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My granny once told me that being common is no more a sin than being rich. In truth, it gave me a good many more brothers than rich folks possess, I suspect. No, I don't regret it for an instant. I would have liked to experiment with some of that wealth, but no matter. I've got this sturdy old cabin, sufficient rations and a good bit of dry pine and alder stored. With any luck at all, I should last the winter if the snow doesn't completely cover this shack and turn it into a coffin. I've built a safety hatch in the roof, just in case. If need be I can force it open, snow and all. Common folks learn to get by. If unforeseen circumstances forced me to walk out, my mukluks and snowshoes would keep me more or less on top, especially if there was a chance for the snow to crust at all. Over the years, I've gotten pretty good at maneuvering in them. But where would I go, especially in the dead of winter? For a time I tried to get out and watch the sun rise, until it became more trouble than it's worth. All the snow we've gotten lately, there probably ain't been much sun, but that's just a guess. It's hard telling day from night in here since I put the boards over the windows. One hour is pretty much like another. I've never been in prison, but I've done sixty days in this hole. If this isn't solitary confinement, I damned sure can conceive of no other definition. The biggest difference between the convicts and me is that I chose this path; no one sentenced me to it… well, not in so many words, at least. At times when I get to feeling sorry for myself, I think everyone on earth had a hand in it, but I know better. Plus, the reasons don't make a tinker's damn worth of difference. I'm here, and here I'll stay until spring or Providence-- whichever comes first. The sound of the wind blowing reminds me of the sixty-cycle hum of the refrigeration system at the hospital. Twelve years of moving folks in and out of refrigerators tends to make a fella' think of all sounds in terms of that place. Ten hours a day, the only noise I heard was rollers on the slabs, the metallic click of the vault doors and that damn hum. Pretty soon, my senses became as dead as the permafrost on the other side of those hinged hunks of stainless steel. The journey from there to here was short, if not particularly sweet. A few days ago (weeks?) something walked across the roof. It was heavy and plodding, so I assume it was a bear, although I cannot tell you why any self-respecting bear would be out of his den in the dead of winter. I suppose there are common bears, too. Maybe Yogi was forced out, sentenced to wander the winter landscape in search of whatever fate provided. I think brother bear and I might have become good friends in another life. On second thought, it was more likely a moose, or the abominable snowman. Everyone in the whole damn world has seen one except for me, and I live in the middle of Yeti Central. Hell, folks see the accursed creatures in Kansas and South Dakota, for God's sakes, you'd think in eighteen years up here I'd see one! Is this irony or just plain ignorance? Maybe both, only time will tell. How long does fuel oil last? McAuliffe left me two cans that he stole from those campers last summer. They were airlifted in by helicopter and removed in a like manner, even if their trip was cut a bit shorter than anticipated. That damned guy would steal anything! No harm-- no foul, he figured; they'd survive for a few days without their fancy cook stoves. Of course, he stole their lantern, too, the very one I'm using to light the room right now. Thank you, Leonard McAuliffe. Truly, I wish he'd survived. They spotted him running off into the woods. I told him they'd likely have high-powered rifles, but I couldn't talk him out of making that second raid. I swear it was in the man's blood! Truth told, I don't know how he made it back to the cabin. When he burst through that door carrying those cans, he had a funny look on his face, almost a grin that seemed to say, Hey, lookie what I got! Then he collapsed on the floor, dead as a mackerel. I dragged him outside and left him beside a big pine. I think he'd like that. It wasn't the ideal solution, but it was better than one of those vaults. His funeral consisted of a bastardized rendition of the Our Father and what parts of the Hail Mary I could remember. Then, for a eulogy, I read the first few paragraphs of a story he liked in Field & Stream, about a hunter who mistook a mule for a cow elk. I'd have read more, but I was getting a little emotional. Plus, it was getting pretty dark and I don't see as well as I used to. If he's still there come spring, I plan to find a more suitable accommodation for him. It's only fitting, after all he was a human being. The light is going out. I'm either running out of fuel oil or going blind. Either way, this story is over. If you're anything like me, you're grateful there's no preaching at the end. Bob Church © 3/08
Bob Church resides in mid-Missouri with his wife of three decades, Louise, their poodle, Carla, and their cat, Callie. After thirty years spent raising five children, he has reached the point in his life that allows time to pursue his real love, writing. You can find more of his stories/observations at notquiteright/ |
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