The Journal: Ash Fall (6 page)

JOURNAL ENTRY: May 8

Beef has gotten outrageously expensive, just like
gas. At $15 per pound for ground round, we don’t have it anymore. I
still have some canned, though since it’s already cooked, it’s good
for only certain dishes. Now that we have power again, most of the
deer Eric recently took is curing in the second refrigerator out in
the barn. Of the remainder, twenty five percent has gone to the
soup kitchen, and a haunch to Bob and Kathy, whom Eric has grown
very fond of. Tonight I showed John where the venison is and asked
him to cut off a big chunk for me to grind into burgers.

* * *

I mixed the freshly ground meat with some
fresh chopped ramp bulbs, herbs, seasonings, a cup of oatmeal and
two eggs, and shaped the mixture into five large patties and two
smaller ones. It filled the plate nicely. I wrapped a towel around
it and set it in the refrigerator for the flavors to blend.

The bread I started before going to see Jason
was ready to form into buns, with enough left over for one loaf of
bread. I covered that with a towel to rise and started the oven
warming to bake.

“What would you like with the burgers
tonight, John, potato salad, macaroni salad, three bean salad or
veggies?” He was sitting at the table watching me, chin on his
hand, lost in thought.

“Can we do a potato salad and a macaroni
salad? I remember Emilee doesn’t like the macaroni, and Jacob won’t
eat the potato salad.”

I smiled that he did remember those little
things about the kids. Then I reminded myself it hadn’t really been
that long ago.

“Sure, let’s go get what we need from the
pantry.” I took a basket that was hanging on the wall and started
for the back room. Though there was still a decent amount of food
on the shelves, the supply was down by a good fifty percent.

John looked at the empty shelves, with a
solemn expression. “These shelves used to be so full.”

“Using the food is why it was there in the
first place,” I reminded him. “I’ll replenish the stock from the
garden.” I was trying to reassure myself as much as him. I handed
him the basket, then loaded it with a quart of canned potatoes,
dried corn, a box of macaroni, a can of ripe olives and a jar of
peas.

“This basket is new, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I made it a few weeks ago while the
tree branches and bark were still supple with sap. It gave me
something to do.” To help me stop thinking about you. “Oh, by the
way, Eric has gotten very good at making beer. Don kept very
detailed notes on the process and the results. When I was there
earlier, I noticed he had a fresh batch going, which means he
recently bottled. I hope he remembers to bring some tonight.”

* * *

Even with grilled venison burgers on fresh
buns, potato salad, macaroni salad and chilled, foamy pale ale,
dinner still started out a bit strained. By the time I cleared away
the dishes, the mood was lighter and it was like John had never
left.

May 9

With the birds singing right outside the
window, I woke earlier than usual. As I lay there in a sleepy glow,
I could hear the singsong of the robins hopping from branch to
branch, and the two note lament of the chick-a-dee. Somewhere in
the nearby underbrush by the creek was a hermit thrush calling to
his mate with the crystal like song that to me is the most
beautiful sound in the woods. I smiled, and nudged John.

“Let’s go fishing!” I whispered in his ear.
He instantly came awake.

* * *

Breakfast was quick. While he made the coffee
and toast, I got two fishing poles out of the barn, and my tackle
box. I hadn’t been fishing with John before, and his enthusiasm
told me it was a good way to start the day. With a thermos full of
coffee and several pieces of toast wrapped in a cloth napkin, we
headed out on one of the four-wheelers.

“Where are we going?” John asked from behind
me.

“There’s a bend in the Snake River that’s
good for trout.” I called back to him. This was also the same area
that I took Eric and Emilee ramp picking, so we could get some
greens too. If we were lucky, dinner would be all fresh caught or
foraged.

In less than five minutes, we were heading
down a little used and crumbling asphalt road, shaded and overgrown
with massive trees. The non-existent shoulders dipping low into
swampy areas were rich with decay. We came to a two-lane concrete
bridge, sporting faded graffiti so old it was spray painted by
teenagers who now were grandparents. The Snake River churned below
us.

