once tender, he hollowed out the centers with a melon baller and reserved the scraps for the sauce. In a skillet, he heated olive oil and browned a couple of cups of rice, then added a pound of ground pork, seasoning as he went.

He placed the reserved kohlrabi insides and leaves in a pot with vegetable stock and cooked them until soft. He stuffed the hollowed bulbs with the rice-and-pork mixture and set them in a baking dish—they would go into the oven thirty minutes before the guests arrived.

When the leaves and scraps were tender, Bud added sour cream and pureed everything with a stick blender, added spices, and a splash of white wine for the sauce. Patty peeled and chunked the potatoes, tossed them in olive oil and butter, sprinkled them with garlic and spices, and placed them in their own baking dish.

At 4:30, Bud slid the potatoes into the oven, ladled sauce over and around the kohlrabi, and put that dish in too. He took the pork tenderloin out to the grill and cooked it until the center was safe (any worms were dead). Once done, he sliced it and let the pieces steam in white wine in a covered dish. Just before Don and Lili arrived, everything went into the warming oven.

When it was time to eat, Bud plated the food himself, adding a little extra sauce over each kohlrabi (some considered the dish a soup and ate it that way).

The pork was fork-tender, and everyone seemed to enjoy the kohlrabi. Lili took a few bites, then pointed her fork at Bud. “Kempinski Hotel Corvinus in Budapest!”

Bud grinned and nodded. “I particularly liked the stuffing there. Everyone has their favorite, but I thought this turned out pretty good.”

“It’s delicious!” Don said.

“I love it!” Patty added.

“You need to be aware—this dish has a tendency to cause gas,” Lili said with a knowing smile. “It can be embarrassing.”

Patty nodded and took another bite. “I have pills.”
 
“You eat that much rich crab meat and butter, you should look like that old-time wrestler, Haystacks Calhoun!”
Back in the mid-70s I was on the crew that taped the weekly NWA wrestling program for the West Texas region in Amarillo. I got to see Haystacks Calhoun up close. He was indeed a huge man. I weighed 400 pounds at the time. He made me look small.

Thank you.
 
To me kohlrabi and turnups taste alike. I like both raw and not cooked. With a little tweaking, you could have stuffed turnups in the fall and winter and stuffed kohlrabi during spring and summer. When I grew some my kids asked what they were, I told them they were "aliens".
 
Chapter Fifty

The morning sun climbed over the Yaupon-lined shores of Albemarle Sound, painting the broad, brackish water in shades of molten gold. Bud Campbell stood on the floating dock near Elizabeth City, North Carolina, wiping grease from his hands with a rag that had seen better days. At twenty-nine, with a light beard from skipping his morning shave and the solid build of a man who wrestled more than engine cowlings in his life, Bud owned the Viking DHC-2T Turbo Beaver outright. He called her Old Reliable, though her turbine heart—a Pratt & Whitney Canada PT6A-34—made her anything but old.

Joe Hemingway, his longtime friend from their wilder days, leaned against a piling, nursing coffee from a dented thermos. Leaner and quicker with a quip, Joe was the only man Bud trusted in the right seat for a cross-country floatplane trip like this one.

“Wind’s out of the northwest at eight knots,” Joe said, glancing at his phone’s aviation app. “Perfect for a water takeoff. Hope that lake up in Tennessee is as calm as this.”

Bud grinned as he cinched the last tie-down strap on the amphibious floats. “Forecast looks good. We’ll top off at Campbell County, stretch our legs, then it’s forty minutes to your hidey-hole. Load up.”

They traveled light: a cooler of sandwiches, enough charts to satisfy the most cautious FAA examiner, and two small travel bags. The DHC-2T sat low on her Wipaire 6100 amphib floats, the big forty-eight-foot wings catching the breeze while the PT6 idled with a soft hum. Gross weight was well under six thousand pounds—plenty of margin for the long legs ahead.

Bud climbed into the left seat, the familiar creak of the aluminum floor greeting him like an old friend. Joe settled beside him and slid the side window open, letting in the salt air. Preflight complete, Bud ran the checklist aloud, his voice steady over the rising turbine whine.

“Fuel selectors—both tanks. Flaps—takeoff. Trim—neutral.”

The big prop began to bite as he eased the throttle lever forward. Old Reliable stirred, floats rocking gently on the slight chop. They taxied into the open Sound, water stretching for miles in every direction, broken only by distant herons and the low silhouette of the mainland. No runway. No tower. Just water, sky, and open country ahead.

Bud lined up into the wind, nose pointing northwest. “Here we go, partner.” He pushed the throttle to the stops. The PT6A delivered its full 680 shaft horsepower with a throaty roar. Spray rooster-tailed behind the floats as acceleration pinned them back. Ten knots. Twenty. Thirty. At forty-five knots indicated, Bud eased the yoke back. The big Beaver lifted her nose, shedding water like a duck. For a heartbeat she rode the step, then the floats broke free with a soft whoosh. Airborne in twelve hundred feet of water run—textbook for the heavy turbine model.

Climb was brisk, twelve hundred feet per minute even loaded. Bud held eighty knots, gear up, and they spiraled through scattered cumulus. Below, Albemarle Sound shrank to a glittering sheet, the Intracoastal Waterway snaking south. The Outer Banks faded to a thin ribbon on the horizon.

“Feels good to be off the water,” Joe said, adjusting his headset. “Reminds me of Norway. Except this time nobody’s shooting at us.”

Bud chuckled. He leveled at 5,500 feet clear of the Class E shelf near Norfolk. Cruise power settled the manifold at a comfortable hum—133 knots true, sipping twenty-two gallons per hour. The landscape unrolled beneath them: pine forests of eastern North Carolina giving way to rolling farmland, then the hazy blue line of the Piedmont. They tracked VFR, squawking 1200, the big Garmin watching for traffic.

The first hour passed easily. Bud recounted buying the Beaver in Hawkesbury, Ontario, and how Viking’s switch from the old radial to the smooth PT6 had boosted payload and turned her into a true cross-country machine. Joe pointed out landmarks: the Roanoke River, then the sprawling greens of the Research Triangle as they angled west. Turbulence picked up over the foothills, but the big Beaver rode it like a truck on rails.

