One Particular Patriot I: A Matter of Time

By Gary B. Boyd

Aaron Clements is a man out of time. Worse, his wife and three daughters are in the same situation. His only hope lies in the hands of a stranger, Charles Setters.
Winning The War of Independence was not a guarantee that the fledgling United States of America would always be a bastion of freedom and liberty for its citizens. Aaron learns that bitter lesson and resolves to ensure his nation does not eventually lose The War of Independence to greed and power seekers.
Charles Setters believes it is not treason to overthrow tyrants. He also believes in making an easy dollar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491813959

Gary B. Boyd

Gary B. Boyd is a story teller. Whether at his cabin in the Ozark Mountains, at his desk in his home or on his deck overlooking Beaver Lake near Rogers, Arkansas, he writes his stories. His travels during his business career brought him in touch with a variety of people. Inquisitive, Gary watches and listens to the people he meets. He sees in them the characters that will fill his stories … that will tell their stories. A prolific author with more than a dozen published titles and a head full of tales yet to share, Gary submits to his characters and allows them to tell their own stories in their own way. The joy of completing a novel doesn’t lessen with time. There are more stories to tell, more novels to write. Gary expects to bring new characters to life for years to come. www.garybboyd.com

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2013 by Gary B. Boyd. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 09/10/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1396-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1395-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013916348

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

DEDICATION

PREFACE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

DEDICATION

I dedicate this book to my loving and supportive wife, Shirley. She and my daughter, Tina, read and reread to help me forge the characters and the story.

PREFACE

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Where did we go wrong?

If our idolization and adulation of those iconic and heroic men we refer to as The Founding Fathers is properly placed, we have done a poor job of showing it because we have definitely strayed from their original words when they established this union.

They bickered, fought, loathed and even dueled to ensure they achieved the goals they had set as proper and virtuous.

The Government they established was the envy of the civilized world for its efficiency, for its fairness to the citizens and for its lofty achievements in the annuls of history.

The Government they established was a perfect balance between the needs of Man and the needs of each man.

The Government they established was so finely tuned that very little was required to ensure the noble freedoms and liberties promised would be safe into perpetuity.

So, where did we go wrong?

We came to believe our Founding Fathers were not infallible in word and deed; or that they were virtuous men above reproach, thinking only of the sanctity of the individual.

Iconic? Yes. Heroic? Most likely. Virtuous? Probably. Infallible? Absolutely not.

Of the 39 signers of the original Constitution, few agreed entirely with one another… let alone with every word and phrase used. The infighting and back biting started before the ink was dry.

In fact, most of the civilized world simply shook their heads and waited for the next round of revolution… the normal sequence of events when prior men tried to form democratic forms of government.

From the beginning, our Founding Fathers could never fully agree on how to balance the needs of the individual with the needs of the Union. The Bill of Rights, a true attempt to define individual liberties, came to fruition only after animus and compromise. The results of that effort were fractures in previously held alliances and factional divisions among The Founding Fathers.

The resulting Government, and state of the Union, is a constant battle to keep the Royalty of Democracy [the elected officials] from building empires of bureaucrats who support the perpetual growth of the power of the governing factions.

Where did we go wrong?

We, as citizens, as individuals, lost sight of the original intent. We lost faith in the original works of our Founding Fathers. We have allowed our sacred Constitution to suffer the indignities of subsequently contingent interpretations that bolster the power of the people in power, those very people we elect to protect our liberties.

Were The Founding Fathers brilliant and noble men? Brilliant? No doubt. Noble? Probably not, if the truth was known, because they were men with the same needs, desires and lusts of other men. Money and power will turn the heads of all men eventually. American history reveals a sinister degradation of individual liberty, replaced by a Government financed definition of equality beginning as soon as The Constitution was ratified… because we allowed it to happen.

As the Government grew more powerful, it took from the people the power to mandate — paying for that power with the currency of equality. By fanning the flames of discontent through the promise of equality, those in power or seeking power have gathered the blind masses to do their bidding with nothing more than the promise of equality.

To comprehend why we are at this juncture, it must first be understood that the Constitution does not declare that all men are created equal as so many people believe. That phrase was used exclusively in The Declaration of Independence but we have been duped into believing equality is one of our rights as citizens. The Constitution was wrought to forge the framework for a republican form of government where the majority cannot foist their will upon the minority, and established protocol by which the people can always retain control of the Federal Government and their liberties.

Where did we go wrong?

We allowed the Government to become loaded with tyrants, even though minor in comparison to some tyrants of history, but tyrants nonetheless because they usurp the freedoms and liberties previously guaranteed by our Constitution, and they do it under the new mantra equality. The Constitution, written to guide a Government that could deliver on The Declaration’s lofty presentation of inalienable rights such as life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness has been altered to the point that those very rights are no longer a guarantee, rather, they have achieved the status of a gift from the omnipotent Government, meted out on an unequal basis to those who abdicate power to those in power in exchange for a morsel of equality.

With vision uncorrupted by new paradigms, Aaron Clements saw through eyes that could not be deceived or exploited by power seekers; therefore, he took it upon himself to prevent the subsequently contingent interpretations of The Constitution that would move his fledgling nation of new found liberties to the bureaucratic nightmare that he had encountered in 2010.

CHAPTER ONE

THE CLEMENTS FAMILY

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I’m not sure what really happened. Vague memories, unscheduled crises and haphazard events have skewed my recollection of before and after.

That Saturday morning had started just like many others at my deer camp. Only a couple of things were different.

