Story Sunday Morning Coming Down...

Chapter Twenty

Traven studied the greenhouse plans spread across the kitchen table and selected one that looked manageable—sturdy but not overly complicated. He showed it to Cindy, who nodded in approval. The greenhouse had been nagging at him for weeks. Heating it through winter would be impossible without an expensive commercial system, unless...

Then he remembered the old coal stove and the 50-gallon water tank they’d salvaged from Donald’s place when they cleared it out. The stove had a coiled pipe inside the firebox—a built-in heat exchanger. If he plumbed it to the tank, a fire would heat the water circulating through the coils, sending hot water into the insulated tank and drawing cooler water back in to repeat the cycle. He’d need an insulated water heater blanket to slow heat loss, plus manifolds and PEX tubing to run radiant lines through the planting beds. It wasn’t fancy, but it could keep the greenhouse warm enough for year-round growing. For now, though, the priority was building the structure itself.

Traven hitched the trailer to his tractor, loaded his chainsaws, axe, and tools, and headed out to harvest timber. He cleared a staging area near the planned site and began felling six-inch-diameter trees for the upright posts. He figured he’d need at least eighteen to frame a solid 20-by-50-foot greenhouse.

After cutting the first six logs, Cindy joined him. Together they built simple log rests, and he demonstrated debarking. He offered her a peeler spud, a drawknife, and his electric chainsaw with the debarking attachment. She tried each one and quickly settled on the spud—it stripped bark faster and cleaner than the saw. “I’ll rotate tools and see what holds up best for long sessions,” she said.

Traven returned to felling and skidding logs while Cindy worked. By the time he dragged the next one in, she’d already cleaned the first with the drawknife. They rolled it aside, positioned another, and jacked it up for her to finish. She paused to shed her jacket.

“Hey, slow down,” Traven said. “We’ve got time. I’ll finish cutting and pitch in on debarking.”

“What about covering?” she asked, wiping sweat from her brow.

“Paris has 10-mil plastic sheeting. It’ll do the job, but UV will degrade it in a couple years. No greenhouse suppliers nearby.”

“Can’t you order UV-resistant stuff?”

“They make it. I’ll check online tonight.”

They worked steadily. Traven found the spud quickest for rough stripping, though he used the chainsaw to shave knots flat. By evening they’d each finished four logs—muscles aching from unfamiliar work—and called it quits. Cindy headed inside to start supper while Traven sharpened the drawknives and spuds on the pedal grinder in the storage shed.

Two more days of debarking followed. Then Traven set two posts on the ground and laid three horizontal logs across them. He built a fire and rolled the bottom ends of the horizontals over the flames to char them—fire-hardening the wood to reduce rot where it met soil. (Leaving charcoal on would wick moisture, so he brushed it off afterward with a wire wheel on his cordless drill.) Cindy helped rotate logs over the fire or scrub char away. By dusk they looked like coal miners, soot-streaked and exhausted.

While she finished brushing the last pair, Traven painted the charred ends with used motor oil for extra protection, augered the first two post holes with the tractor, and dragged the posts over. He swapped to the PTO winch and gin-pole rig, easily lifting and dropping each log into place. Cindy watched, impressed, as he maneuvered the heavy timbers like they weighed nothing. She held the level steady while he tamped gravel around the base. They strung builder’s lines for alignment and set the second post. They found a rhythm and finished the rest by the end of the next day.

That evening Traven found string-reinforced, 4-year UV-resistant 10-mil clear greenhouse plastic on Amazon—six-by-seventy-five-foot rolls. He ordered enough for full coverage plus spares. He cut more trees for girts, rafters, plates, and purlins, notching them into the posts. They made another run to Paris for log screws—six packs of 12-inch and six of 8-inch—plus Gorilla Tape, stainless staples, and a heavy-duty staple gun.

When the plastic arrived, he had it dropped at Brigham Hardware in Dover. The next morning they started hanging it. The six-foot widths made the first sidewall straightforward. Traven snapped a chalk line, Cindy held the sheet taut, and he taped reinforcement strips before stapling. They added 1½-inch batten strips over the staples for security, finished the wall, taped seams, and quit for the day—hoping calm weather held.

After a quick breakfast, they tackled the opposite sidewall. It went faster. Skipping lunch, Traven drove to Lowe’s in Paris for corrugated polycarbonate roof panels (enough for roof and end walls), roofing screws, a propane torch, tanks, a water heater blanket, PEX rolls, mixing valves, and Sakrete bags for the stove pad. The truck and trailer sagged under the load.

His roofing method wasn’t OSHA-approved—Cindy lifted him on a pallet to set the ridge cap and vents—but it worked without mishap. While he built double doors wide enough for the garden tractor (covered in polycarbonate), Cindy gathered leaf mold from their stockpiles, nearly filling the dump trailer.

Traven charred outline logs for the raised beds with the torch. “Leave the soil in the trailer,” he told her. “No sense moving it twice.” They charred and brushed more logs, finishing enough for one long bed by evening. Tools stowed inside, they headed in to clean up.

Construction took just over two weeks. Traven poured a concrete pad for the stove and tank, laid PEX in the beds (secured with landscape fabric pins), and filled beds with compost-leaf mold mix. He still needed to install the stove, connect plumbing, test temperatures, and tweak the mixing valves. He’d run separate lines: one for root-zone heating in the beds, another to old car heater cores for ambient air warmth if winter turned brutal. With doors sealed, it would live up to the name “hot house.”

He framed a small enclosure for the heater setup with lumber, sided it board-and-batten style, charred the boards, and coated them with boiled linseed oil.

With the greenhouse done, it was time to prep the main garden. Traven began turning soil for spring planting.
 
Chapter Twenty-One

Cindy poured over last year's planting charts, calculating how much more they needed this season. Their canned and stored goods would carry them through to harvest, but she and Traven wanted a comfortable buffer. She even added three 100-foot rows of white-kernel popcorn from Chickapea Farms—a favorite snack for both of them. Many evenings they had spent curled up with mulled apple cider and bowls of popcorn, watching old movies.

Traven prepared the soil and built raised beds using the tractor attachment. Cindy had started many plants in seed trays indoors, then moved the seedlings to the greenhouse for a week of acclimation before transplanting.

She drew up a flexible planting schedule that accounted for bad weather. The popcorn would go in near the end, left to dry fully on the stalk alongside some field corn destined for meal.