By the second hour the Appalachians rose ahead like a rumpled green quilt. Fuel was down to half. Campbell County Airport—KJAU—lay twenty miles dead ahead, Norris Lake glittering just north.

Bud made the radio call on CTAF and received no answer—just the quiet of a rural field. He descended, wheels down, green lights confirmed. The runway appeared: a generous 5,000-foot strip of asphalt nestled among low hills. He crossed the threshold at seventy knots and greased it on with a whisper of tires.

Bert Loupe, the airport manager, waved them over to the self-serve pumps. While 186 gallons of Jet A flowed into the tanks, the three men swapped hangar talk under the wing root, eating sandwiches and drinking cold Cokes. Forty minutes later, refueled, oiled, and re-energized, they were airborne again.

The second leg was short—barely seventy statute miles—but the terrain grew wilder. They climbed to 6,500 feet to clear the ridges. Joe spotted a black bear on a ridgeline; Bud banked gently for a better look. Then Joe pointed out Clear Fork Creek. Bud eased down on the far side of the ridge.

Ten minutes later the lake appeared. Bud overflew it once—small, empty, no hazards visible—then circled back.

“Wheels up,” he announced, confirming the gear had retracted into the floats. Flaps to landing, prop full fine, speed bled to sixty-five knots on final.

The approach was pure bush flying: a gentle curve over the tree-covered hills, nose high, power chopped at the last second. The water rushed up, mirror-still. Bud flared, holding the yoke back. The floats kissed the surface with a soft whump, spray arcing in twin sheets. He kept the stick aft, letting aerodynamic braking and water drag slow them to a crawl in under a thousand feet.

Bud steered toward a weathered boat dock on the wooded shoreline and shut down the master switch. The turbine sighed to silence.

“Two legs, one fuel stop, and here we are,” he said with a grin. “Not bad for a couple of ex-fun guys.”

Joe laughed, popping the door open to the scent of pine and lake water. “You nailed every one, skipper. That mountain crossing was smooth, and that landing—smooth as a baby’s butt.”

They tied the Beaver securely to the dock. The big aircraft sat proudly on her floats, wings casting long shadows across the water as the afternoon light turned golden the countryside.

A navy-blue pickup came barreling down the farm road, trailing a rooster tail of dust, and skidded to a stop.

“Sorry!” the driver called, climbing out. “I was getting a load of hay delivered. Good to see you, Joe!”

“Tom Morrison, this is Bud Campbell—the pilot of this beautiful machine,” Joe said.

Tom shook Bud’s hand firmly. “She sure is. Welcome.”

They loaded their bags into the truck. Joe noticed the Marlin 336 in the gun rack and the pistol on Tom’s hip.

“You been having problems?” Joe asked as they drove toward the house.

“Not really. Why?”

“Rifle in the rack, pistol on your belt.”

Tom chuckled. “Coyotes and rabies lately. Fella over near Armathwaite got attacked. Had to take the shots after a few scratches. You boys packing?”

“Always,” Bud and Joe answered together.

The house was magnificent—an 1890s frame structure, sturdy and timeless. Joe had modernized it thoughtfully: hardwood floors instead of old carpet, an open downstairs layout, updated bathrooms, and a chef’s kitchen that opened to the big wraparound porch. Bud was given a comfortable bedroom with its own bath. He freshened up, then joined the others for supper—spaghetti with venison meatballs seasoned with Italian herbs, the rich aroma filling the old house.

Outside, the Viking DHC-2T rested peacefully on the lake, her adventure written in every rivet and strut. Tomorrow they would walk the property. Tonight, the mountains held them close, and the wild felt like home.
 
Chapter Fifty-One

That evening after supper, Joe pulled out USGS topo maps of the Jamestown quad and spread them across the table. He showed Bud the terrain layout of the property. It sat on the Cumberland Plateau at an average elevation of 1,400 to 1,500 feet, with gentle to moderate variations. Maximum elevations ranged from 1,470 to 1,676 feet. The higher ground consisted mostly of sandstone and limestone upthrusts. The area was deeply incised by stream valleys, hollows, and small gorges. Water sources—aside from the artesian well—included a couple of moderate-sized streams and, of course, the lake.

“There used to be a limestone quarry and kilns here back in the 1800s,” Joe explained. “They made quicklime. The operation shut down in the early 1900s after the owner failed to land a contract supplying construction companies during the big skyscraper boom in Chicago.”

“Rusted crushers are still sitting on site,” he added.

“What made you decide to buy this place?” Bud asked.

Joe grinned. “Rapa Nui seemed a bit too isolated. Plus, there’s a Walmart within driving distance.”

Bud nodded. “A man’s got to have his priorities.”

“Seriously, though, I do some shopping at the Walmart in Jamestown, but most supplies come in by truck. I try to keep a low profile. Tom knows everyone around here and helps deflect any suspicion.”

“He mentioned he was delivering hay when we arrived. You raise cattle too?”

“Yeah. Twenty beef cattle, two milk cows, chickens, Canadian geese in the fall, wild boar, turkeys, and white-tailed deer out the ass.”

“Doesn’t sound like you’d starve,” Bud said with a laugh.

They were up early the next morning. Breakfast came at dawn. Joe filled a two-quart canteen with water, and the two men headed out in a Razor side-by-side. They started at the old quarry, inspecting the excavation, the crumbling lime kilns, and the rusting rock crushers. Then they drove about a mile and a half to the edge of a limestone bluff.

A heavy timber door blocked what appeared to be a tunnel entrance. Joe retrieved a large, heavy metal key, a headlamp, and a can of WD-40 from the Razor’s toolbox. After a few sprays and some effort, the lock turned. He swung the door open and clicked on his light.

Inside the wide tunnel sat two large hit-and-miss engines that had once powered the rock crushers.

“The quarry owner must have planned to reopen someday,” Bud said.

“Maybe,” Joe replied. “But there’s a lot more stored farther back.” He led the way deeper into the tunnel. “Farming equipment, an old steam tractor, gang plows with crates of moldboard and plowshare replacements, cultivators, disc plows, planters, and drills.”

