Story Not As Simple As It Seems

Chapter Sixty-Five


Bud began collecting the specialized equipment he wanted at the retreat. Most of it had to be ordered, since there was little local demand for such tools. He did manage to find a Skil concrete saw with a dozen extra blades at Home Depot. He ordered a walk-behind sweeper from Global Industrial, along with a BOSCH 14-gallon tank vacuum with an auto-cleaning HEPA filter. A power wheelbarrow from Amazon caught his eye, and he decided to give it a try. Last but not least, he ordered a heavy-duty 10-inch portable cylinder ventilator fan with 33 feet of duct hose—plus extra hose—to exhaust dust while the Tickler was running. With any luck, the setup would keep the tunnel clear and vent the silica dust outside.

For easier shipping, he left everything in its original packaging until he reached the retreat.

After working out the details with Patty, Bud finally headed back alone to finish the excavation. It would be lonely for both of them, but they agreed he’d get far more done without distractions. He loaded the plane carefully, double- and triple-checked his weight and balance calculations, then strapped the boxes down securely. He left early Sunday morning and touched down on the lake by one o’clock.

Tom and Jeff were waiting to help unload. While Jeff began assembling the power wheelbarrow and testing its engine, Bud wasted no time. He serviced the generator, set up the exhaust fan, positioned the Tickler, and fired it up. Jeff backed the dump trailer near the entrance and set up a ramp so the powered wheelbarrow could drive straight in to unload.

The exhaust fan did an excellent job of pulling dust out of the tunnel, but Bud still wore a mask. God only knew what breathing silica would do to his lungs. Even Jeff wore one whenever he stepped outside. The fan vented so much dust that the area around the entrance grew hazy. The work itself wasn’t especially hard—Bud mainly had to sweep loose sand into piles then shovel it into the wheelbarrow. The machine was a game-changer. It could haul up to 660 pounds, and its engine had no trouble pulling the heavy load up the ramp into the trailer. A quick dump, and it was back for another run.

They worked until five o’clock, then shut everything down for the day. Bud cleaned up the remaining sand and measured the tunnel’s progress. They were averaging eighteen inches per hour—a solid pace, but it was clear this was going to take time. He let the exhaust fan run a while longer while he used the battery-powered sweeper and vacuum to clear the tunnel floor. Jeff had to blast the caked dust off the exhaust fan with the air compressor, muttering about what high humidity would do to the buildup.

Finally finished, Bud stripped down and stood under the outdoor shower, letting the cold water rinse the gritty dust from his hair and skin. He dried off with an old OD towel, then headed inside. He made a mental note to build a small weatherproof cabinet next to the shower for towels and bath supplies.

Dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, he fixed a quick corned beef sandwich for supper. Afterward, he drove to Walmart in Jamestown to stock up on fresh food.

On the drive, he talked to Patty on speakerphone. He explained he’d need every available day to finish the storm shelter. He had already decided to enlarge it to twelve-by-twelve feet in case they had guests during bad weather. The storage area would have to wait.

At Walmart, he loaded the cart with enough supplies to last until the following weekend. He included everything needed for the slow cooker Patty had bought him: a whole chicken, a beef chuck roast, rice, carrots, celery, small potatoes, bouillon, dried pintos, bacon, eggs, breakfast sausage, smoked ham hocks, tortillas, refried beans, ground chuck, a round loaf of farmer’s bread, spice packets, and a bottle of Texas Pete. A twelve-pack of Killian’s Irish Red went on the bottom of the cart along with toilet paper and paper towels.

On the way home, he stopped at Sonic for a large half-and-half iced tea. He’d make a full pitcher once he got back.

The next morning, Bud made coffee and a breakfast burrito, then set up the crock pot with the pot roast. By eight o’clock, the generator was running and the Tickler was grinding away again.

Jeff arrived, dumped the previous day’s final load, and returned to find Bud already waiting with another full wheelbarrow. The work was monotonous, but they moved an impressive amount of spoil. They traded jobs so Bud could go inside and add the potatoes, carrots, and celery to the slow cooker. Both men wore large bandanas tied like do-rags to keep sand out of their hair.

By late morning, Bud felt they had gone far enough. He stopped the Tickler and repositioned it to create a baffle that would prevent storm debris from blowing straight into the shelter entrance. They swiveled the machine westward to begin the new tunnel. After cleaning up, they called it a day.

The house smelled wonderful when Bud stepped inside. He showered again, dressed, and served himself a generous bowl of pot roast with a cold Killian’s and a big piece of farmer’s bread.

That evening, he spoke with Graham Hancock, who offered several tips on making the Tickler run more efficiently. The next day, they finished an eight-foot tunnel, then removed two vertical cutting panels to create the shelter doorway. Once they had advanced two feet, they widened the opening, reinstalled the original panels, and added two spares that had been included with the Tickler. With Graham’s recommended settings, they cut the west wall much faster. After completing the outer perimeter, they carefully began cutting around the support columns. It required precise measurements and careful positioning.

By Wednesday of the second week, the storm shelter was fully excavated. They cleared every bit of sand, swept and vacuumed the walls and ceiling, then sprayed all surfaces with a stabilizer—the same product Bud used on his gravel driveway at home. Once dry, the sand no longer rubbed off.

Jeff drove into Livingston and bought lumber for bunk beds and cabinets. With Tom’s help, they built full-size bunks (54” x 75”), counters, and storage cabinets. A heavy-duty door and frame were installed. Bud would decide later what supplies to stock inside. He ran the exhaust fan with extended hoses overnight to clear any lingering chemical fumes.