They began with herbs in the greenhouse beds. Traven soon broke off to clear winter deadfall for the woodshed and fell the trees he'd girdled the previous year, splitting and stacking them to season. By the time the lake water warmed, they were ready for breaks—sometimes spending entire Sundays swimming and sunbathing.

Farther north, lone-wolf terrorists occasionally struck in crowded states, but the southern regions felt safer. Neighbors knew one another and spotted anything amiss. More than once, suspicious outsiders turned up dead, later revealed to have been trouble. Traven kept watch on the news, but so far nothing had reached Paris, Tennessee. The county had solid law enforcement and vigilant residents. Faith, family, and country guided life here, yet everyone stayed on alert.

Traven found a beekeeper near Indian Mound and leased two hives for garden and greenhouse pollination. He also bought honey, reserving five gallons for fall.

This year's garden thrived. Heavy mulching and richer soil held moisture longer than before. Traven kept gathering leaf mold from hardwood groves, building a large tarped pile—the earthworms loved it, and he never lacked bait for fishing. Catfish favored the worms, especially near creek inlets. He filleted the big ones and fried the smaller. Lately he'd experimented with smoking fillets using a rub from an outdoor magazine. Several jars now waited in storage, their smoky flavor elevating catfish stews.

Once a month, after hanging laundry (weather permitting), they drove into Paris for supplies. It wasn't much, but the outings provided human contact. Cindy knew many shop owners by name. They often lingered for an early supper at Fresh Market Restaurant before heading home.

With spare time, Traven picked up lumber from Mathis Brothers in Dover for repairs and Cindy's new project: a fence for morning glories near the garden. Using rough rails, he trimmed them, mortised posts, and built a simple three-rail design in a few hours. Cindy arrived with spade and seeds, beaming as she planted and described how beautiful the blooms would be.

They canned tomatoes in small batches—no more than a dozen jars at a time—allowing thorough oven sterilization before filling. Sauce, crushed, diced, and juice filled the shelves. They soon exhausted last year's reused jars and restocked in Paris, along with vinegar and sugar for bread-and-butter pickles. Dill pickles came from greenhouse-fresh dill. Green beans arrived, demanding two canning days a week. Okra was picked young—some canned for soups, some par-cooked and frozen for frying. Shelves neared capacity, so Traven built more. Cindy even candied rinds from their Sugar Baby watermelons.

In June, Traven set out mineral blocks and attractants for fall deer season. Bow season ran late September through October, gun season November onward. He practiced shooting in calm and windy conditions, aiming for deer with both. He'd bought extra pork fat for sausage and jerky when he collected the butchered hog. Freezers would fill further with half a beef later in fall.

He'd ordered a cast-iron corn kernel sheller from Lehman's, complete with flywheel pulley. He'd rigged it to an electric bike for power—no more hand-cranking. It would speed shelling sweet corn and popcorn, and even husk black walnuts from the two lakeside trees.

As August's worst heat eased, they started cool-weather crops for September transplant: carrots, leaf lettuce, radishes, spinach, arugula, mustard, turnips, cabbage, Brussels sprouts, pak choi, and romaine. Traven would use minimal greenhouse heat to keep them growing. Cindy borrowed a salad-dressing cookbook from the Paris library, copied recipes, then had Traven order her own copy online. She vowed more salads this year, wary of joining the plus-sized crowd she'd seen at Walmart. Traven shrugged—he'd stick to jerky, cornbread, and honey. If it came from the land, it couldn't hurt you.

Cindy dove into quilting. She'd finished their bed quilt, completed another, and was halfway through a third. The Henry County Fair in late October would feature her displays for sale, plus pot holders and oven mitts. Thrift-store trips yielded colorful old clothes for quilt tops. She'd scrutinize racks of dusty dresses and shirts, envisioning repurposed fabric. Scraps, buttons, zippers—everything got saved.

Traven monitored the mineral sites and added feeders, drawing turkeys too. They'd taken a couple early on, but the birds vanished after gunshots. He'd read about bow-hunting turkeys and planned a try; the quiet might keep them around.

They harvested sweet corn and popcorn in peach baskets, hauling them to the deck. Traven's setup bolted the sheller to a stand, with the bike upright to drive it in low gear. Ears fed in, kernels dropped into a box—no back strain. Shucks went to the greenhouse stove for burning. Kernels filled food-safe five-gallon buckets with gamma lids: eight for popcorn, six for sweet-corn meal.

At the fair, Cindy manned a crafts booth. Listening to her pitch, Traven thought she could sell scrap metal to Elon Musk. She highlighted Insul-Fleece in her pot holders and mitts—perfect for hot cast iron. He'd ordered 200 business cards with her name and number. She sold every quilt, holder, and mitt, handing out nearly half the cards (saving display samples). Shop owners in Paris wanted to stock her goods. Breathless with excitement, she rushed over.

“Traven! Almost $2,000!”

“Well, guess you've earned your keep. Let's get hot chocolate.”

They left display photos and remaining cards, heading to the concession stand.

Cindy had exhausted Paris thrift options, so before Thanksgiving Traven drove her to Hopkinsville and Clarksville—better pickings near the bases, where soldiers refreshed civilian wardrobes. She found floral and bird patterns, already planning spring quilts.

Traven bagged a deer and two turkeys. Turkeys proved toughest: hitting a head at 15-yards with a blunt-tip arrow demanded focus. The flock didn't panic-fly but slipped away after one fell. The deer was cleaner—broadhead true, a 25-yard run, then down. He field-dressed it, cut roasts, and boned out the rest. Cindy helped grind meat, make sausage, and extrude jerky strips. He smoked batches for four days, then packaged most for the freezer—except a six-foot string of sausage links and two pounds of jerky for immediate use.
 
Chapter Twenty-Two

The mist arrived unannounced on the last day of October, rolling off Kentucky Lake like a spectral blanket woven from the breath of the two great reservoirs that hemmed in the Land Between the Lakes. It was not the dramatic fog of mountain peaks or the sudden shroud of coastal storms; this was a slow, insidious vapor born of lingering warmth in the water meeting the season's first true chill. By early November, the rains followed—steady, chilling drizzles that soaked through wool and Gore-Tex alike, turning the 170,000 acres of peninsula forest, prairie, and shoreline into a world of perpetual dampness. The air hung heavy with the scent of wet oak leaves, decaying hickory husks, and the faint metallic tang of lake water carried on the wind. Daytime temperatures hovered in the upper forties, dipping toward freezing at night—the kind of bone-deep cold that seeped through layers, made every breath visible in pale puffs against the gray, and set old bones aching.