“Well, he was definitely putting something back for a rainy day,” Bud observed.

Joe kept walking. Along one wall stood rows of kegs. One had a busted top, revealing cut nails, slightly rusted. Nearby were cases of canned food—many of them leaking from split seams.

“They were preparing for something,” Bud said quietly.

Farther on they found cases of .30-06 ammunition, probably from World War I. Then came cases of .30-40 Krag cartridges and two crates holding a dozen Krag-Jørgensen rifles each. Beyond those were more .30-06 crates and three cases of Springfield Model 1903 bolt-action rifles.

“Damn,” Bud muttered. “They were preppers before preppers were a thing!”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “Seeing all this gave me the idea to really stock this place up. The country feels like it’s in unstable equilibrium—like a pencil balanced on its point. We don’t know which way it’s going to fall. Communists are getting voted into office in too many places.” He looked at Bud. “You’re still welcome to build a fallback here if you want.”

Bud nodded slowly, then turned and started walking back toward the entrance. “I think I’ll tentatively pick out a spot near the lake.”

The next morning, on their way back to the North Carolina coast, Bud and Joe discussed possibilities for the property—mostly the type and size of house Bud wanted to build. Bud had already decided a hidey-hole might not be a bad idea.

When they got home, Bud spent a few days thinking and doing initial planning. One afternoon he was walking on the sunny side of the old garden shed when he spotted doodlebug cone pits in the sand—antlion traps. He picked up a single pine needle and gently tickled the side of one cone. Sand flicked upward from the bottom. Soon the antlion larva grabbed the needle, and Bud lifted it out. He hadn’t done that since he was a boy. Chuckling, he dropped the doodlebug back into its pit.

He went inside, opened his computer, and began checking old financial accounts to see what he had to work with.

Bud explained his plans to Patty. She trusted his instincts about worldly threats and sat with him as they paged through log home kit catalogs, narrowing their choices to designs they could live with. While Patty began making lists of everything else they would need, Bud went ahead and bought a forty-foot shipping container. He had it delivered and parked on wheels inside the barn so they could start packing even before the house was chosen.

Then Patty asked to see the property in person.

Her doctor cleared her to fly, so Bud, Patty, Joe, and Diana planned a four-day trip to the retreat. Bud and Patty finally settled on a design that fit beautifully on the chosen site: a southern exposure with a meadow that sloped at a gentle 2.14% grade—practically flat for construction and landscaping.

They planned to leave on Thursday and return Sunday. Joe called Tom and gave him the dates so the house would be ready for them.

“What do we need to bring?” Patty asked. “Do we need to bring food?”

“No,” Joe assured her. “Tom will have all that taken care of. Just pack comfortable clothes and enjoy yourself.”

Bud flew the same route he and Joe had taken before. The weather cooperated, and their fuel stop lined up perfectly with Patty’s bathroom break. He made a gentler landing than usual in consideration of her pregnancy and managed to turn the plane around just fifty meters from the pond dam. Tom had left a Suburban parked at the dock for them.

As they loaded the bags, Bud mentioned he wanted to build a hangar near the dock and keep a Polaris 4-seater Ranger there for getting to the house.

“I’ve got a Polaris Xpedition in the garage you two can use while you’re here,” Joe said.

Patty loved Joe’s house. It felt much like their own home. They settled in for the afternoon, and Diana and Patty helped the temporary housekeeper/cook prepare supper.

The next morning, as Mrs. Hasty made breakfast, the two couples enjoyed their first cup of coffee on the porch.

“It’s strange,” Patty said. “No seagulls squawking!”

Diana chuckled as she watched a cardinal, a goldfinch, and a chickadee scrambling for seeds at the bird feeder before darting off into the bushes, calling to other birds about the feast. “Yes, it’s nice, isn’t it?”

After a hearty omelet breakfast, Bud and Patty took the Xpedition up to the house site Bud had selected. He followed the farm road along the east side of the lake, turned right at the dam, and drove partway across the meadow before turning north. There in front of them rose a twenty-foot sandstone bluff.

Bud stopped at the marked stakes he had set out earlier and described his vision to Patty: the big windows that would frame the brilliance of the spring meadow, the bedrooms, the kitchen, and the entertainment deck that would extend all the way back to the sandstone cliff. The 4,000-square-foot single-story log home would be spacious yet beautiful.

“Bud, this would be big enough to live in!” Patty exclaimed.

“That’s the point,” he said, smiling. “If we ever had to relocate, I wasn’t going to move you into some dreary little log cabin with a dirt floor, keep you stuck in the kitchen and pregnant, and only offer you a plug of chewing tobacco as an occasional treat.”

Patty laughed. “You know what I mean! Why extend the deck all the way to that cliff?”

“I’m stealing an idea from a friend of mine in Colorado. I’m going to cut into that sandstone and create a storage area for supplies and whatever else we might need.”

“I’ll trust you to know what you’re doing,” she said. “How’s the water here?”

Bud grinned and led her over to a well that had been drilled near the trees framing the building site. A six-inch pipe with a hose bib rose from the ground. He took down a tin cup hanging on one side, filled it, and handed it to her. “Try this.”

Patty took a sip, then a larger swallow. “This is good! It’s so fresh… It’s like… spring water!”

“That’s real, natural water,” Bud said. “It has all the minerals I have to add back at home, and it happens naturally. The water filters down from the hills into a huge aquifer hundreds of feet below us. It comes up without even needing a pump.”

“This is wonderful!” Patty said. “Are there any other surprises you haven’t shown me yet?”

Bud stepped behind her, turned her gently toward the meadow, and wrapped his arms around her. “Well, nothing I could conjure up and parade in front of you. But there are plenty of songbirds, as you’ve noticed. Imagine watching herds of deer and gangs of turkeys feeding in the meadow from your kitchen window… and our children playing in the grass.”

Patty leaned back into him. “This would make a nice home. Once it’s built, can we come out here for vacations sometimes?”

“That’s my intention.”
 