Jeff and Bud then partially disassembled the Tickler and repositioned it at the ninety-degree turn. Bud wanted a wider tunnel heading east for the storeroom. He had nearly reached the end of his planned stay, but Jeff assured him he could cut the perimeter on his own. He asked Bud to return when it was time to cut around the support columns.

Bud called Patty that evening to update her. When she asked why he didn’t just stay and finish the storeroom, he admitted he was craving crab and home cooking. He promised to fly back Sunday afternoon.

The next morning, Bud drilled a channel for the phone booster’s coaxial cable and ran it along the top of the tunnel wall to the shelter door. Using the concrete saw, chisel, and hammer, he cut a niche just inside the entrance to mount the wind-powered battery and inverter. A three-foot vortex generator was already installed on the nearest eave of the house.

Saturday evening, Tom invited Bud over for supper. Bud brought along his extra perishable food he didn’t want spoiling, keeping just enough for a breakfast burrito the next morning. Jeff and his girlfriend Amanda joined them. Linda served fried chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, corn, and yeast rolls.

While discussing the remaining work, Bud gave Jeff Graham’s phone number in case of equipment issues and reminded him to call when it was time to cut the columns. Jeff already had the measurements for the rough cutout. Bud didn’t stay late. He was excited to get home but too wired to sleep well. He finally rose at dawn, made breakfast, filled his travel mug with coffee, cleaned the kitchen, and headed to the plane. He lifted off the lake at 07:13 local time.
 
Chapter Sixty-Six

Just east of Blowing Rock, North Carolina, Bud slipped in front of a weather system rolling up from the southwest. The winds kept shoving the plane north off course. He disengaged the autopilot and eased down to a lower altitude, trading headwinds for better control and burning extra fuel in the process. Before landing on the sound, he diverted to Northeast Regional Airport across the water to top off the tanks. He didn’t want to run the house reserves too low.

As the Viking floatplane climbed the ramp at the house, Sean and Patty were already waiting in the yard. Hugs and kisses came first, then Bud taxied the plane into the hangar. That weather front was still marching toward the East Coast.

Inside, Helen had a plate of finger foods ready. Bud cracked open an icy beer and dug in.

For the next hour he scrolled through photos on his phone, showing the progress at the Retreat. “Jeff will call when he’s ready to cut the support columns,” he told Patty.

“Then I want to go back out with you,” she said. “I’ve picked up a few more things to decorate the house.”

“Helen’s babysitting service is standing by, willing and ready!” Helen chimed in.

Bud chuckled. “Okay, but keep the volume down. I’ve got some gear to haul back too.”

Saturday afternoon, Bud and Patty hosted Joe and Diana along with Don and Lili for a cookout. Bud had a stack of thick ribeyes he’d been craving, plus a huge locally caught flounder that had been frozen at -4°F for a week—perfect for a bright, tropical-style ceviche. Lili nearly filled up on the ceviche and almost skipped the steak. Once again, Bud shared pictures of the work at the Retreat. The men spent most of the afternoon talking storage, storm shelter supplies, and logistics.

Joe asked what equipment was already on site and suggested picking up a couple of four-wheelers for getting around the farm. He also gave Bud an IP address for a weather station running on his own property. “Check it before you fly in. If it’s ugly, you can set down east and wait it out.”

Bud appreciated the offer. He already did careful pre-flight weather checks and a solid “scientific wild-ass guess” on where he might meet storms and how to maneuver around them, but another data point never hurt. You never knew.

On Thursday, Jeff called. He was a little more than a foot away from needing to cut the support columns. Joe cleared his schedule and flew out with Bud and Patty early Saturday morning. They touched down on the lake at eleven. Tom and Jeff met them at the dock to help unload two steamer-trunk-sized cases of items Patty considered essential for the Retreat, plus another case of tools and supplies Bud wanted on hand. A third cardboard box labeled “Breeo” came along too. They cracked the lid on Patty’s case and placed it on the deck for Patty to work with.

Inside the shelter, Bud inspected Jeff’s progress, took fresh measurements, and reset the Tickler to begin cutting the columns, all the while showing Jeff what he was doing. Jeff stayed with the machine while Tom, Bud, and Joe stepped outside.

“I got a call from Colonel Cassidy last night,” Tom said. “He’s stopping by tomorrow.”

“He say why?” Joe asked.

“Just that he wanted to talk and might have some useful things for us.”

Joe nodded. “Cryptic as ever.”

“Well, we’ll wait and see,” Bud said. “Help me unbox this thing.”

He pried open the Breeo box staples with a screwdriver and started pulling out components.

“What is it?” Tom asked.

“A smokeless fire pit. Can sit right on a wooden deck—no stone liner needed.”

They assembled the stainless-steel unit quickly. Tom gathered limbs from under the trees, and soon they had a clean fire going.

“Now we just need some chairs,” Joe said.

“There’s a guy outside Jimtown who builds Adirondack chairs,” Tom replied. “I’ll grab some next time I’m up that way.”

“Pick up six if you’ve got room,” Bud said.

Bud went back inside to help Jeff move sand while Tom ran the tractor and dump trailer. A little concrete saw work and some hammer-and-chisel touch-ups freed the four columns. Once the room was swept and vacuumed, Jeff sprayed stabilizer on every surface. Bud set up an oscillating fan to speed the drying, then measured down the entrance tunnel and marked the start of the new storage area. The first of two planned rooms would be eight hundred square feet—assuming they didn’t hit fractured rock.