Traven spent long hours splitting cut sections of logs under the woodshed. The work was monotonous but body-warming, keeping him in shape during stretches when the weather made venturing out feel miserable. The only wetness his clothing gathered was honest sweat.

Cindy stayed busy with her sewing and quilting, cutting up gaudy sheets and pillowcases bought at discount stores to craft quilts for babies, young girls, and boys. A Dutch oven of something hearty always simmered on the stove for their meals. Occasionally she set her sewing aside to mix bread dough for rising or whip up a sweet treat.

Life in the Land Between the Lakes did not pause for this weather. It adapted, slowed, and deepened into something more intimate, more elemental. The Trace—that forty-five-mile ribbon of asphalt slicing north to south from Grand Rivers to Dover—became a solitary corridor where headlights pierced the mist only rarely. Gone were the summer throngs of boaters and picnickers. In their place moved the hardy few: locals who knew every curve of the shoreline, rangers bundled in rain gear, and the occasional hunter in blaze orange, rifle slung across a shoulder. The forests, once ablaze with the reds of blackgum and sumac, the oranges of sassafras, and the yellows of tulip poplar, maple, and sweetgum, now stood half-bare. Leaves that had peaked in mid-October clung wetly to branches or carpeted the trails in slippery mulch. Footsteps squelched rather than crunched. Branches dripped in rhythmic plops, a constant percussion against jacket hoods and tent roofs.

The mists gave Traven another reason to stay close to his land. Property lines vanished without an accurate map, and it was easy to stumble into a hunter eager for a deer before the season closed. The least experienced sometimes fired at any movement. Occasionally, hunters wandered right into the yard, startled to find anyone living so far back in the woods.

Traven paused mid-swing, head swiveling toward the faint honk of Canada geese lifting from the lake’s edge. He went inside, grabbed his hunting coat, shotgun, pocketed extra shells, and headed toward the water. The lake itself was a mirror of slate, its surface dimpled by endless rain, shoreline reeds bowed under the weight of moisture. Bald eagles, early arrivals for their winter residency, perched on dead snags overlooking the coves. Their white heads stood out stark against the gray, keen eyes scanning for fish stunned by the cold or waterfowl clustered in sheltered bays. One pair launched into the mist, wings silent except for the faint whoosh of displaced air, vanishing into the fog before their cries echoed back.

Traven moved quietly through the woods and positioned himself near the lake’s edge, hoping to take a goose or two when the raft broke up—ideally where the birds would fall onto land instead of water. He just had to wait. Suddenly, an eagle swooped down—possibly one he’d seen minutes earlier—trying to snatch a young goose. The raft erupted into flight, heading straight toward him. Traven held as long as he dared, then fired twice. Two geese dropped into the trees around him.

He carried them back to the house, used a feather plucker to strip most of the plumage, singed the pinfeathers with a torch, and rinsed the birds under the outside spigot. Cindy patted them dry with paper towels and bagged them for the freezer.

As night wrapped the area in darkness, temperatures plunged, and the mist thickened into a freezing fog that rimed leaves and windshield wipers. Owls called from the treetops, their hoots carrying far in the still air. Raccoons and opossums foraged along the shorelines, fur matted but movements purposeful. Farther north in the prairie, bison bedded down in clusters, their bulk radiating warmth that melted frost around them. Along the 300 miles of undeveloped shoreline, waves lapped gently, the water still holding a memory of summer warmth that kept fish active near the bottom. Geese resettled into rafts on the lakes, their distant honking a soothing lullaby.

After supper, Traven and Cindy sat reading by book lights. The woodstove popped occasionally as pockets of moisture released from the logs. The room’s coziness soon had them nodding off, urging them toward bed.

As November deepened and the first possible flurries dusted the elk and bison prairie grasses, the mist lingered longest over the water at dusk. It was a veil that softened edges, blurred distances, and invited the soul to listen. Life here was not loud or vibrant in these weeks; it was persistent, layered, and profoundly connected. Deer still browsed, eagles still hunted, a few hardy campers kindled small fires against the dark. The chilling rains washed the land clean, preparing it for the snows to come, while the people and creatures who called the peninsula home moved forward—one soggy step, one steaming breath, one quiet observation at a time. In this misty, rainy interlude between autumn’s glory and winter’s bite, the Land Between the Lakes revealed its truest essence: a place where endurance and wonder intertwined beneath the gray, where every drip from a branch whispered of renewal waiting just beyond the horizon.

One morning, Traven was preparing for another day of wood splitting when Cindy reminded him she needed to deliver more quilts, potholders, and mitts to a couple of shops in Paris that sold her work on commission. Traven swapped his bibbed overalls for jeans. They ate breakfast, then he loaded and tarped the boxes. They arrived in Paris just as the shops opened. After collecting proceeds from earlier sales, Cindy directed him to a fabric shop where she browsed bolts of slow-selling cloth with interesting patterns and restocked on thread. Next they stopped at Walmart for a few items, then McDonald’s for lunch.

Before heading home, Traven pulled into Tractor Supply and bought more mineral blocks for the deer.
 
Chapter Twenty-Three

From the first of November, the weather turned dismal. The days were often grey and misty, with ice forming around the edges of shallow pools each morning. Wildlife grew more active, frantically gathering food before winter set in. Deer, turkeys, and squirrels swarmed the hardwood groves, scavenging for the last of the acorns. Traven kept the wildlife feeders filled with grain, giving the animals an extra boost and allowing him to observe them closely.

He had identified two rafters of turkeys well enough to recognize many of the individual birds. From each flock, he had harvested two young adults—each weighing about fifteen pounds—and prepared them for wet aging. They were the perfect size for him and Cindy: enough for a solid meal with leftovers the next day. Cindy would later boil the carcasses with vegetables and leftover dressing to make a rich soup they could eat fresh or preserve by freezing or canning. With the turkeys already in the freezer and their chickens as backup, Traven figured they had more than enough to last the winter. The extra feed he provided not only kept the birds coming but would help them survive the cold months ahead.

Cindy spotted a notice at Tractor Supply from someone selling an “electric” Singer treadle sewing machine. To Traven, that meant the machine had been retrofitted with an electric motor later in its life. He knew conversion kits had once been common, so they went to take a look. The machine was nearly identical to Cindy’s original model, though the stand was different. It even came with the original manual. Best of all, it could still run on the treadle with a small belt connected to the handwheel, allowing it to work without electricity.