“Are there snakes in the river?” John asked
nervously.

“Not at all. It’s named that because it
snakes through the land, turning back on itself several times.” I
had spent some time when I first moved up here, learning the
history behind the names of the rivers, streams and lakes, and why
roads and settlements were called what they were.

I left the green, brown and tan camouflage
painted four-wheeler parked on the stone bridge and peered over the
edge. John handed me a tin mug of coffee and a slice of buttered
toast. Even as generous as I was using the butter over the harsh
winter months, feeding six of us did not deplete the twelve pounds
I had started with in the freezer last November. John’s toast was
smothered in one of my jams. I definitely would have to make more
this summer.

“That looks like a good pocket right there,”
John commented, pointing with his toast. An errant crumb fell,
hitting the surface. It was immediately snatched up, and a flicker
of tail followed the rainbow scaled body as the trout dove for
deeper water. He laughed gleefully. Further downstream, fog rose
off the moving water as it went from deep shade to new sunlight.
The shallow wisps looked like ethereal wraiths, disappearing into
nothingness as the heat of the day grew.

I handed John a pole and took one for myself
and slipped a small piece of crust from my toast onto the ready
hook, then cast over the edge of the bridge.

“Trout won’t bite on bread,” John announced.
I just looked at him as I got a hit.

I shrugged. “My daddy always said to feed the
fish what they want to eat.” I played the fish a bit then reeled in
a nice sized rainbow. “Grab the net, will you? We’re kind of high
over the water and I don’t want to lose this beauty.” I caught
another one and John caught three more. Our toast gone, we switched
to flies, but they were done biting for the morning. It was 10:30,
still early in the day, and we had other things to do.

“Let’s pick a few ramps to cook with these
tonight,” I suggested and we filled a small cloth bag I had sewn
for collecting wild edibles. I used to use plastic grocery bags;
those were now a thing of the past.

We had five fish and a bag full of wild
greens, all fresh, all healthy and best of all, free for the
taking. We would eat well and leave the stored food for another
day.

* * *

We gutted the fish, giving the entrails to
the hungry chickens. I had thought of just burying it in the garden
for fertilizer, but the chickens provide plenty of that when
they’re fed well. Washed and packaged in a well-worn baggie, the
fish sat chilling in the humming refrigerator. John and I split a
jar of soup for lunch, and after cleaning up, we headed to town for
shopping. Hoping the trip would be successful, I had talked Eric
into lending me the pickup truck for a few hours.

* * *

As much as I love to shop, especially for
prep items, going from store to store was depressing. There was so
little available, and what was on the shelves was either useless or
outrageously expensive. People had finally seen the benefits of
clothesline and clothespins, evident by the empty shelf space,
making me grateful I still had plenty of both. Ammo, of course, was
not available at any price. Word was out the government had
purchased all reserves, and then shut down the manufacturing
plants.

We did, however, find soap and shampoo,
deodorant and toothpaste. They were all at hyper-inflated prices,
even so, I felt we should replenish those supplies.

“Do you really want to pay $10 for a $2
bottle of shampoo?” John asked me.

“No, I don’t want to, but I’m going to,” I
replied simply, placing four bottles in our cart. “Look at it this
way, twenty years ago, that $2 bottle of shampoo was only fifty
cents. What’s the difference? We need it, it’s available, and we
can buy it. Besides, some day it might become a barter item. Twenty
years from now, there may be no shampoo at any cost. We just don’t
know.” He looked sullen, and accepted it.

One of the items on my list there seemed to
be plenty of - children’s clothes. I found this sad. To me it meant
there weren’t many children left. I picked up generic pants, shorts
and t-shirts in a variety of sizes for both Emilee and Jacob.
Emilee’s clothes could be passed down to Jacob, and as she grew,
Emi would fit into some of mine. I could alter what I had to to fit
her if needed. I added socks and underwear for each child. I was
surprised to find adult socks, thick heavy, winter socks. Then I
realized this was leftover stock. There was nothing lightweight for
the warmer months. I wondered out loud if the clothing mills were
shut down too.