They repositioned the Tickler, set the timer, and started the cut. Sand poured neatly down the diversion channels and piled in a ridge behind the machine, easy to shovel. Tom headed into Jimtown for hot dogs, burgers, buns, beer, and chips. Bud set out utensils and condiments and started cooking on the new fire pit once Tom returned. Jeff shut down the Tickler and generator, and work wrapped for the day.

The next morning, Colonel Jeremy Cassidy arrived in a Cessna 182 floatplane while Bud was dumping another load of sand. Tom drove a side-by-side down to the lake to pick him up.

Bud greeted him at the house and took him inside to see the storm shelter excavation. Jeremy gave a quiet nod of approval, then they watched the Tickler chew through the new storage cut for a few minutes. Afterward, the three men settled into the new Adirondack chairs on the deck.

“Guys, I picked up some equipment at a government auction warehouse you might be able to use,” Jeremy said. “Two John Deere Gators, a Bad Boy Big Dog tractor with front-end loader and a full set of implements, and a Bad Boy zero-turn mower.”

“Never heard of Bad Boy tractors,” Bud said.

“Company up in Batesville. They make solid tractors and excellent mowers.”

“Where’d they come from?” Tom asked.

“Criminal forfeiture—illegal marijuana farm near Oxford, Mississippi.”

“How’d you end up with them?” Bud asked.

“They came up missing on the inventory database.”

Bud sat back and listened. He’d seen this dance before. A flick of the wrist, a few keystrokes, and things simply disappeared from the record—as if they had never been there at all.
 
Chapter Sixty-Seven

Bud had been down at the warehouse when Patty and Sean left for a quick run to Food Lion. By the time he returned to the house, she was stacking boxes of her favorite teas on the pantry shelves.

“Why don’t you just buy a case of each?” Bud asked. “They come six boxes to a case. You could split one and set up a supply for the Retreat. Might save you hunting for them out there later.”

“Are you sure? That’s six cases of tea!”

“It’ll get used eventually. Just set it up with Tom.”

“That I will do!” Patty’s face brightened. “We’re having deviled crab for supper—last six shells we’ve got.”

“Do we have clean ones?”

“Right there in the pantry.”

“I’ll pull out some crab meat and make another batch,” Bud said.

“Use a little more tarragon this time. Last batch could’ve used it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Patty set up the food processor to chop cabbage for coleslaw while Bud retrieved two two-pound bags of crab meat from the freezer. He dried enough bread in the convection microwave for fresh crumbs, then left the meat to thaw. With supper underway, he slipped into his office to check the National Weather Service extended forecasts for the Columbia area and Jamestown, Tennessee.

A short while later he returned to the kitchen, mixed the crab meat with the breadcrumbs, vegetables, and spices, and packed the shells. Patty wrapped the stuffed shells in plastic, then foil, then freezer bags. She had enough ready for tonight’s meal, so the entire new batch went into the freezer. She finished the rice pilaf and opened a jar of creamed corn. At five o’clock she slid the shells into the oven at 375° and set the timer for twenty-five minutes.

Bud had mixed a little extra stuffing—perfect for his favorite toasted sandwiches with a smear of Miracle Whip. Patty tucked the leftovers into a container and slid it into the refrigerator.

Later, while sorting the day’s mail, Bud’s phone rang. It was Tom.

“The Gators and the tractor arrived,” Tom reported. “All in excellent shape. Where do you want them stored?”

“I meant to build an equipment shed but ran out of time before I left,” Bud said. “Can you handle that?”

“Easy. Where?”

“West of the garage should work—plenty of room there.”

“Should fit fine. I’ll get it done.”

“Bill me and I’ll transfer the funds. Oh, and when I come back out, I’ll bring some of Patty’s blueberry jam.”

“Appreciate it!”

Bud headed straight to the basement and returned with four pints of blueberry jam. He wrapped them in newspaper to prevent clinking and started a carton for the next trip. Patty joined in, adding several jars of their favorite homemade condiments. She placed the tea order, kept half a case at home, and vacuum-sealed the rest for the Retreat.

The General Store and Marina were both holding steady—paying the bills but not yet seeing the full summer vacation surge. They were already gearing up. Pete was building a snow-cone stand for Regan, who had twelve flavors ready. She proudly handed Bud a pineapple snow cone to sample. It would have tasted even better on a hotter day, but it was still a winner.

Bud kept a close eye on weather conditions at the Retreat. If he needed to make a quick trip, he wanted to know what he might face. Joe had given him a backdoor URL for historical weather patterns, and Bud spent time reviewing past months to build a better picture. He prepared several flight plans in the computer, ready for different scenarios. He expected another call from Jeff any day and wanted to waste as little time in the air as possible.

The call finally came. Jeff had reached the point in the diagram—confirmed by the geotechnical engineer Harold recommended—where they needed to start carving out the support columns. Bud wet down to one of the fish processors and bought ten pounds of dry ice to pack a cooler with deviled crab. Bud loaded cooler and the boxes of supplies he was taking, kissed a still-sleeping Sean goodbye, and left early the next morning after Patty fixed him breakfast before sunrise.

A light fog hung over the water as he took off from the sound. He climbed quickly, alert for any fishing boats, then leveled off and engaged the autopilot toward Greenville, South Carolina—his first stop.

In Greenville he cleaned the windscreen while the crew topped off the tanks. He grabbed a Gatorade, climbed back in, and set the autopilot for the second leg.

He chose Island Home Airport in Knoxville to avoid the heavier traffic at McGhee Tyson. With no tower, he announced his position and intentions on 123.075 for runway 26. Eyes scanning for other traffic, he made a smooth landing, refueled, and was soon airborne again, heading northwest toward the Retreat.