Traven knew the man was practically giving away his late mother’s machine, but they settled on $150. They folded the machine into the table, and the man helped Traven carry it to Traven’s truck. Since it was almost the same model she already used, Cindy adjusted quickly. She only needed to get used to the pressure required on the foot pedal. Within days she was producing potholders and oven gloves again, then switching back to piecing quilt patterns. She had to reorder cotton fabric and insulation batting before the week was out.

Cindy and Traven went all out for Thanksgiving—not in quantity, but in variety and care. The day before, Cindy baked fresh bread along with pumpkin, pecan, and apple pies. Traven prepared a green bean casserole, peeled carrots, and made pan dressing, all stored in the fridge until needed. Early Thanksgiving morning, they rose to get the thawed turkey into the oven. Breakfast was simple: tea, coffee, and stovetop toast.

While the turkey roasted, Traven siphoned off a pitcher of hard apple cider. Cindy started collard greens with ham hocks and boiled potatoes for mashing. They sipped the cider as they finished cooking, their stomachs growling in anticipation. They finally sat down to eat at three o’clock in the afternoon, taking their time and savoring every bite.

The only item they hadn’t produced themselves was real cranberry sauce—not the jellied kind, but whole berries in a proper sauce. They skipped immediate dessert, letting their meal settle. Instead, they took a long walk, then returned to listen to music and rest, drifting into light naps. In the late afternoon they cleared the table. Traven finished carving the turkey and dropped the carcass into a stockpot along with some of the pan dressing to infuse the broth with its spices. After washing the dishes, they took another evening walk before returning for coffee and pie (tea for Cindy). They turned in early that night.

The next morning, the pressure canner went on the stove right after the coffee pot and tea kettle. While sipping her tea, Cindy chopped carrots, onions, and potatoes. Traven picked the meat from the bones in the stockpot. Cindy added the vegetables and half the mashed potatoes to the pot and let everything simmer for several hours. Traven buried the bones near the burn pit.

Cindy cooked link sausage and fried eggs for breakfast. Afterward, Traven filled the wood boxes and the rack on the porch. As he worked, the temperature dropped sharply. A light rain began to fall, quickly coating everything in a crystal sheen and forming delicate icicles along the roof edges. Winter had arrived early.

On Saturday, Cindy wanted to visit the fabric shop in Paris for Christmas-themed fabrics. While she browsed bolts of material, Traven picked up more wildlife feed and mineral blocks. He had checked the food plots earlier and seen that the deer were devouring the planted greens and sunflower heads. He added a couple of bags of cracked corn to the mix. Some people fed only corn, but he knew too much could cause digestive issues. The animals just needed a moderate energy boost as the weather turned harsh.

When Traven returned to the fabric shop, Cindy already had four large bags of fabric set aside. She was reaching for a card of small bells from the display when he walked in. She planned to attach them to the oven mitts. She grabbed three cards of the bells and headed to checkout. Cindy paid with her “craft” wallet, using the money she had earned selling her handmade items.

Traven carried the heavy bags to the truck, and they stopped for an early lunch at the diner.

Back home, Traven headed out to refill the feeders and swap the memory cards on the game cameras. Cindy immediately spread out her new fabric and started cutting potholders.

When he returned, she was deep in sewing. Traven went to the Post Office to check their mail. Anything addressed “To the Resident” went straight into the trash bin there. He also discarded realtor letters and catalogs from companies he’d never heard of selling cheap Chinese goods. He did keep a couple of sewing supply catalogs for Cindy and a sales flyer from Tractor Supply.

Cindy was still focused on her potholders, so Traven retrieved his cleaning kit and began servicing his guns. He turned on Fox News with the volume low and worked while half-listening.

After about an hour, he stood to stretch and glanced at the television. A chyron had appeared: “Attempted Bombing in Seattle.” Traven turned up the volume. A Seattle police officer had noticed a delivery van acting suspiciously near the courthouse. When he approached and asked the driver to step out, the man tried to flee. A nearby K-9 officer quickly subdued him. Inside the van, police found dozens of propane tanks rigged with a timed explosive device. Fortunately, the driver hadn’t armed the timer.

Traven turned the volume back down and continued reloading his Smith & Wesson 686.

“Thank God the Land Between the Lakes holds no political interest for anyone,” he muttered.

Cindy put away her sewing at 4:30 and opened their first quart jar of turkey soup. She toasted thick slices of bread, and they enjoyed buttered toast with the hearty soup. After cleaning the kitchen, she didn’t return to her projects. They sat together, watching a movie and sipping cold hard cider from the jug on the porch.
 
Chapter Twenty-Four

The Land Between the Lakes stretched like a long, narrow finger of wilderness between Kentucky Lake and Lake Barkley in early November, its ridges and hollows still clinging to the last faded golds and crimsons of autumn. The air carried the sharp, metallic bite of coming winter, but the days had been deceptively mild—temperatures hovering in the upper forties and low fifties during the afternoons, with nights dipping just enough to rim the edges of ponds with thin ice. Hunters moved quietly through the oak-hickory forests, their boots crunching over fallen leaves that had not yet surrendered to decay. Fishermen cast lines into the still, dark waters of the two great reservoirs, where bass and crappie lingered in the cooling shallows. The national recreation area felt vast and quiet, a place where the modern world faded into the rustle of wind through bare branches and the distant call of geese migrating south.

No one expected thunder that month.

It began on a Tuesday evening, the kind of gray, brooding afternoon that locals in western Kentucky knew well but rarely feared in November. A strong cold front had barreled down from the Canadian prairies, riding an Arctic high that plunged temperatures twenty degrees in a matter of hours. By dusk, the mercury hovered just above freezing across the Land Between the Lakes. A light, steady snow began to sift from low, leaden clouds—nothing dramatic at first, just fat flakes drifting lazily, catching in the headlights of trucks rumbling along the Trace, the old road that bisected the peninsula.

Old man Harlan Whitaker, a retired ranger who still patrolled the back trails out of habit, pulled his truck over near the North Welcome Station. He watched the snow accumulate on his windshield and muttered to himself about an early winter. The lakes, still holding the residual warmth of summer and early fall, steamed faintly in the gathering cold, their surfaces giving off a ghostly vapor that rose into the chilled air. That contrast—warm water meeting plunging Arctic air—was the unseen engine of what was coming.