“When I was down in Indiana with my daughter
and my mom, the news was that all industrial plants had been
closed. I heard that only once, so I don’t know how accurate it
is,” John piped in. My thought was that sound bite probably got
silenced and so did the newscaster.

From there we went to the bulk food store.
The gal at the front desk recognized us from previous trips, and
allowed us in.

“Do we have a purchase limit?” I asked.
“We’re paying cash today.”

She raised her eyebrows. The township always
used a chit from the county emergency management office, and never
had to pay, we also had to take whatever was sent. I don’t think
they got many that paid cash.

“No limit, unless marked on the shelf. We’re
happy to help Moose Creek,” she answered. We had gotten quite the
reputation after the Wheeler fight. I didn’t correct her assumption
that the supplies were for the Stone Soup Kitchen, which had also
developed a following and had been mimicked across the Upper
Peninsula.

Out of earshot, John stopped me. “Shouldn’t
we tell her it’s for us, not the town?”

“Some of it will be for the town and the
Kitchen, John, I just don’t know what they will need yet,” I
replied in all honesty. “Besides, we’re replacing what I gave them.
I think that’s fair.”

As we moved down the aisles, I noticed that
almost everything was marked “limit of one”. We wheeled the cart up
and down each aisle, carefully selecting items, some in bulk that I
could re-can into smaller jars like mushrooms and nuts and
crackers, some in everyday size, no longer packaged in four or six
units as they once were. John went back to the entrance to get
another cart for the big items. The flour had a limit of only one
fifty pound bag, and the same for rice. I was happy with anything.
There was also a limit on the twenty-five pound bags of sugar and
salt, and I felt better knowing some of it was going directly to
the Soup Kitchen. The dried beans were emptied out and pasta had no
limit. The shelf for oil was empty save for two five gallon
containers of canola oil, and though not my choice, it was better
than nothing. Remembering the first fish-fry the Stone Soup Kitchen
held where they grilled the fish because there was no oil to fry, I
took both jugs of oil. I avoided canned vegetables since I would be
canning all the produce from the garden, and hopefully so would the
town residents. I then reconsidered and took two #10 cans of mixed
vegetables that would also go to the Kitchen; then took two more
cans for us. Something flickered across my mind, and I went back
for a large can of spaghetti sauce. The Kitchen will put it to good
use at some point. Our last stop was for hard cheeses. I had read
on the internet how to wax them to make them last longer. It was
worth a try. I was dismayed to see only one small wedge of
parmesan. I would ration it deeply.

“Do you see what I see?” John whispered to
me. My mouth watered at the sight of a small ham sitting in the
cooler. It would make a wonderful celebration dinner for our
family.

Checking out, I was stunned at the total. My
windfall was dwindling fast. At least I had replaced some of the
basics we had used up or given away over the winter. I had hoped we
could restock all at once. I guess I would have to do it slowly,
just like I did in the first place. Some of my fears of being so
short were assuaged, though there was still more to get. There
would always be still more to get, however, this was a decent
start.

The last stop was at a well-guarded liquor
store. The AR-15 carrying soldier at the door dressed in casual
camouflage checked our IDs. Mine was the official Emergency
Management badge I carry with me all the time now, and since John
only had an out of state driver’s license, he was stopped.

“Hey, I’m only her grunt, they didn’t give me
the fancy ID,” he told the young man with a straight face. The
soldier cracked a stony smile and let him pass.

I hid my chuckle beneath a cough, remembering
all the times I had called John my bodyguard.

We were in luck. There had just been a
delivery of inexpensive Michigan wines— “inexpensive” now being $20
per bottle instead of $8. I calculated how much I had left and
selected a case of wine, several bottles of liquor, and a cube of
cola. Jason would be ecstatic to have a rum and cola again.
Providing for my children, even though they were adults now, has
always been in the forefront of my mind when prepping. The two
bottles of whiskey and vodka could be very useful medicinally.