Bud heard and felt the familiar muffled thump-splash as the keels and steps of the floats skimmed the surface, then bit in, throwing up rooster tails of spray. He taxied to the dock where Jeff waited on shore.

“Welcome back!” Jeff called as Bud stepped out. “Good flight?”

“Pretty smooth, all things considered. Give me a hand with these boxes—got Tom’s blueberry jam in there.”

They loaded everything into the back of a Gator and drove to the house. Bud pulled out Tom’s jam and stowed the rest in the pantry.

Jeff then showed him the site for the new pole-barn equipment shed west of the garage and took him to check progress on the storage room.
 
Chapter Sixty-Eight


Jeff refilled the fuel tank on the generator while Bud made a final adjustment to the controls on the Tickler. Once everything was positioned, they powered it up. The diamond blades bit into the sandstone with a steady, grating hum that echoed off the bluff. Bud maneuvered the powered wheelbarrow into place, ready to clear the debris. Meanwhile, Jeff measured the wall for the first column and used the concrete saw to score its outline. After finishing the back cut, he worked his way around the sides until the column was fully separated. A set of furniture dollies waited nearby to roll the heavy block out. Bud planned to save the dressed stone for future landscaping projects around the property.

The machine kept cutting until it met Jeff’s earlier lines. With the columns aligned, the work went smoother than expected. By the end of the day, they had extracted and dressed two full columns, then performed maintenance on the equipment to prep for tomorrow.

“You did well, Jeff,” Bud said, wiping dust from his hands. “I think you could handle the rest of this by yourself if you had to.”

“Yeah, I was a little skittish on the first placement,” Jeff admitted. “Didn’t want to mess it up.”

“You’re doing fine, and you’ll keep doing fine. Keep that mindset.”

That evening, Bud called Patty and put her on speakerphone while he worked in the kitchen. He dumped a box of spaghetti noodles into a pot of boiling salted water. From the freezer he pulled a bag of Italian meatballs, arranging a dozen on a pan and slid them into the toaster oven. He opened a jar of the spaghetti sauce he and Patty had canned together—rich with garlic, onions, fresh oregano, basil, parsley, and just a hint of dried pepper flakes. It only needed heating.

He crushed a couple of garlic cloves, mixed them into softened butter, and slathered the mixture onto thick slices of Texas toast. Once the meatballs were browned, he swapped them out for the garlic bread. When the pasta reached al dente, he plated a generous serving, topped it with meatballs and sauce, and cracked open a cold beer. The meal hit the spot after a long day of dust and noise. There would be plenty left for tomorrow.

It took two more full days to finish cutting and dressing the remaining columns. Then they shifted to framing doors for the shelter entrance, the main storage room, and the storm shelter. A run to the building supply store in Byrdstown yielded 2x8s, 6x6s, rock anchors, silicone caulk, construction adhesive, and plenty of heavy carriage bolts.

Friday morning they framed and hung the main entrance door. After torquing the last bolts, they disassembled the Tickler and stored it safely inside. Bud secured the heavy steel door with a high-security lock and jotted down a quick list of supplies for future shelving. The only major project left was building a seaplane ramp so he could taxi the Viking out of the water. Jeff had already lined up precast concrete blocks for it. The hangar was ideal, and the equipment shed now housed the tractor, its implements, and the Gators. Fuel tanks were next on the list—separate ones for gas, diesel, and aviation fuel. When Bud asked about a crane rental, Jeff mentioned an excavation company in Allardt whose machine could handle setting the pads. He’d also contact the local fuel distributor serving Jamestown and Livingston to install three 1,000-gallon tanks with pumps.

Bud finished his supper of grilled cheese made with the last of the Texas toast, he scrubbed the kitchen until it sparkled. He was leaving at sun-up and wanted everything squared away. Still, he rose early enough to strip the bed, wash and dry the linen, and remaking the bed before packing his bag.

The next morning at 08:30, Bud loaded up, completed his preflight, and checked the pontoons—no water intrusion. He started the engine, let it warm to operating temperature, and prepared to taxi. Jeff coiled the mooring lines to be stowed in the equipment shed, then waved him off. Bud lifted off the lake smoothly and pointed toward Knoxville. The refuel stop was quick—just long enough to grab a large coffee and two bear claws. He departed on runway 8 and soon cruised over the Pisgah National Forest in western North Carolina. The flight home was uneventful, though the radio crackled with chatter from private pilots at uncontrolled fields. Bud stayed mid-state, clear of busier airspace, and approached Albemarle Sound from the east with a favorable headwind.

A welcome bit of excitement came as he taxied up the ramp: Patty and Sean stepped out of the house to greet him.

“Hey! Everything go okay?” Patty asked, handing over a squirming Sean.

“Wonderfully,” Bud replied, settling his son against his shoulder. “I need to send Jeff a big bonus check. He did a yeoman’s job out there. We finished the rest of the excavation and got the doors installed, so you don’t have to worry about four-legged critters moving in.”

“All I’ll worry about is mice and spiders,” Patty said with a small laugh.

“Mice shouldn’t be a problem, but spiders… they find a way no matter what. I’ll stay on top of it and spray as needed.”

“You know how I am with spiders.”

“I do,” Bud said, kissing her forehead. “And I also remember: happy wife, happy life.”

Patty made meatloaf that night, served with creamy mashed potatoes and butter beans. Bud had returned just in time. A nor’easter rolled in, bringing cold, heavy rain that kept them inside through the weekend. He spent the hours playing with Sean and refining his load list for the next trip to the Retreat. Depending on when Patty and Sean could join him, he might need an independent hauler to position a trailer and move supplies. The storage room could hold a couple of loads, with room for more if they ever had to bug out in a hurry.