Chapter Fifty-Two

When they returned home from their latest scouting trip, Bud wasted no time briefing Patty on his evolving plans for the Tennessee retreat. She trusted his instincts when it came to worldly threats—Bud possessed a sixth sense for danger that had kept them safe more than once since she’d first met him. Together they pored over catalogs for log home kits, narrowing their choices to a handful of sturdy, practical designs they could realistically live with long-term. While Bud focused on structural details like foundation requirements, roof pitch for heavy snow loads, and long-term durability against the humid Tennessee climate, Patty began compiling meticulous lists of everything else they would need: appliances, linens, cookware, tools, seasonal clothing, and the thousand small comforts that would transform a basic shell into a true home.

Bud didn’t wait for every final decision to fall into place. He went ahead and purchased a forty-foot shipping container, arranging delivery directly to the barn on their North Carolina property. Mounted on wheels for easy maneuvering around the farm, the big CONEX box sat ready like a blank canvas waiting to be filled. They could begin packing essentials long before they even selected a permanent house site in Tennessee, giving them a head start on the monumental task ahead.

Joe and Diana became frequent visitors during those busy weeks. Over steaming cups of coffee and slices of Patty’s homemade apple pie, Bud and Patty shared their growing vision for the mountain retreat. Joe listened with quiet approval, occasionally offering practical advice drawn from his own experiences building and maintaining a self-sufficient homestead.

One evening, as the conversation drifted, Bud remarked, “I hadn’t paid much attention to them before, but your light switches look like vintage European ones.”

Joe grinned, a mischievous spark lighting his eyes. “Picked up a few replicas in the sale bins at Tesco when I was in Dublin. They were dirt cheap and looked authentic enough to pass muster.”

“And it gave you the perfect excuse to visit the ‘Hole in the Wall,’” Bud added with a knowing chuckle.

“For whatever reason I could gin up,” Joe admitted, laughing heartily.

Diana tilted her head, curiosity piqued. “What’s the Hole in the Wall?”

“It’s a legendary pub in Dublin,” Bud explained. “Touted as one of Europe’s longest—stretching out like a tunnel with live music on Tuesday and Saturday nights. Great atmosphere, packed with history, right on the edge of Phoenix Park near the zoo. They’ve been serving pints there since the 1600s, with all sorts of stories about passing drinks through an actual hole in the wall back in the day.”

“Then you’ve had enough partying for one lifetime!” Diana teased, nudging her husband gently.

“Oh, there are plenty of get-togethers around the farm with live music,” Joe said warmly. “But not much drinking these days. There is a nice little winery nearby, though. Good place to relax with a glass and good company.”

Joe glanced over Patty’s ever-growing supply list and nodded approvingly. “If you want to be truly comfortable up there, just double up on what you already have here. Make your vacation home—well, your second home—mirror this place as closely as possible. That way everything feels familiar. No endless hunting for the good scissors, the extra blankets, or that one favorite spatula. Trust me, when you’re tired or stressed, the little things make all the difference.”

Patty took his advice to heart. She spent long, productive days filling the CONEX box, making repeated trips to Walmart and Sam’s Club for bulk essentials, supplemented by steady orders from online retailers. Boxes of non-perishables, cleaning supplies, toiletries, first-aid kits, and household goods slowly disappeared into the cavernous container. She kept at it diligently until her advancing pregnancy made even walking the long aisles exhausting. At that point, she and Diana shifted focus. Using printed floorplans of the prospective log home, the two women began selecting furniture—comfortable sectionals, sturdy dining sets, queen and king beds, dressers, and practical storage pieces—that would make the Tennessee house feel like a natural extension of their current home rather than a strange new place. They spent hours discussing fabric swatches, measuring for exact fits, and imagining daily life in the new space: mornings with coffee on the deck overlooking the mountains, evenings by a crackling fireplace with the family gathered close.

Bud leased three large enclosed trailers to store the accumulating furniture and larger items. Sometime after the baby arrived, they would hitch the trailers and haul everything west to equip their new retreat properly, ensuring a seamless transition. The planning wasn’t just about survival; it was about creating continuity, a place where the rhythms of their North Carolina life could carry over without disruption.

After Christmas, with the holidays behind them and the new year stretching ahead full of promise and uncertainty, Bud placed a call to Graham Hancock—not the famous British author known for his unconventional theories on ancient civilizations, but a retired engineer and inventor living near Hendersonville, Tennessee. Graham had designed a specialized rock-boring apparatus capable of turning solid stone into fine sand at an impressive rate. He had retired to a quiet property along the shores of the Cumberland River, close to his daughter and grandchildren, where the river’s gentle flow provided a peaceful backdrop to his later years.

Bud inquired about the compact boring machine Graham had once provided to their mutual friend Cal. The older man’s voice warmed with immediate recognition.

“I don’t manufacture them anymore,” Graham replied. “Sold the patent to a big mining equipment company. They shelved the design—stumpholed it, really. Claimed it was meant only for small operations, but I suspect they just wanted to protect the big operators’ claims and keep independents out of the game.”

He paused thoughtfully. “What minerals are you going after, son?”

“None,” Bud said honestly. “I’m not mining commercially. I just want to bore into a sandstone cliff behind the house to create some secure, hidden storage space—off-grid, blast-resistant, climate-controlled. Think of it as a natural vault, protected from whatever might come our way.”

Graham chuckled, his mind clearly flashing back to the colorful stories Cal had shared about Bud’s resourceful ways. “You’re building in Tennessee? Why don’t you come visit me in Hendersonville? We can talk more in person. I still have one of the prototypes tucked away in the shop. Might even fire it up for you. The Cumberland’s beautiful this time of year—quiet waters, good fishing if you’re inclined.”

He gave Bud his address and some basic directions along the river roads. Bud promised to call back soon to arrange a meeting. A few days later, they settled on the following Thursday.

“Why do you need to go?” Patty asked when he told her over dinner, one hand resting protectively on her growing belly. The kitchen smelled of roasted chicken and fresh herbs, a comforting anchor amid their preparations.

“He has the kind of machinery that can cut straight into that sandstone cliff behind where the future deck will sit. Cal used something similar out in Colorado to create hidden storage vaults. It’ll save us months of hard labor, blasting, and hauling rock by hand. We could have a climate-controlled space carved out in days instead of weeks.”