As night deepened, the wind shifted north and strengthened. It funneled down the narrow corridor between the two lakes, gaining speed over the open water like a river finding its channel. Cold air poured over the relatively warmer surfaces of Kentucky Lake and Lake Barkley, destabilizing the lower atmosphere. Moisture evaporated rapidly from the lakes, rising in invisible columns that collided with the dense, frigid air aloft. Instability built quickly. The air parcels, warmed and moistened by the lakes, shot upward with surprising vigor, forming towering cumulonimbus clouds even as the temperatures at ground level remained well below freezing.

Harlan felt it first as a change in the quality of the snowfall. The flakes grew heavier, wetter, almost graupel-like in places, piling up at an inch per hour on the open meadows near the Energy Lake overlook. He stepped out of his truck, flashlight in hand, and the beam cut through swirling curtains of white. Then came the sound.

It was not the crisp, sharp crack of summer lightning, nor the rolling boom that echoed across summer valleys. This was deeper, muffled, as though the sky itself had been wrapped in thick wool. A low, resonant rumble that vibrated in the chest more than the ears. Harlan froze, tilting his head. Thunder. In November. In snow.

Lightning followed almost immediately—a brilliant, jagged flash that illuminated the falling snow from within, turning the entire landscape into a negative image for a split second. The white flakes became a blizzard of dark specks against sudden daylight, the bare trees stark black silhouettes, the distant lake surface gleaming like polished obsidian. The thunder rolled again, closer this time, its sound softened and prolonged by the heavy, insulating blanket of snow already accumulating on the ground and in the tree canopy.

Word spread quickly through the small communities hugging the edges of the Land Between the Lakes. In Grand Rivers and Aurora, in the scattered cabins and farmhouses, people stepped onto porches or peered through windows, phones in hand. Social media lit up with videos: headlights cutting through near-whiteout conditions, lightning pulsing silently behind dense curtains of snow, the occasional boom arriving seconds later like distant artillery. "Thundersnow," someone typed. The term felt exotic, almost mythical, for a region more accustomed to spring tornadoes and summer heat.

Inside the recreation area, the phenomenon intensified. The narrow geography of the Land Between the Lakes amplified the lake-effect processes. Cold air funneled between the two long bodies of water, repeatedly picking up moisture and rising in organized bands of intense precipitation. One particularly strong band settled over the central and northern sections, near the Hematite Lake area and the old iron furnace ruins. Snow fell at rates of two to three inches per hour in the heaviest bursts. Visibility dropped to near zero. The forest trails, usually peaceful hiking paths lined with maples and beeches, became tunnels of swirling white.

A small group of campers, hardy souls who had planned a late-season backpacking trip along the North-South Trail, found themselves caught in the heart of it. They had pitched tents in a sheltered hollow near the Trace, expecting only a light dusting. Now the snow piled against the tent walls, the fabric sagging under the weight. Lightning flashed overhead every few minutes, each strike etching the interior of their tents with eerie blue-white light. The thunder, when it came, was a continuous low growl, like a great beast pacing just beyond the tree line. One of the campers, a woman from Nashville named Clara, later described it as "the sky arguing with itself while trying to stay quiet." The snow muffled everything—their voices, their footsteps, even the crackle of their small camp stove. It created an intimate, almost claustrophobic world where the only reality was the steady hiss of flakes against nylon and the occasional electric crackle from above.

The electrical activity was no illusion. Charge separation occurred within the towering clouds just as it did in summer thunderstorms: graupel and ice crystals colliding, transferring electrons, building potential until lightning discharged. But here the storm tops were lower, the processes compressed by the intense cold and the narrow vertical development forced by the lake-effect dynamics. The lightning itself often appeared as diffuse sheet lightning or brief, branching bolts that seemed to dance horizontally through the snow-laden clouds rather than striking the ground. When cloud-to-ground strikes did occur, they were rare and spectacular, illuminating vast swaths of the peninsula in stuttering white.

By midnight, accumulations reached six to eight inches in the hardest-hit areas, with localized drifts approaching two feet where the wind sculpted the snow against ridges and road cuts. Power lines along the Trace sagged under the unexpected load; a few snapped with bright blue sparks that briefly rivaled the lightning. Rangers closed the main roads into the recreation area, citing whiteout conditions and the danger of fallen limbs. Yet the thundersnow continued, relentless and strangely beautiful.

From a high vantage near the Piney Campground overlook, if one could have stood there without being blinded, the scene would have been otherworldly. Bolts of lightning revealed the twin lakes on either side, their surfaces dark and restless, steaming like cauldrons. Between them, the forested spine of the Land Between the Lakes glowed white under the flashes, every branch and blade of grass outlined in snow. The thunder rolled across the water, its sound carrying farther than usual in the cold, dense air, echoing off the distant shores.

Meteorologists at the National Weather Service office in Paducah scratched their heads at the radar returns. The signature was unmistakable: intense, narrow bands of heavy precipitation with embedded electrical activity. Thundersnow events were documented more often near the Great Lakes, where vast fetches of open water fueled massive lake-effect snows. Here, between two narrower reservoirs, the setup was rarer still—requiring just the right alignment of Arctic air, residual lake warmth, and topographic channeling. Climatological records suggested such an event might occur once every decade or two in this part of the Ohio Valley, making it a true meteorological oddity for November.

As the night wore on, the storm's intensity waxed and waned. Periods of near-blinding snow with frequent lightning gave way to lighter flurries and distant rumbles. In the small hours, a particularly vigorous cell developed over the southern reaches near the Eggners Ferry Bridge. Lightning struck a tall pine near a hiking trail, splitting the trunk with a sharp report that cut through even the muffling snow. The scent of ozone and charred wood briefly overpowered the clean smell of fresh powder.

Dawn arrived gray and subdued, the thunder finally fading as the cold air mass stabilized. The Land Between the Lakes awoke under a thick white mantle—nearly a foot in places, pristine and untouched except for the tracks of deer and the occasional startled raccoon. Trees bowed under the weight, some branches cracking with soft reports that echoed the night's thunder. The lakes themselves looked transformed, their shores fringed with ice and snow, the steaming vapor gone now that the surface waters had chilled further.

As soon as the light snow began to fall in the afternoon, Traven fill the wood rack on the porch and added extra kindling to the wood boxes and rack. This was strange, not only was it an early snow but he could hear the roll of thunder in the distance. The stoves were going well when they sat down for supper, pinto beans with ham hocks, mustard greens and cornbread, iced tea… apple cobbler for dessert. After cleaning up the kitchen, they didn’t even bother with the TV and put in a DVD and watched a movie from the Agatha Christie collection.