Bud also drifted into spring garden planning. As usual, Patty wanted plenty of tomatoes and asked him to double the garlic. She and her mother were experimenting with long-term storage—drying, freezing, and pickling. She planned to buy a couple dozen bulbs to test each method before their own harvest. Bud made a note to expand the beds accordingly.

Patty handed him a detailed list of powdered pantry staples she wanted ordered for the Retreat: sour cream powder, buttermilk powder, heavy cream powder, whole milk powder, nonfat dry milk, powdered cheddar and white cheddar cheeses, a case of Dream Whip, butter powder, cream cheese powder, yogurt powder, malted milk powder, peanut butter powder, soy sauce powder, hickory smoke powder, honey powder, and clear gel. She had already scouted the stores in Jamestown and Livingston—Walmart had some items but not in the larger containers she preferred. Bud already had most of it in the warehouse; he would order fresh stock and rotate the older supplies out to the Retreat.
 
Chapter Sixty-Nine


Bud ordered one hundred 18x18x18-inch and one hundred 18x18x24-inch weatherproof corrugated shipping boxes, along with heavy-duty strapping tape, from Uline. The box sizes were the best and easiest way to build balanced loads up to two thousand pounds for the Beaver. With thorough weight-and-balance calculations, constant monitoring of the CG shift as he burned fuel, and frequent trim adjustments, even a solo cargo flight stayed manageable. Patty helped him break down the loads on paper and pack them. There wouldn’t be room for more than a co-pilot on these runs, and Bud flatly refused to let Patty ride along on the heavy cargo flights. Not with Sean waiting at home.

Patty studied the long-range forecasts in the Farmer’s Almanac and drew a firm circle around June 6th on the kitchen calendar. She wanted two full weeks at the Retreat before the Fourth of July frenzy swallowed the coast. Bud aimed to move as much warehouse inventory as possible, so they refined the cargo manifest, sorted boxes into logical piles on the warehouse floor, and packed each load with a sensible mix of food, clothing, and comfort items. Helen made sure every shipment included at least one box of toys Sean had never seen, plus duplicates of his favorites. As departure day drew closer, Bud decided Helen should fly out with them.

He began making one cargo flight a week. Some carried the full two thousand pounds; most ran lighter, though he kept the totals on even numbers for simpler W&B math. He waited until Jeff finished the seaplane ramp before the first trip. Unloading while bobbing in the water would have been a royal pain.

The first load went by the numbers. Bud and Jeff moved everything into the shelter; most of it stayed there. A few boxes, per Patty’s instructions, went straight into the house—bedrooms or pantry. Jeff had already built several heavy-duty shelving units, so emptying the boxes was quick work. Patty’s insistence on labeling every carton with its contents proved its worth yet again. Amanda Stewart, Jeff’s fiancée, took charge of shelf organization and stayed on the phone with Patty for hours, dialing in exactly how she wanted things arranged. Women always found a way to keep the spurs in you, even from three states away.

Jeff had the fuel tanks installed and topped off. The local distributor stayed on call for future fill-ups. Bud lingered an extra day, driving up to Volunteer Building Supply in Byrdstown to scout their inventory. The selection beat the Jamestown Walmart by a mile. He refueled the Beaver before departure. With full tanks and no cargo, he could make it home nonstop. He downed a pint of milk and one of Amanda’s ham biscuits—no coffee—used the bathroom, and lifted off into a sunny, low-turbulence flight back to North Carolina.

Bud completed three more flights over the following weeks. Patty rode along on the last one; she wanted to unpack the clothing she’d sent ahead and shake out the wrinkles. They stayed three days before returning home to an indifferent Sean, who had spent the week being thoroughly spoiled by Grandma.

Helen was reluctant at first about the “mini vacation” at the Retreat. She wasn’t much of a flyer—her only real experience had been the round trip to New London, Connecticut, for her husband’s Academy graduation. But she put on a brave face and packed her bag.

The night before departure, Bud watched the weather obsessively. He plotted alternate routes with bathroom stops and smooth air for Helen’s comfort. For once, Mother Nature and everyone’s bladders cooperated. He set the Beaver down mid-afternoon with a soft whoosh of floats on the lake. As Bud gunned the throttle to climb the ramp, Sean’s head popped up at the sound—familiar after all the flights with his father.

Patty gave her mother a quick tour of the house while Bud and Jeff carried in the bags. Later, Jeff showed Bud the storeroom. He and Amanda had done an excellent job organizing and shelving the supplies. Bud’s calculations showed they now had enough long-term storage (LTS) food and essentials for six months of full-time residence. It was solid insurance.

Amanda had a Dutch oven of beef stew ready, paired with a fresh loaf of farmer’s bread and iced tea. Even after napping most of the flight and being wired about the new place, Sean went down without protest. The adults lingered around the fire pit on the deck, the mosquito traps doing their quiet work.

The next morning Sean requested waffles. Patty mixed the batter while Bud cooked them. After breakfast, Bud installed the car seat they’d shipped out and took the family on a gentle tour of the “neighborhood”—Jamestown and Livingston, the only spots with any real services. Patty picked up fresh eggs at the IGA instead of opening the powdered ones, plus two crisp heads of iceberg lettuce, tomatoes, radishes, dressing, and carrots. Sean loved gnawing on carrot sticks dipped in peanut butter.

In Livingston, Patty chose two hanging ferns and brackets at the farm-and-garden store. Helen bought Sean a classic red Radio Flyer wagon. They ate lunch at The Coop before heading back.