Patty rubbed her belly gently, feeling the baby shift. “Well, you’ll have to go alone this time. I’m not up for much travel these days—the baby’s making sure of that. Just promise me you’ll be careful. These trips always seem to lead to more ideas.”

Bud understood completely. He talked the trip over with Joe, explaining what he hoped to accomplish with the prototype. Joe readily agreed to fly out with him for the adventure and moral support. Bud drew up a detailed flight plan from their home base near Columbia, North Carolina, to Nashville International Airport—BNA. From there, it was only a thirty-minute drive to Hancock’s place along the Cumberland River. He reserved a room at the Best Western near the airport in case they needed to overnight and arranged for an SUV rental at the FBO.
 
Chapter Fifty-Three

On Thursday morning, the mist still clung like silver gauze to the surface of Albemarle Sound as Bud finished his pre-flight inspection. He was a wiry man in his early thirties, with sun-leathered skin and a perpetual five-o’clock shadow that gave him the look of someone who spent far more time outdoors than indoors. He had been flying since he was nineteen, and the aircraft he loved was a rugged Viking DHC-2 Turbo Beaver—an amphibian he had christened Reliable. High-winged and powerful, she was equipped with a Pratt & Whitney PT6A-34 turbine engine delivering around 680 horsepower and twin floats that gleamed under the early light. Retractable landing gear nestled inside the floats for water operations, but today those wheels would touch down on pavement some six hundred miles west in Nashville. The Turbo Beaver’s reputation for reliability in bush operations made her perfect for this kind of mixed-mission work—water takeoff, land arrival.

Joe stood beside him on the dock, clutching a travel mug of strong black coffee. “Ready to stretch her legs, old man?”

Bud clapped him on the shoulder with a grin. “She’s fueled, pre-flighted, and itching to fly. Let’s get her in the water.”

They climbed aboard—Bud in the left seat as pilot in command, Joe in the right—and strapped in securely. The cockpit was simple yet modern, dominated by the glowing Garmin G1000 glass panel avionics suite that provided crisp situational awareness. Bud ran through the checklist aloud: fuel selectors on both tanks, floats checked for leaks, propeller in fine pitch, turbine temperatures and pressures normal. He twisted the key. The PT6A spooled up with its distinctive turbine whine, a low growl that quickly built into a steady, throaty roar. Reliable rolled gently into the water. The floats settled with a soft splash, bobbing comfortably.

Water taxiing out into open water took only minutes. The Sound was glassy that morning, with near-perfect conditions for takeoff—light winds, no swells, visibility unlimited.

“Columbia traffic, Viking seaplane one two three four departing the Sound, westbound,” Bud radioed on the common frequency. No reply came; it was still early, and the sky belonged to them alone.

He advanced the power lever smoothly. The turbine surged, and Reliable surged with it. Spray rooster-tailed behind the floats as she accelerated across the smooth surface. At sixty knots the nose lifted slightly; at seventy-five knots the wings bit the air with authority. The transition from water to flight was always magical—the sudden hush as the floats broke free, the world tilting upward in a graceful climb, the engine’s roar settling into a purposeful hum.

They ascended at a steady eight hundred feet per minute, turning west over the western reaches of Albemarle Sound and the vast pine flats of Tyrrell County. The water sparkled behind them like scattered diamonds, then slipped away beneath the horizon. Bud leveled off at 8,500 feet, set cruise power, and leaned the mixture for optimal efficiency. True airspeed settled comfortably around 135-145 knots, the turbine sipping fuel with miserly precision despite the load. The DHC-2T’s upgrades gave her impressive payload and climb performance, making the long leg feel almost effortless.

Joe leaned back in his seat, eyes wide with appreciation. “Never get tired of that. Feels like the plane’s alive.”

Bud chuckled. “She is. Built tough in Canada, finished by Viking right here in the States. This bird hauled cargo in the bush and flew medical evac missions for years before I got her. Floats keep her honest on water, wheels let her play on pavement. Today we’re doing both—water takeoff, land landing. The PT6A gives her that extra punch even when hot and heavy.”

The morning unfolded beneath them like a living, ever-changing map. They crossed the flat coastal plain, then the rolling Piedmont of North Carolina. Raleigh-Durham slid past twenty miles to the south, its skyscrapers catching the first strong rays of sunlight and glinting like distant signals. Bud pointed out landmarks on the moving map display: the winding Neuse River, the fall line where the land began its steady rise toward the Appalachians. Conversation flowed easily between the two old friends—stories of past operations that had gone sideways but taught hard lessons, excited plans for the Tennessee retreat and its hidden features, and quiet reflections on how quickly life accelerated when you weren’t paying close attention. They talked about the baby on the way, the security the mountain property would offer, and the quiet satisfaction of building something lasting for their families.

Joe asked about the turbine’s quirks and maintenance. Bud explained how the PT6A delivered robust power at sea level yet still climbed strongly even when hot and heavy, its reliability legendary in remote operations. They shared BLT sandwiches packed by Patty at 9:30, the steady drone of the engine a comforting companion that drowned out nothing important. The vast landscape below shifted from farmland to denser forests, with occasional smoke from controlled burns rising in thin columns.

By the time they crossed deeper into the Piedmont, the terrain grew noticeably hillier. The Blue Ridge Mountains appeared on the horizon like soft purple waves beneath scattered cumulus clouds. Bud monitored the weather radar on the G1000—nothing serious, just a few buildups they would easily skirt to the south. They tuned into Flight Watch for updates and listened to Atlanta Center, catching occasional traffic calls. A few airliners passed high overhead, their contrails etching clean white lines across the endless blue. Joe dozed for twenty minutes while Bud hand-flew the plane, savoring the solid, truck-like feel of the controls—stable and forgiving in cruise, yet responsive when needed for small corrections.

“Knoxville Center, Viking seaplane one two three four, eight thousand five hundred, VFR westbound to Nashville,” Bud called as they approached the Tennessee line.