The next morning, locals emerged cautiously, shoveling driveways and marveling at the transformation. Children in nearby towns built snowmen weeks earlier than usual, while photographers trekked into the recreation area to capture the rare beauty: snow-laden cedars against a leaden sky, animal tracks crossing open meadows like calligraphy on white paper. Traven clear the snow from around their parking area and the house with the tractor. Rangers assessed damage—minor, mostly downed limbs and a few power outages—and opened the area again by mid-morning, warning visitors of slippery trails and the lingering risk of falling snow from overloaded branches.

For those who had witnessed the thundersnow, the memory lingered long after the snow melted. It was not merely weather; it was a reminder of nature's capacity for surprise, even in a familiar landscape. The muffled thunder, the lightning illuminating a world gone white, the profound quiet between strikes—it created a sensory experience both alien and intimate. In the weeks that followed, stories circulated around woodstoves and diner counters: the camper who swore the lightning revealed shapes moving through the trees (just deer, probably), the ranger who felt the ground tremble with a particularly close strike, the fisherman who watched bolts dance over the darkened lake from the safety of his cabin. Cindy used up the snowflake imprinted fabric she had and made oven mittens to commemorate the event.

The Land Between the Lakes returned to its quieter winter rhythms. The snow gradually surrendered to milder days, revealing the familiar contours of ridges and hollows once more. But for a single night in November, the peninsula between the two lakes had hosted a rare convergence of forces—cold air, warm water, atmospheric instability—that turned an ordinary early winter storm into something electric and unforgettable. Thundersnow had visited, leaving behind not just drifts of white, but a story that would be told for years: the night the sky roared softly over the sleeping forests, and lightning painted the falling snow with fire.
 
Thundersnow is a sight to behold. Nearly got snowed into a drive-in movie once. They closed at the end of the first feature. Eight inches in less than two hours and still snow2ing heavily. We all had to spend the night and the grandmother of one of the three of us. The roads were too bad to make it home. The grandmother was the closest place to shelter.

Thank you.
 
Chapter Twenty-Five

Cindy turned out dozens of potholders and oven mitts in the days from Thanksgiving to the second week in December, along with three more full-sized quilts. She worked in patterns that celebrated the world around them—rolling farm scenes with red barns and golden wheat fields, festive Christmas motifs featuring holly and candlelight, and delicate wildlife studies of deer, cardinals, and soaring eagles. Traven thought these latest quilts were the prettiest she had ever made. The soft pastel colors blended like watercolor dreams across the fabric, making the lightweight quilts look as comfortable and inviting as they were beautiful. She had even sewn three quilted sateen women’s robes, luxurious garments lined with flannel that felt like wearing a cloud.

In the second week of December, they made another trip to the concession shops in Paris. While Cindy delivered her latest load of crafts, Traven slipped away to do some secret Christmas shopping. He moved quickly through the stores, choosing gifts with care, picturing the look on her face when she opened them. When she finally messaged him that she was finished, he locked his purchases safely in the truck and met her at their favorite diner on the square.

The shops had sold out of everything she’d brought in and were thrilled with the new robes. The owners planned to display sample robes prominently and take custom orders for different sizes and colors. Cindy beamed as they told her she would likely be busy making robes right up until Christmas Eve. The praise warmed her more than the diner’s coffee.

They ate a leisurely lunch, talking about everything and nothing, then Traven trailed along on her shopping until she gently ran him off so she could finish her private errands. He headed to the AG Supply store for more crushed grain for the chickens and waited patiently for her call. When it came, he picked her up and drove her to Walmart. She picked up a few last-minute items, and they headed home under a pewter-colored sky that promised trouble.

Before they reached the bridge over the lake, rain began to fall, crusting the windshield wipers with a thin, stubborn film. Ice was already forming on the bridge deck. Traven slowed the truck to a crawl, watching other drivers carefully, ready to react if anyone lost control. Every surface—guardrails, road signs, even the trees along the roadside—was turning into a mirror.

“What is it with the weather around here!” Cindy said with a mix of frustration and wonder.

They made it across the Trace and back home without incident, but the ice had already begun its quiet invasion. Along the lane leading to their cabin, shortleaf pine branches in the central hardwoods bowed under translucent sleeves of ice—no thicker than a fingernail, yet heavy enough to make the limbs creak and pop like distant rifle shots in the still air. Walkers on the Honker Lake Trail found their boots skating unexpectedly across blacktop sections near the visitor center; gravel paths had become polished marble, slick and unforgiving.

They unloaded their purchases quickly, the cold biting at their fingers. Traven began filling the woodrack beside the fireplace and stacking extra boxes of kindling inside, preparing for what promised to be a bitter night. Darkness fell quickly, as if God had turned the sun off in shame at what He had wrought. Rain continued adding layer after layer of ice, but another smell drifted in on the shifting wind—a sharper, cleaner scent. A slow-moving cold front had pulled Gulf moisture northward, and sometime after they went to bed, it began dumping snow.

By dawn, six inches of pristine snow blanketed the ground. Then the rain returned—first as stinging pellets of ice that accumulated on the heavy snow, then as liquid that coated every tree, every building, and every blade of grass, thickening the glassy shell. Along the western shoreline of Kentucky Lake, ice coated driftwood and riprap in a seamless, glittering shell. Waves lapped gently against the bank, each one freezing on contact and building delicate ledges of clear ice that extended several feet out from the shore like fragile crystal balconies. The lake itself remained mostly open—too large and deep for quick freezing—but a thin skim formed in sheltered coves near Eggners Ferry Bridge, reflecting the gray light in fractured, shifting sheets. Bald eagles perched on ice-rimmed snags, their white heads stark against the monochrome world, feathers ruffled against the damp cold. One pair launched from a dead cottonwood, wings cracking the air like gunshots as they sought open water and fish stunned into sluggishness by the sudden chill.

Deeper in the forests, the ice had transformed the understory into something magical and alien. Low-growing mountain laurel and blueberry bushes became jeweled sculptures, each leaf edged in crystal. Footsteps produced a brittle crunch followed by the musical tinkle of falling ice shards. In the Elk and Bison Prairie, the big animals moved with exaggerated caution. A small herd of bison stood motionless in the open grassland, their dark coats glistening with a thin glaze of ice. The more agile elk picked their way along frozen game trails, antlers shedding tiny icicles with every shake of their massive heads. Tracks filled quickly with new glaze, preserving the morning’s movements like fossils captured in amber.