While Sean napped that afternoon, Bud hung the fern brackets under the watchful supervision of the ladies. Afterward, Patty settled him into a deck chair with his feet up and a cold beer in hand. “Relax,” she ordered.

Helen went inside to fry bacon for BLTs. Patty joined her later to peel potatoes for fries. The rest of the visit stayed blessedly lazy. Bud spent some time in the shelter, setting up folding cots, extra blankets, energy bars, a drum of potable water, and a basic washstand. He finally ran a wire antenna outside for the NOAA radio. Patty added a few touches but mostly left the heavy setup to him. Helen eyed the composting toilet with clear skepticism, so she and Patty drove the Suburban to Walmart and returned with supplies for a privacy curtain. They’d picked the right hardware; Bud had it installed in minutes.

On their last full day—a Saturday—Tom and Linda hosted a watermelon-and-ice-cream party. Bud took his turn at the crank. The visit had been restful, and Helen looked a little melancholy about leaving. Still, they packed their bags the next morning, leaving several changes of clothes behind, and lifted off for home. Mother Nature cooperated again; the flight east was smooth and pleasant.
 
Chapter Seventy


Bud’s garden was exploding with growth, the plants practically leaping from the rich soil. While he tended the rows, Patty and Helen focused on lining up supplies for canning season. They scouted roadside stands for vegetables they weren’t growing that year, but Bud’s plot covered most of their needs. Between his garden shifts, Patty kept him busy cracking the last of the previous year’s pecans from the gunny sacks stored in the silo.

The women would join him for a few focused sessions, picking the meats from the shells while Bud handled the cracking. Once they had a few pounds ready, Patty and Helen toasted some for use in specific dshes and vacuum-sealed the all in bags, then tucked those into freezer-proof containers. They double-bagged everything—pecans had a knack for absorbing other freezer flavors, and Brussels sprout or shrimp flavored pecans held zero appeal for Bud. From the first hundred-pound sack they extracted fifty-three pounds of nut meat, with another sack still waiting.⁠

Helen made a batch of pecan pralines and brought a tin to the store for the girls. That opened the floodgates. She had to restock on tins at the Christmas Shop in Elizabeth City. The girls wanted one out for customer samples and offered to pay for the ingredients plus a little extra. Helen was delighted and soon had several tins ready for them.

Joe followed Bud over to Northeastern Regional Airport in the helicopter to drop off the Turbo-Beaver for its annual engine and structural inspection—something Bud never let slide. After they took back off, Joe pointed the helicopter northeast toward Moyock. A military vehicle collector there had a vehicle Bud was interested in. The place was impossible to miss: a field dotted with unrestored vehicles and shelters housing restored ones.

Joe set down, and they were greeted by Bill Lynch, a man in his sixties wearing an old Marine Corps cover. Bud had spoken with him the night before. Bill led them to a shelter, and there it sat: a pristine M274 4×4 utility platform truck, better known as the “Mule.” Developed by Willys and used by the Army and Marines from the mid-1950s into the 1980s, the lightweight cargo carrier was perfect for the retreat. Small enough to fit through the Beaver’s Alaska door with ramps, it would be a handy addition at the retreat.⁠

Bill cranked it up. Bud drove it around the open field, checking for oil leaks and getting a feel for it. Satisfied, he handed over two 1886 Gold Eagles. The deal was done. He arranged with Bill to return the next day with a trailer to haul it away.

Joe dropped Bud off at the road in front of the house. Inside, Helen and Patty were laying out dinner.

“Did you find it?” Patty asked, a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Yep,” Bud said, grinning. “I now own a genuine M274 Army Mule.”

Patty just shook her head and poured the tea.

After dinner, Bud pulled weeds in the garden, then returned to cracking pecans. Afternoon rain showers drove him to the covered porch. The paper-shell variety cracked easily, often yielding two perfect halves—ideal for pralines. Imperfect pieces went to Helen, who chopped them with Bud’s ULU knife for pecan tea cakes. Bud set aside about two pounds of uncracked nuts to plant a grove near the lake at the retreat.

He ran the numbers on the storage room and confirmed he had space for a full year’s supply of 4Patriots three-month food units for six adults—himself, Patty, Sean, Helen, Jeff, and Amanda. (He didn’t count Sean as a child anymore.) Rather than hauling more from the warehouse, he ordered directly from Utah for free delivery to the farm. No trucking or flying costs. He added a grain mill and other manual food-prep tools to another order, sketching a to-scale layout of the storage room and slowly filling it in. He sent Amanda the latest version each time. In truth, he was paying Jeff and Amanda as caretakers of the retreat. It helped them get on their feet while giving Bud trusted eyes and hands on the property. Patty stayed in weekly contact with Amanda.

The tomatoes were blooming, so Patty and Helen gathered all the used canning jars for inspection, cleaning, and boxing. This year they planned pint jars of tomato sauce alongside the quarts—lesson learned from last season. Spices and supplies were ready. The women spent time in the garden daily with Sean, watering, weeding, and stringing up the climbers. Bud’s Moon and Stars watermelons looked especially promising; they’d be a hit at the store again. Charisse would chill them in a 170-gallon oval galvanized stock tank for customers heading on picnics or home. Last year locals kept coming back for those chilled, sweet, unmistakable heirlooms. Bud even printed handout instructions on saving the seeds.

When the email came from the Nashville office confirming the 4Patriots shipment was leaving Utah, Bud planned the flight with the Mule and whatever Patty wanted to take (within reason and load limits). She decided to join him. He pulled the plane from the hangar, assembled ramp boards from a Tractor Supply kit, and carefully loaded and balanced the Mule. Patty packed the rest of the hold with lightweight boxes of clothing and housewares.