The controller’s voice came back crisp and professional. “Viking one two three four, radar contact. Maintain VFR, descend and maintain six thousand when able for traffic.”

Bud acknowledged and eased the power back slightly. The nose dipped gently as Reliable began her descent. The Cumberland Plateau rose ahead, green and folded like ancient accordion ridges. Nashville lay another hour out. Joe woke, stretched, and pointed at the skyline forming on the horizon—downtown towers gleaming in the midday sun, the Cumberland River curving like a silver ribbon below, winding toward Hendersonville and its quiet shores.

“There she is,” Joe said with a smile. “Never flown a seaplane into a big international airport before.”

“First time for everything,” Bud replied with a grin. “She’s got the gear; she’ll act like any other airplane on the runway. Just remember to land flat and keep the prop clear when we shut down. Runway 13 is over eleven thousand feet—plenty of room.”

Nashville Approach soon came on frequency. Bud keyed the mic. “Nashville Approach, Viking seaplane one two three four, fifteen miles east, six thousand five hundred, landing Nashville, information Charlie.”

The response was immediate and efficient. “Viking one two three four, descend and maintain three thousand. Expect runway one three. Vector for the visual approach.”

Bud reduced power further and began configuring the aircraft. Flaps to ten degrees. The wheels remained tucked inside the floats for now. They descended through four thousand feet, the city spreading out below in a vibrant patchwork: Interstate 40 slicing through, the Titans stadium visible, the white replica Parthenon in Centennial Park catching the light like a classical beacon. Traffic was moderate—airliners on long finals, corporate jets sliding through the pattern with practiced grace.

Approach vectored them smoothly onto the downwind leg for runway 13.

“Viking one two three four, turn base, cleared visual approach runway one three. Wind one zero zero at eight, altimeter three zero zero two. Report runway in sight.”

“Runway in sight,” Bud confirmed promptly. He extended the landing gear with a solid mechanical thunk that reverberated through the airframe. The DH2 felt more planted now, less boat-like in the air. Flaps came down to twenty degrees. Airspeed bled off smoothly to eighty-five knots on final. The runway stretched ahead—over eleven thousand feet of grooved concrete, the big white numbers “13” crisp against the gray surface, with displaced thresholds accounting for nearby obstacles like the interstate interchange.

Joe gripped the armrests lightly, more excited than nervous, his trust in Bud absolute.

Bud flared smoothly over the threshold, power to idle. The turbine’s whistle softened to a whisper. The wheels touched with a gentle chirp, then settled firmly. No bounce—just the satisfying rumble of rubber on pavement. He applied reverse beta on the prop and light braking, keeping the stick back to pin the tail until speed dropped below forty knots.

“Viking one two three four, exit runway when able, contact ground one two one point eight when off.”

They turned off at the first high-speed taxiway. Bud stowed the flaps, switched frequencies, and requested taxi to the FBO. Ground control guided them via Bravo, holding short of Alpha, then onward to the Signature Flight Support ramp on the east side.

The Viking felt small but proud among the gleaming jets and towering airliners. Line crew waited with chocks and a fuel hose as they rolled to a stop. Bud shut down the turbine with a long, fading whistle, ran the final checklist items, and killed the master switch. Silence settled over the cockpit, broken only by the ticking of cooling metal and the distant roar of jet engines.

Joe let out a low whistle of admiration. “Six hundred miles in a seaplane. One perfect landing. That was something else, Bud.”

Bud grinned as he unstrapped. “Told you she’d behave. Now let’s grab the rental and find the closest decent BBQ before we head to Hancock’s place. We’ve earned it.”

They stepped out onto the warm ramp. The Viking DHC-2T sat squat and capable, her floats still carrying a few faint traces of Albemarle Sound water that had somehow survived the journey. Nashville buzzed around them—jet engines spooling, horns blaring, the living pulse of a vibrant city—but for a moment the two friends simply stood shoulder to shoulder, the long ribbon of sky still fresh in their minds.

The flight had taken four hours and twenty-seven minutes gate to gate. They had crossed two states, watched the land rise from coastal flats to rolling hills to mountain plateaus beneath them, and set a seaplane down on a major international runway with the confidence of any airliner. Later, over plates of tender brisket, smoky ribs, and cold beer at a downtown joint, they would relive every mile—the spray rooster-tailing on takeoff, the ridge lines glowing golden in the sun, the precise vectors from Approach, the soft chirp of tires on runway 13. But right then, standing on the Signature ramp with the turbine still ticking as it cooled in the Tennessee sun, the only thing that mattered was the simple truth: they had flown west in a machine that belonged equally to water and sky, and she had carried them safely to their destination, ready for whatever came next in building their secure future.
 
Chapter Fifty-Four

They secured the rental Tahoe and drove to the Holiday Inn near the airport. After stowing their bags and cleaning up, they headed to Martin’s Bar-B-Que Joint for ribs, brisket, and cold beer. Once they couldn’t eat another bite, they returned to the hotel and turned in early.

The next day they would meet with Graham at two o’clock, so they spent the morning driving around Hendersonville, taking in the sights and stopping for a lunch of country-fried steak and all the fixings. The town had long been home to music legends—Johnny and June Carter Cash, Conway Twitty, Roy Orbison, the Oak Ridge Boys, and more. Even Taylor Swift had attended high school there and filmed several music videos in the surrounding countryside.

They found Graham’s house without trouble. His wife, Macie, answered the door with a warm smile and led them into his study. Graham slowly rose from his leather chair, leaning on a cane, and shook their hands. They made small talk about the trip until Macie returned with tall glasses of sweet iced tea.

Graham selected a pipe from the stand on his desk and began tamping fragrant tobacco into the bowl.

“So, tell me about this land you’re settling on,” he said.

Joe described the size, geography, and topography of the property. Graham listened, puffing steadily on his pipe.

“Doesn’t sound like a very mineral-rich area.”

“No, sir,” Bud said. “Like I told you, I just want to hollow out a sandstone bluff for storage.”

Graham grinned. “That’s what Cal used to tell everyone.”

Joe added, “The closest thing to minerals around there is an old limestone quarry. The nearest gold is down in Coker Creek, almost a hundred miles away.”