By afternoon the rain eased, but the beautiful damage was done. Power lines sagged visibly in the distance near the northern boundary, though the remote interior of the Land Between the Lakes remained untouched by human infrastructure. Dusk came early, the fading light fracturing through the ice canopy in rainbow splinters. Night brought a profound silence, broken only by the occasional explosive crack of a limb giving way somewhere in the darkness. The temperature held just below freezing, locking the 300 miles of shoreline and 500 miles of trails into a glassine world that would greet the next day unchanged beneath whatever fell next.

The second day opened with a different kind of hush. Overnight the freezing rain had tapered off, replaced by colder, drier air sliding down from the north. By first light, fat flakes drifted down—large, lazy crystals that clung to the existing ice. The temperature dropped to 26 degrees, and snow accumulated steadily: two inches by noon, four by dusk. Where the ice had been slick and reflective, now a soft white blanket muffled the landscape, turning the Land Between the Lakes into a study in texture and contrast.

The forests along the Central Hardwoods Trail looked upholstered in white. Snow balanced precariously on every ice-coated branch, creating impossible arches and snow tunnels. When a gust stirred the canopy, avalanches of powder slid off in glittering cascades, revealing the glossy shell of ice beneath. The trail itself disappeared under six inches of snow by mid-afternoon; hikers who ventured out left deep, clean prints that filled slowly behind them. In the wetlands near Long Creek, snow capped the frozen cattails and buttonbush, turning the marsh into a vast, undulating quilt of white. Mallards and wood ducks huddled closer to the lake edges, feathers fluffed against the accumulating cold.

Lake Barkley’s eastern shore offered layers of striking contrast. The previous day’s ice still sheathed rocks and roots, but now snow dusted the surface like confectioner’s sugar sprinkled over glass. Where waves had built small ice shelves, the snow formed miniature drifts sculpted by the wind into delicate cornices. Farther north near the Barkley Dam overlook, open water steamed faintly in the cold, sending tendrils of vapor skyward while snowflakes vanished into it with soft sighs. A lone great blue heron stood on one leg atop an ice-covered boulder, snow piling silently on its back until it finally flapped away in slow, deliberate beats, leaving behind a perfect imprint of its wings in the fresh powder.

Wildlife moved more freely under the snow’s insulating blanket. Deer trails crisscrossed the open meadows south of the Woodlands Nature Station as the animals browsed the tips of sumac and persimmon that poked above the white. Squirrels chattered from snow-laden hickories, their tracks looping between trees in frantic, busy patterns. In the prairie, the bison and elk had bedded down in the lee of a low ridge, their bodies carving warm hollows that steamed gently when they rose. The snow muted every sound; even the distant call of a pileated woodpecker seemed wrapped in cotton. By late afternoon the fall had slowed to flurries, but nearly seven inches had accumulated on the higher ridges near the Tennessee line. The Land Between the Lakes lay quiet, breathing under its new white mantle, the ice beneath preserving the memory of the previous day’s storm in a hidden, treacherous layer.

The third day began with deceptive calm. Overnight temperatures had risen just enough—hovering near 34 degrees—to turn the top layer of snow into sticky slush before another wave of moisture arrived from the southwest. By sunrise the precipitation switched back to freezing rain, heavier and more insistent than before. The snow became a canvas for new ice. Branches that had shed some of their white load now wore a double coating: soft snow trapped beneath a fresh, thicker shell of clear ice that glistened like blown glass.

The transformation was most dramatic along the shoreline trails. At Kentucky Lake’s northern end, the snow-covered ice shelves now wore a fresh glaze, creating treacherous walkways that cracked underfoot with musical reports. Waves, slightly warmer from the brief thaw, lapped higher and froze in irregular ridges, forming miniature pressure ridges that caught the morning light in shimmering blue-green hues. The eagles returned to their perches, talons gripping ice over snow and leaving deep punctures that filled with meltwater and refroze instantly.

In the interior forests the effect was almost architectural. The Central Hardwoods Trail became a gauntlet of weighted limbs; every few minutes a branch would release its burden with a splintering crash, sending ice shrapnel and snow exploding outward. The air smelled of crushed pine and wet earth where the weight had snapped smaller saplings. Wetlands near Honker Lake froze solid enough that a cautious coyote could trot across the surface, its paws leaving faint dimples in the ice-snow composite before the next round of glaze sealed them over.

By midday the freezing rain had coated everything again in a quarter-inch of new ice, turning the previous day’s snow into a heavy, treacherous crust. In the Elk and Bison Prairie the animals stood with heads lowered, ice forming on their eyelashes and muzzles. The prairie grass, once softly blanketed, now poked through a rigid white crust that crunched like broken porcelain. Hikers who had ignored the warnings found themselves sliding uncontrollably on the glazed paths; one section of the North-South Trail near the southern boundary became nearly impassable without crampons or sheer determination.

As dusk settled on the third day, the precipitation eased into a light drizzle that froze on contact. The Land Between the Lakes had become a single, vast ice sculpture stretching from lake to lake. Lights from distant farms on the Kentucky side reflected across the open water in fractured sparkles, but inside the recreation area the darkness was absolute. The alternating assaults had left the land encased—ice beneath snow beneath ice—every twig, every blade, every shoreline rock preserved in layered crystal. The weight bowed the oldest oaks until their trunks groaned like ship timbers in a storm. Wildlife hunkered down: deer in thickets, eagles in sheltered snags, small mammals in burrows now sealed under snow-ice lids.

Traven kept the wood rack and the wood boxes filled, working steadily between trips outside. He also spent time on a deer hide, softening it with careful scraping and rubbing for one of Cindy’s envisioned projects. Between chores he chipped the ice off the front step and deck, then sprinkled old ice melt from a dusty bag he found in the storehouse. It had clumped together from years of storage, but he hoped it would at least keep the meltwater from refreezing during the night. He chopped a clear path to the woodshed and brought in more kindling. There was nothing else he could do. You can’t fight Mother Nature—you just had to adjust to her fits and wait her out.

Over those three remarkable days, the Land Between the Lakes revealed its winter character in full force. The first day’s ice had glazed the world into brittle, dangerous beauty. The second day’s snow had softened and insulated it. The third day’s return to freezing rain had locked everything in place, creating a landscape that was at once enchanting and unforgiving. Trails that invited exploration in milder seasons now warned of snapped limbs and hidden drops beneath the crust. Lakes that offered boating and fishing in summer now presented only mirrored danger. Yet in the quiet between the storms, the Land Between the Lakes breathed with a rare stillness—no traffic, no crowds, only the occasional crack of ice and the distant call of a wintering eagle slicing through the frozen air.