She had been buying Sean’s clothes in progressively larger sizes and duplicating sets so he’d have what he needed in both North Carolina and Tennessee. Their own sizes were stable, but she still duplicated items on shopping trips and had finally convinced Helen to do the same.

Bud felt the familiar tension as he took off from the sound. It had been a while since he’d flown the Beaver near max load. The turboprop would burn fuel quickly, but he had a planned stop. The plane sat slightly tail-heavy on takeoff, but a touch of trim brought it into balance.
 
Chapter Seventy-One

Bud made a fuel and pit stop at Tri-Cities Airport. The weather had been cooperative, but a steady headwind had eaten into his reserves. They weren’t in any real danger—he could have stretched the remaining fuel for quite a while—but he preferred to top off before reaching the Retreat.

Taxiing up to the ramp, he dropped the pontoons’ landing gear and gunned the engine to climb the incline. Patty, being smaller and quicker in tight spaces, slipped into the cargo area and started handing him boxes while she released the tie-down straps on the mule. Bud slid the ramp boards into place, then executed a careful, multi-point turn inside the fuselage until the wheels lined up. “Stay clear,” he told her, and released the brake. The mule shot forward smoothly down the boards, coasting about twenty feet across the yard before he cranked the engine. They stacked the boxes on the cargo bed and drove everything up to the house.

Once the supplies were put away, Patty took one of the Gators down to see Amanda. Bud checked his messages; the delivery truck update placed them near Lawrence, Kansas—roughly two days out. He pulled a cold Killian’s from the pantry fridge and headed for the store room.

He had already asked Jeff to rework the wall shelves so the 4Patriot containers could stack two deep and six high. In one corner, he planned to floor-stack more containers, with room underneath the bottom shelf for SuperPails of grain. He locked everything down, secured the shed covering the entrance, and parked the mule inside to help with camouflage.

Bud walked down to the mosquito traps, emptied the catch bag into the lake, and grinned as the fish went into a frenzy over the mosquitoes and candleflies.

When Patty returned, they warmed a can of Sweet Sue chicken and dumplings and carried it out to the deck. They ate slowly, watching the stars emerge over the water. “Amanda and I are heading to Jamestown and Livingston in the morning,” Patty said. “I’ll grab enough fresh food to last us until we head home.”

Bud nodded, then fetched his bag of pecans. He filled a bucket with water and dropped the nuts in to test them. “Sinkers get planted, floaters get tossed.”

“How do you know that?” Patty asked.

“Well, when I sit in the tub, my nuts sink—and they’ve been good to me so far.”

Patty closed her eyes and shook her head. “I just had to ask.”


The next morning Bud opened a jar of dried beef while Patty made biscuits. After she left with Amanda, he stepped outside and inspected the equipment shed. That was where Jeff found him.

“What’re you thinking?” Jeff asked.

“Spraying it with a mix of gum turpentine and boiled linseed oil,” Bud said. “Gives the wood some protection while it ages and darkens. I’ll need to run up to Volunteer, but Patty’s got the Suburban.”

“Come on, I’ll give you a ride. We’ll take TN-127 instead of cutting over to Livingston and 111. Shorter that way.”

Bud already had a backpack sprayer, so he only needed the liquids. At the store, the price of linseed oil—$33 a gallon—and turpentine at $35 nearly made him walk out. Jeff flagged a salesperson, who steered them toward five-gallon cans at a much better rate.

“I’ll bet y’all are painting a barn!” the man said with a grin.

“Something like that,” Bud replied.

“You’ll want a 50/50 mix so the oil can soak in.”

“I know.”

They were headed to checkout when the attendant spoke up again. “Y’all know we’ve got Wolman Woodlife Raincoat clear sealer on sale? Does pretty much the same thing, no mixing, and about half the cost.”

Bud muttered under his breath, “Why couldn’t the bastard have led with that?” He checked the label—his sprayer would handle it—and bought five gallons.

They loaded the truck and headed back. “This world is infested with Gomer Pyles,” Bud said.

Jeff laughed all the way home.

Before the ladies returned, Bud had the shed sprayed and the sprayer cleaned and hanging. He and Jeff then measured and marked the broad, flat dam with mason’s twine for the pecan planting. Bud retrieved the bucket, tossed the floaters into the woods to torment the squirrels, and used a tulip bulb planter to cut clean holes. They laid each nut on its side and planted two rows of twelve, spaced forty feet apart. Jeff cut stakes with the chainsaw to mark every spot so no one would mow them down.

When Patty and Amanda pulled in, the truck was loaded with grocery bags. Bud and Jeff went out to help.

“I smell BBQ,” Jeff said.

“We stopped at 1806 BBQ in Livingston,” Amanda replied. “Chicken, ribs, baked beans, slaw, and hushpuppies for supper.”

They carried everything inside. Patty set out dinnerware while Amanda put the cold items away. Soon the table was full. Bud poured ales and sweet tea; Jeff wasted no time loading his plate.

“How’s the deer hunting around here?” Bud asked.

“Pretty good,” Jeff said. “Tom put in food plots up near the old quarry. Got one with his compound bow in bow season and another during gun. I got here too late to join in—I was still getting my feet under me. You have good hunting back in North Carolina?”

“Decent, but it’s mostly black bear, whitetails, and wild hogs, and the swamps make it a pain. I do some pig hunting on a buddy’s big fields south of us. You wouldn’t believe the damage those things do if they’re not culled. A lot of folks use dogs to push them onto fire roads for ambush, but I’m not into that. I mostly stick to fishing, crabbing, and shrimping.”