Graham nodded and tapped the pipe against the ashtray. “You’d be surprised where it can be found.” He paused, studying Bud’s face. “I kept a couple of the Ticklers after I sold the patent to a major mining equipment manufacturer. They stopped making them—market’s geared toward the big conglomerates now. Sounds like you’d only need one machine, but I can’t sell you one because of the non-compete clause.”

He scraped the bowl clean, then looked up again.

“However… there’s nothing on paper that says I can’t just give you one.”

“Graham, I’d pay you for it,” Bud said quickly.

“Can’t take your money. If they found out, they’d sue me into next week. I already took that company for enough to keep my daughter and her kids comfortable for lifetimes. I gave several million to St. Jude’s. If you want to do something, send them a donation.” He pushed himself up with the cane. “Come on out to the shop. I’ll show you the setup.”

Graham led them slowly down a ramp at the back of the house and into a large brick workshop. There, sitting on the concrete floor, was the Tickler. It was hard to describe—an oversized iron frame that reminded Bud of an old Army bunk stood on end, but far larger. The “bed” was covered with sixty-four rose-shaped cutter heads that chewed rock into fine sand. Cleated wheels propelled the machine forward into the cut.

“This is how it looks when it’s set up,” Graham said. “You can raise the cutter bed to start higher on the wall for tall ceilings. This attachment lets you position it horizontally to cut straight ahead, and here’s the vacuum system that pulls the sand away so it doesn’t bury the machine. The hoses carry it a few feet, but you’ll still need a way to remove it—carts, a loader, wheelbarrows, whatever fits your operation. Cal had special carts built that worked like big lawn-vacuum trailers.”

“Well, I guess we’ll take the one that’s still in the crate,” Bud said with a grin.

Graham pointed to several cases along the wall. “Three more sets of cutters in there. You probably won’t need them—sandstone and limestone don’t eat the heads too badly.”

Rather than make them figure out shipping, Graham offered, “Leave me a contact number and the coordinates. I’ve got a discreet trucker who can deliver it once you’re ready. Just give me a heads-up.”

“That’s more than generous, Graham,” Bud said. “What can I do for you?”

Graham smiled. “Just live a long, prosperous life.”

An elated Bud drove them back to the hotel. “You know, I really don’t want to fly back in the dark and do a water landing after sunset. What do you say we get another plate of ribs and leave in the morning?”

“Sounds good to me,” Joe said. “Early dinner, good night’s sleep, and we’re off.”


The next morning, sunlight glinted off the broad, red-tipped floats of the Viking DHC-2T Turbo Beaver as it sat on the ramp at Nashville International. The rugged high-wing workhorse, remanufactured with a smooth Pratt & Whitney Canada PT6A turboprop putting out 680 horsepower, looked ready for anything.

Bud completed his preflight walk-around and climbed into the cockpit. Startup was simple: the turbine spooled up with its distinctive whine, then settled into a steady hum. Clearance came quickly, and they taxied out. Takeoff from Runway 20C was short—barely 1,100 feet—and the big Beaver lifted off with its trademark STOL grace. They climbed out at better than 1,000 feet per minute, turning east toward the Cumberland Plateau.

The Turbo Beaver cruised comfortably at 130 knots, sipping fuel efficiently. Below them unfolded a patchwork of Tennessee farms, forests, and the silver ribbon of the Cumberland River. They leveled at 6,000 feet, enjoying the panoramic view through the big windshield. The controls had the deliberate, hefty feel of a true utility aircraft—responsive, but with noticeable adverse yaw if you got sloppy.

Crossing into North Carolina, the terrain softened from the Blue Ridge foothills into the rolling Piedmont and finally the flat coastal plain. Rivers and swamps multiplied as they drew closer to the Inner Banks. After roughly four hours airborne and 580 miles, the mosaic of pine forests, sounds, and marshlands appeared. Albemarle Sound shimmered to the north.

Bud set up for a low pass over the water to scout the landing area, then configured for the approach. The big hydraulic flaps allowed a steep descent. Touchdown on the sound was a gentle kiss—the floats meeting the surface with a soft whoosh and spray. Water rudders deployed, and the reversible prop helped brake as they taxied toward shore.

Shutting down, the turbine spooled down and the propeller feathered. Bud stepped out onto the float. The humid Carolina air smelled of salt marsh and pine. His land stretched out before him—open, quiet, and full of promise—with the Beaver resting on the ramp like a faithful old steed after its long journey from Music City.

It wasn’t the fastest way east, but it was definitely one of the best.
 
Chapter Fifty-Five

The Campbells and the Hemingways kept meeting to finalize their plans. Patty wasn’t up for running errands, so Diana handled most of the shopping for her. The CONEX container filled steadily. Bud added a pair of generators and several empty fuel cans. He and Joe intended to haul the container and Bud’s travel trailer out to the farm as soon as the baby arrived—which, by all indications, would be any day now.

The following Sunday, Helen, Dan, and the rest of his family had come down for lunch when Patty’s labor began. While Helen and Georgiana stayed with her, Bud called Joe. “Patty’s in labor,” he said. Joe’s reply was immediate: “I’m wheels up!”

Bud grabbed Patty’s overnight bag, and they waited on the porch as Joe’s helicopter settled onto the driveway in a swirl of dust and grass. Dan and Bud helped Patty aboard, and within minutes they were airborne. Helen was already on the phone spreading the news. As they lifted off, Bud called Patty’s doctor to let her know they were en route.

Patty gazed out the right side of the helicopter, watching the shoreline and open water race past. The wide fields below looked intimidating at first, but she soon lost herself in picking out familiar houses and buildings. Columbia passed quickly beneath them, and the landscape shifted back to patchwork fields and tree lines. When they reached Creswell, Joe radioed the hospital for permission to land on the helipad. They flared smoothly and touched down at Washington Regional Medical Center, where a medical team waited beside the pad with a gurney.

The staff had Patty loaded and rolling toward the building in seconds. Bud jumped out with her bag and hurried after them. After scrubbing in, donning a gown, and pulling on the silly paper hat, he joined Patty in the delivery room—holding her hand through the contractions and feeding her crushed ice.

