Went about tracking down suitable farm in workmanlike fashion, for beginner. Picked up area USGS Section Map from sheriff’s office. Methodically plotted progress as went; avoided circling, repetition. Drove 150 miles; visited 30, 35 farms; marked off on map as left, graded on one-to-ten basis… Were many nice places; some could make do in pinch. But none rated above seven; nothing rang bell until almost dark.
Found self at terminus of cowpath road. Had wound through patchy woods, hills; felt must go somewhere, so persevered to end, where found mailbox, driveway. Turned in; shortly encountered closed gate. Opened, drove through, resecured. Followed drive through woods, over small rise, out into clearing, farmyard. Stopped abruptly.
Knew at once was home…
To right stood pretty, almost new red-brick house; to left, brand-new, modern steel barn, hen house; two silos (one new), three corn cribs — all full.
Got out, walked slowly around house, mouth open, heart pounding. No broken windows, doors closed, shingles all in place — grass cut! For glorious moment heart stopped altogether; thought had stumbled on nest of survivors. Then rounded corner, bumped into groundskeepers — sheep.
Owners quite dead. Found remains of man in chair on porch. Apparently spent last conscious moments reflecting upon happy memories. Picture album in lap suggested four impromptu graves short distance from house were wife, three children; markers confirmed. Fine-looking people; faces showed confidence, contentment, love; condition of farm corroborated, evidenced care, pride.
Grew misty-eyed looking through album. Resolved to operate farm in manner founders would approve. Had handed me virtual “turnkey” homestead; immeasurably advanced schedule, boosted odds for self-sufficiency, survival. Least I could do in return.
Farm nestles snugly in valley amidst gently rolling, wooded countryside. Clean, cold, fast-running brook meanders generally through middle, passes within hundred yards of house; and by clever fence placement, zigs, zags, or loops through all pastures. Perimeter fence intact; strong, heavy-gauge, small-mesh fabric. Probably not entirely dogproof, but highly resistant; with slight additional work, should be adequate.
Contents of silos, cribs, loft, product of season’s first planting; second crop still in fields — primary reason stock still alive, healthy. Internal gates open throughout; allowed access to water, varied grazing (including nibbling minor leakages from cribs, silos). Beasties spent summer literally eating “fat of land”; look it.
Besides five sheep are nine cows (two calves, one a bull), two mares, one gelding, sundry poultry (rooster, two dozen chickens, motley half dozen ducks, geese). No pigs, but no tears; don’t like pigs, not wild about pork either.
From evidence, losses over summer low. Found only three carcasses: two cows, one horse. Bones not scattered; doubt caused by dogs. More likely disease, injury, stupidity — salient characteristic of domestic ruminants: Given opportunity, will gorge on no-no, pay dearly later.
Wandered grounds, poked through buildings until light gone. Found good news everywhere looked. Nothing I can’t use as is, put right with minor work.
Clocked distance on return: 17 miles by road. Not too bad; can walk if necessary — should breakdown occur while commuting — but perhaps wiser to hang bike on bumper.
Still, machines can’t last forever; only matter of time before forced back to horseback technology. Will have occasion to visit shelter often. Map shows straight-line distance only nine miles; guess better learn bulldozer operation, add road-building to skills. (Goodness — future promises such varied experiences; may vary me to death…)
Was late when finally got back to shelter, tired but glowing all over at prospect. Can hardly wait for morning, start packing, moving in; start of new life.
Demented twin shares view; hardly shut up whole time were at farm. Or since. Lectured stock, dictated to poultry, narrated inspection tour throughout. Hardly took time out for snack, drink. Must be country boy at heart. So urbane, never suspected.
Hey — am really tired!
Good night.
Oh! Hurt places didn’t even know I had. Suspect must have come into being just for occasion.
Six trips to farm. Count ’em.
Light failed just before self. Packing stuff from house no problem: Eight, ten trips to car; all done. Stuff in shelter is rub. Aye.
Two hundred feet straight up, arms loaded. Repeatedly.
Must be better way.
Good night.
This is embarrassing; guess is time quit posing as genius. Proof in pudding. What matters 200-plus IQ if actions compatible with mobile vegetable?
Occurred this morning to ponder (after third trip upstairs) how excavated material removed during construction. Hand-carried in buckets…?
Counting stairwell, material involved amounts to 200,000 cubic feet plus. At half cube per bucket, assuming husky lad carrying doubles, fifteen-minute round trips, that’s 32 cubic feet every eight hours. Would take ten-man crew 625 days — not counting down time due to heart attacks, hernias, fallen arches…
And what about heavy stuff? Doubt nuclear generator carried down by hand — must weigh couple tons.
Okay. Obviously done some other way. But how? Oh — shelter manual; had forgotten. Thumbed through quickly, found answer: elevator! Of course. Missed significance of small, odd-shaped, empty storeroom during first inspection. Other things on mind; didn’t notice controls.
Balance of day much easier. Still tired tonight but not basket case.
Tomorrow is another day…!
STOP THE PRESSES! Strike the front page! Scoop! I’m not me — I’m something else. No — we’re not us — no — Oh, bother; not making any sense. But can’t help it; hard to organize thoughts — so DAMNED excited…! Will try, must try. Otherwise will end up leaving out best parts, most important stuff. Then, by time get feathers settled, blood pressure reduced, will have forgotten everything! Oh, must stop this blithering. Must get back to chronology. So…
Deep breath… release slo-o-ow-ly… heart slowed to normal. Physical tranquility… serenity… ohm-m-m…
Amazing, worked again.
Okay. Resumed packing this morning. Took two loads over, returned for third. Finished; everything in car, at farm, that felt would need. But still fidgeting; couldn’t decide why. No question of something forgotten; farm only short drive away; omission not crisis.
Finally recognized source of unscratchable itch: Was time I did duty. Had avoided at first; knew couldn’t face prospect. Then got so busy, slipped mind. But now remembered: Soo Kim McDivott. Teacher. Friend.
To friend falls duty of seeing to final resting place.
Generally inured now to face of death per se; unaffected last few days by myriad corpses have stepped over during course of running errands. Had no problem, for instance, removing Mr. Haralsen from porch to proper place beside wife, children; even finished job with warm feeling inside. (Suspect original trauma caused by sudden shock of events; enormity, completeness of isolation.) Condition improved now; felt could perform final service for old friend — more, felt need to.
Went next door, looked for body. Checked entire house: upstairs, downstairs, basement — even stuck head in attic.
Finally returned to library. Teacher had used as study; desk located there, most of favorite dog-eared references close at hand. Hoped might find clue regarding whereabouts amidst clutter.