“You should come out for deer and turkey season,” Jeff said. “Plenty of big racks. Tom and Joe keep mineral blocks between Bear Creek and the food plots. Deer are thick as ticks over there.”
 
Chapter Seventy-Two


Bud spent the next day hanging and arranging tools he normally kept in the hangar. The cases of oil and spare parts went onto shelved or base cabinets in one corner. He then used a bottle of spray wax and wiped the plane down. Little jobs filled the hours: he even cut the grass with the “new” mower, though he decided to replace the blades after a frustrating attempt to sharpen them. He made a run up to Volunteer Supply, picked up a fresh set of blades, and grabbed a bench grinder while he was there.

The delivery truck arrived mid-afternoon. Jeff brought the skid steer loader fitted with pallet forks, and together they unloaded and stacked everything beside the house. Once the driver left, Bud opened the shed, unlocked the storeroom doors, and they began carrying the plastic tubs inside. Patty and Amanda pitched in, making sure the tubs were stored in logical order by category and expiration. It didn’t take long. Afterward, Patty and Amanda started compiling a list of cooking essentials for a decent meal. Amanda recommended items that sometimes ran short in the area—especially sour cream—so they added that and several others. They finally retreated to the house, pulled up the Hoosier Farms website, and the list grew quickly.

“Jeff, if things ever get tight and we aren’t here, feel free to draw supplies from the storage room,” Bud said.

“I appreciate that, Bud. Let’s hope it never gets that tight,” Jeff replied.

Bud and Patty stayed one more day to do a complete walk-through and note anything else they wanted to add to the Retreat. They covered every “what if” scenario, but mostly focused on a rushed trip where they wouldn’t have time to move supplies from their coastal home. Bud decided to buy a couple of semi-trailers; if they had time, they could load and have them delivered ahead. If not, the trailers would still be ready when needed.

It was overcast but calm as they took off from the valley. Bud had fueled up from the farm tank and asked Jeff to schedule another aviation fuel delivery. They flew straight back, discussing the growing list they’d tackle once home.

Sean came giggling out to the plane the moment Helen released him after the propeller stopped. Patty scooped him up, smothering him with kisses and telling him how much they had missed him. Bud unloaded their bags, and they all headed inside. Helen mentioned that Pete and Regan had stopped by earlier, thumping watermelons.

Bud grinned. They were clearly eager for the sweetest cold treat on the East Coast. He’d figured it would be at least another week before the melons were ready.

Bud got to work on the Hoosier Farms order and learned they could deliver to Tennessee in a single day. He called Jeff, who confirmed he and Amanda could handle it. Bud ordered two cases of each item on the list, then added two cases of Worcestershire sauce powder, maple syrup powder, and four cases of goat milk powder—easier on the stomach for some folks. Patty ordered a Petromax stainless steel teakettle, a 3-quart Royal Blue enamelware pot with lid, more castile and lye soap, Petromax kerosene lanterns for deck lighting, a set of French bread pans, and two Pullman bread loaf pans with lids from Lehman's.

Bud found a rig with double semi-trailers. He hesitated at first but decided he could always hire a driver to haul them out, then fly the man back. The extra cargo space would be worth it. He went ahead and bought it, dropping the trailers under the warehouse where they could be loaded and stored until needed. When the time came, they’d simply hook up and head to Tennessee.

Patty made one of his favorites that evening: Tagliatelle Bolognese. Bud had first introduced it to Patty and Helen as a welcome change from lasagna and spaghetti, and it had quickly become everyone’s favorite. The dish had also gotten the women hooked on making their own pasta. Patty now kept a manual pasta machine at both homes, and the tagliatelle paired beautifully with many seafood sauces. As long as they had the right flour, they could always have fresh pasta.

When the first Moons and Stars melons were picked, Pete laid several in the stock tank and covered them with ice. By morning the ice had melted to a refreshing slush; they simply added more. The first melon sold around 11:00, and it became Regan’s job to keep the tank filled. When cantaloupes came in, a few joined the mix. A big sandwich-board sign advertising “Cold Melons” went up near the store entrance, and the race was on.

Jeff called later to report the order had arrived. He and Amanda had everything stored in the shelter, and Amanda had filled out the pantry with items they still needed. He’d also learned something useful: the shelter and storage room held a steady 55°F, but when he sprayed the bluff face with the fire pump, convective cooling dropped the interior a couple more degrees. It made for a pleasant respite during the hot, muggy days.

Patty had started Sean in swimming lessons. The kid was a natural dolphin. He hit the pool and swam like he’d been born to it. Patty had immediately wanted to jump in with him the first time she saw him gliding underwater like a seal, but the instructor cautioned her against it. It might disrupt his relearning process. After all, he had spent months swimming in amniotic fluid before he could even speak; he was simply rediscovering an old environment without its previous restrictions. Sean took to it like a diving duck—staying under like a baby otter but surfacing for air when needed. Patty soon lost her fears. The first time Bud watched Sean swim, he felt the same protective terror. Before long, Sean’s favorite game was retrieving toys from the bottom of the shallow end of the pool.

The garden thrived, and they spread out their canning sessions to avoid long hours in the hot kitchen. The battery bank took a beating from the air conditioning, but the evening breezes off the water recharged it quickly. Bud lost one vortex generator to a lightning strike, but the installed protection kept the battery bank safe. He ordered a replacement and two extra blades to keep at the Retreat. Summer storms there were just as fierce. The incident added another item to the growing list of spare parts and repair supplies Bud knew he needed to stockpile.
 
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