Four hours later, Sean Michael Campbell entered the world at seven pounds, six ounces. Mother and baby were both healthy. While the nurses cleaned up Patty and the newborn, Bud stepped into the waiting room, flexing his bruised fingers. A cup of coffee appeared in front of him. He looked up to see Dan and Helen.

“It’s a boy,” Bud said, grinning. “Sean Michael, seven pounds six ounces. I owe you a cigar. Everyone’s fine.”

He took a sip and grimaced at the bitter machine coffee.

“Well, that was a short delivery,” Helen remarked.

“Thank goodness,” Bud replied. “I’m just now getting the feeling back in my hands. Patty’s got a grip like a vice!”

Helen laughed. “I was the same way with mine.”

Once Patty had been moved to her private room, Bud, Helen, and Dan went in to see her and the baby.

“He has his mother’s eyes and nose,” Helen said softly.

“Unfortunately, he got my ears,” Bud groaned.

“He’s beautiful,” Patty whispered, gazing at her son.

“I know a vet who can clip those ears if you want,” Dan offered with a straight face.

“You stop that!” Patty said, laughing. “He has perfect ears.”

They stayed until visiting hours ended. Dan had driven Bud’s truck down earlier, so Bud remained a little longer. Eventually Patty shooed him home. “Go get some rest. I need to sleep too.” He kissed her goodnight and drove back, promising to return first thing in the morning.

Two days later, Bud arrived early to bring his wife and son home. He had already installed the car seat in the back of the truck. After helping Patty into the cab from the wheelchair, he drove with extra caution the entire way.

Charisse and Helen had decorated the house for a small “Welcome Home” gathering so everyone could meet little Sean. Regan fell instantly in love with the baby and declared she would babysit anytime she was needed. In the years ahead, she would change as many diapers as Patty and Bud combined.

With Patty and Sean settled and well cared for, Bud and Joe began planning their road trip to Tennessee. Joe held a CDL, so he would rent a tractor and flatbed to haul the CONEX while Bud pulled his travel trailer with the truck. Tom Morrison had already arranged for an RV pad to be built on Bud’s ten-acre section near the lake.

Joe had sold Bud the parcel for a dollar, with the agreement that Bud could sell it back anytime he wanted. Two weeks after Sean’s birth, the two men headed east to catch I-77.



The rain hammered down on the windshield like a thousand tiny fists as Jeff gripped the steering wheel of their old Ford pickup. It was just past nine on a stormy night, and the drive from Jacksboro to his brother Tom’s farm near Armathwaite felt endless.

Amanda sat beside him, feet tucked under her on the passenger seat, a thermos of coffee steaming between them. The wipers slapped rhythmically, losing their battle against the deluge pouring from the black Tennessee sky.

They had left their little house in Jacksboro after a final meal of leftover chili and cornbread. Tom’s call earlier that evening had been urgent but calm: he was offering them shelter at the old family farm. The property had once belonged to their family but was sold years ago, along with several hundred acres, to cover their parents’ medical bills. Tom had stayed on as caretaker for the new owner.

Jeff had recently lost his job at the mill after ten years, and with the small hospital closing, Amanda was out of work as a nurse’s assistant. Now, rolling out of Jacksboro’s quiet streets past the flickering neon of the old general store and the railroad tracks that scarred the town, they wondered if making the trip tonight was wise.

Jacksboro nestled in the Cumberland Plateau, a small community of winding roads flanked by dense woods and rolling hills. The four-lane blacktop out of town soon gave way to I-75 and then narrower county roads. Jeff knew every curve from childhood, but tonight the rain turned the familiar into something treacherous. Water sheeted across the asphalt, pooling in low spots and making the truck hydroplane in heart-stopping moments.

“Easy there,” Amanda murmured, her hand resting lightly on his thigh. Her voice stayed steady, but Jeff heard the tension beneath it.

The headlights carved tunnels through the downpour, catching glimpses of a startled deer, whipping branches, and runoff carving tiny canyons along the roadside. The plateau’s rugged terrain—steep drops on one side, thickets of oak, hickory, and pine on the other—felt closer and more menacing tonight.

Conversation helped the miles pass. Amanda recounted stories from her last day at the hospital. Jeff smiled, eyes fixed on the road, thinking about the mill job that had kept them afloat and the quiet dreams they had shared during five good years of marriage. No children yet, but plenty of plans. This move was simply the next chapter.

As they crested a hill near Burrville, the wind howled harder. Lightning split the sky, silhouetting the jagged treeline. Jeff slowed to twenty-five miles per hour, tires throwing up rooster tails of spray. They reminisced about the time they had gotten stuck in the snow out here and had to call Tom for a tow.

The rain grew heavier near Lancing as the route narrowed toward Armathwaite. Potholes jarred the truck. Jeff’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. He thought of the farm’s vulnerabilities—the bottomland that could flood, the old barn with its sagging roof—but also of how Tom had turned the worn-out place into productive pasture. Going there felt right, even on a night like this. He was going home.

Amanda found a faint country station playing old Hank Williams. She poured more coffee, the warm aroma cutting through the damp earthiness seeping into the cab. “We’ll be there soon,” she said.

One low bridge over a swollen tributary made Jeff’s stomach tighten. Brown water lapped at the guardrails, carrying debris. He eased across at a crawl, feeling the current tug at the tires. Safe on the other side, they both breathed again.

The final stretch wound through dense forest, the canopy roaring with rain. At last, the gravel drive appeared, marked by a faded mailbox and a wooden sign reading “Quarry Plain.” The truck bounced over muddy ruts as headlights swept across Tom’s house, lights blazing in the windows like a beacon.

Tom emerged from the barn in a slicker, waving them in. Jeff killed the engine beside the equipment shed. The sudden quiet amplified the storm’s roar. Amanda leaned over and kissed his cheek.

“We made it. Together.”

He nodded, gratitude swelling in his chest. The night ahead would be filled with strong coffee, stories, and family. In the heart of Morgan County, under relentless Tennessee rain, love and kin had turned a perilous drive into something enduring.
 
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