By the end of the third day, nearly ten inches of snow and two separate layers of ice had accumulated in the higher elevations—far more than the region’s typical December average. The alternating pattern had sculpted a temporary wilderness of glass and powder that would linger until the next warm front released it. For those few who experienced it—rangers checking trails, solitary hikers drawn by the forecast, or the wildlife that called the place home—the three days offered a powerful reminder of nature’s ability to remake even a familiar landscape into something alien and wondrous. Caught between its two great reservoirs, the Land Between the Lakes had become a world suspended between ice and snow, a fleeting masterpiece shaped by winter’s alternating hand.

Inside the warm cabin, with the fire crackling and Cindy working quietly on another robe, Traven stood at the Topwindow for a long moment, watching the ice-glazed world sparkle under the last of the day’s light. He smiled faintly. Some storms were worth riding out.
 
Chapter Twenty-Six

Warmer temperatures of a late Indian summer soon had everything thawed out, bringing the reptiles back. Traven began seeing Eastern six-lined racerunners sunning themselves on rocks and logs, while Eastern box turtles ambled across open ground. And along with the other reptiles, the snakes would soon appear.

Traven hated snakes. He killed every one he came across. Yes, he knew it was irrational—they had their place in the ecosystem—but he killed them anyway. In Traven’s mind, snakes were the embodiment of the devil. It was time to switch back to a revolver loaded with snake shot as his everyday carry gun around the home place.

He hooked the trailer to the tractor and began cleaning up limbs broken by the ice storm. As before, he cut the larger pieces for firewood and piled the brush into mounds to create habitats for smaller animals. He ran across two copperheads, which he dispatched quickly. Later, he saw a crow fly off with one of the bodies. He only had to cut down two trees that had been so badly damaged they would either grow crooked or be useful for nothing but firewood.

He stopped work at 11:30 for lunch and to check on Cindy.

Cindy was busy working on two gowns she had received orders for. A pot of pintos simmered on the stove, and a fresh pan of cornbread waited in the warming cabinet. Traven served himself without disturbing her. He fished one of the ham hocks out of the beans, stripped the meat into his bowl, and mixed it all together. He didn’t linger. After eating, he washed his bowl and headed back outside.

He dumped the load of wood in front of the woodshed and continued clearing deadfall from the woods around the house. While working near the chicken coop, he heard the birds raising a racket. He set his saw in the trailer and walked over. A couple of hens had flown up to the highest roost. Peeking through the run wire, he spotted the tail of a snake in the doorway.

Traven drew his Ruger Redhawk and moved for a better angle. It was a coachwhip trying to reach the nesting boxes for the eggs. He cocked the pistol. Unable to get a clean head shot, he fired and cut the snake in half, then opened the gate just far enough to finish it with a second shot. He tossed the pieces out of the coop, checked the feed and water, and walked back to the trailer, reloading from the cartridges in his belt loops.

He continued cutting deadfall but stopped building brush piles near the chicken coop. They could shelter snakes and possums—both fond of chicken eggs. Once the trailer was full again, he hauled the load back to the woodshed and began stacking. He set the larger rounds cut from the damaged trees aside for splitting later. As sundown approached, Traven headed back to the house.

No other terrorist activities had occurred over the last few weeks. Traven assumed the brutal weather was keeping the fanatics indoors. You’d have to be a true zealot to be out in that mess causing trouble. The whole country had been hammered by the storms, and it wasn’t even officially winter yet. They still had three more months until spring, and there was no telling what else might come.

Cindy finished the gowns and several more sets of oven mitts and potholders. On the 17th of December, they decided to make another trip to Paris. Cindy was also running low on a few spices. Just in case, Traven filled the windshield washer reservoir with de-icer and loaded some pioneer tools into the truck before they left.

The weather was sunny but only in the low forties. Traffic on US-79 was light, and they reached the consignment shop quickly. The trip followed their familiar routine: consignment shop, fabric store, then Walmart. Cindy picked up more fabric, thread, and sewing machine needles, along with a large stock of the spices they needed. Traven grabbed several pairs of wool hunting socks and ammunition, including steel shot for geese and ducks. He also bought three bags of magnesium chloride snow melt.

Cindy picked up two large supreme pizzas—one for the freezer and one to cook when they got home—plus a twelve-pack of dark lager. The drive back was far more pleasant, with the sun at their backs and no ice forming on the wipers.

While Traven sorted the new spices in the pantry, Cindy minced three cloves of garlic and a small onion to spread over the pizza, adding extra cheese on top. They now had enough spices to last the rest of the winter.

The next morning, Cindy insisted Traven take her to get a Christmas tree. He had been pruning a cedar for the last two years and led her straight to it. They hauled it back on a polyethylene sled from the storage building. Traven built a sturdy stand using a bucket filled with wet sand, and they decorated the tree with the ornaments and battery-powered light sets Cindy had collected.

On Christmas Day they roasted a goose with all the fixings and exchanged presents. Traven gave Cindy a gold locket necklace. She gave him a pair of deer-hide moccasins lined with rabbit fur and coated with beeswax and linseed oil to make them partially waterproof for his early-morning deck strolls.

Later that afternoon they took a bike ride along Lakefront Road until the chill drove them back inside to stoke the fire. Miracle on 34th Street was their movie for the night.

They worked around the home place for the next few days. Although there was a party at the Moose Lodge in Paris on New Year’s Eve, they chose to stay home, binge watched movies, drink cider, and eat popcorn. At midnight they stepped out onto the deck and listened to distant fireworks, watching the glow of starbursts on the horizon.

“Do you regret coming here with me?” Traven asked Cindy.

“Never. I like it just fine here.”

“I think things have calmed down enough to return to Evansville if you want.”

“No. I don’t miss the traffic, the crowds, or the boredom of everyday life there. It just wouldn’t be the same, and I’d probably be pulling my hair out within a week. No, I’m happy here with you on our place in the Land Between the Lakes.”

“Then you’ll agree to stay with me and be my wife?”

“Are you proposing?”

“Of course. I don’t know how to go about it properly, but we could go into town later this week, get you a ring, and see about a license.”

“I don’t need an engagement ring, and we’ve done pretty well without a license so far.”

“Yes, dear, but a band of gold would make you a bit more respectable to the ladies at the consignment shop.”

“Perhaps so,” she said with a smile. “Let’s go practice for that license.”



THE END​
 
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