For one, I was the only hunter at camp on that particular weekend. Normally, there would have been four or five of us there for Opening Weekend of modern gun deer season. On top of that, I had overslept and did not leave the cabin until after daylight. As a rule, I would have been in my hunting stand thirty minutes before the eastern sky began to lighten. Other than that, it began just like all my previous hunting trips.

I came out of the cabin and walked three hundred yards or so eastward along a cut road into the forest. My favorite tree stand is about forty yards off the end of that cut road. The stand overlooks a shallow draw gouged into the forest floor by a small stream. The stream is the result of a spring that billows into a small pond on the other side of a five strand barbed wire fence separating my woods from my neighbor’s field. That pond is about two hundred fifty yards south of the stand. The stream meanders through the hardwood trees and passes near the deer stand on its way to a point where it drops twenty feet straight down over a sandstone bluff. The water roils beneath the bluff momentarily before it rapidly cascades through a gauntlet of boulders to converge with a larger creek at the bottom of the canyon. Two smaller, wet weather streams fall from the plateau and meld into the plunging tributary on its way along its treacherous descent. The canyon is almost a half mile wide at its widest point and more than three hundred feet deep. The creek at the bottom meanders several miles through carved valleys and is fed by many smaller streams, like the one at my waterfall, before it eventually feeds into the War Eagle River.

My hunting property sits on a plateau in the Boston Mountains of Arkansas. Most people refer to the hilly country as the Ozarks, but there is a difference. The area where I was planning to hunt consists of a break in the canyon wall that has been used by animals to more easily move from one level to the other. It is pretty country and it is a pretty place.

I had walked through that section of forest more times than I can recall. The area has a natural trail for man and beast. As a hunter, I knew this to be a transition point from steep forested canyon to a more level forested plateau. During the three preceding generations, loggers had used this same area as the easiest means to transport the hardwood logs they harvested from the canyon and surrounding hillsides.

As a result of the loggers’ labors, most of the forested acreage in Madison County is filled with relatively new-growth hardwoods, several varieties of oak, hickory, ash, elm and gum trees. Scattered among them are many varieties of scrub trees, red bud, dogwood, sumac, and young saplings that made the whole forest look congested. It is great haven for white tail deer, black bear, turkeys and other wild life, but difficult to hunt because of the obstructed view. In the fall and winter, mountain cedar trees of all sizes stand in stark, green contrast to the barren deciduous trunks of the hardwoods.

Softly, stealthily, I moved quietly through the woods toward my tree stand. I took care to let the balls of my feet touch the ground ahead of my heels so I would make the least amount of noise in the dried, fallen leaves as I moved. November’s leaves cluttered the ground and made stealth nearly impossible. Coming in late meant I had to be extra careful to not create a disturbance that might frighten away deer. Virginia whitetails are extremely shy, notoriously wary and better suited to concealment than I was even in my store bought latest-greatest camouflage hunting gear. An early morning fog developed ahead of me, sliding through the congested forest at the edge of the plateau east of where I was trying to sneak along unnoticed. I nodded approvingly to myself, hoping that the fog would help mask my noise and my odor.

Fogs were not unusual at that time of year, but this one was odd. For one thing, the air was not moisture laden; therefore, fog development was unanticipated. The weeks before the start of that particular hunting season had been relatively dry, even for late October and early November. It had not rained at all for more than three weeks, nor was there a threat of rain. For that matter, there were nothing more than a few high clouds in the morning sky when I had left the cabin. I stopped to watch the fog move toward me, thinking about John Carpenter’s movie "The Fog", bemusedly hoping there was no connection.

The fog did not envelope me, but it became heavier and denser as it moved closer. Then, as quickly as it had developed and moved in my direction, it cleared. The fog vanished. Left in its place was a very startled… and startling… group of travelers.

The man was likely in his mid-thirties, though he appeared older with his scraggly beard. The long-barreled musket in his hands was held at the ready as he warily assessed his surroundings. The eyes peering from the bearded face quickly found and focused on me. Three young girls, the oldest appeared to be in her early teens, clung to a woman, whom I assumed to be their mother. The woman’s arms encircled the two youngest girls protectively. They all were dressed in what appeared to be cotton and wool clothing. The females all wore full length, high collared, pale blue dresses with no frills and they each wore simple bonnets on their heads. The man had knee-high leather boots, cotton breeches and a rough leather jacket over a cotton shirt. The hat he wore was a misshapen leather crown with a wide, floppy brim. His oily hair hung nearly to his shoulders.

A wide-eyed pack horse pulled back on a lead line held tightly by the teen-aged girl. Her resolve to hold it appeared to be weakening as she stared toward me in astonished terror.

Howdy, I called out, hoping to settle their nerves… and mine. How are you folks doing today? I really wanted to ask What the Hell are you doing here on my property during hunting season and why are you dressed like that?

My name is Aaron, Aaron Clements. And who are you? Even though his tone was challenging, the strain in his voice was apparent. I wondered if my voice registered a bit higher than normal as well. The man’s face showed both concern and suspicion. The arms holding the musket did not relax nor did they change direction, clearly demonstrating that he considered me to be a threat.

I’m Charles Setters. I own this property. Can I help you folks? I tried as best I could to not show the emotions of anger and uncertainty that I felt inside. At that moment, fear had not congealed in my mind.

The question seemed to further confuse Aaron. He thought for a moment then spoke again without answering my question. This is my wife, Sarah, and our daughters. Are you settled nearby? I don’t recollect seeing you around here before.

The strangeness of the encounter was making me very uncomfortable. I can usually read people and size them up rather quickly, a skill honed in my job as a Human Resources Manager. My first impression of Aaron was that he was a no-nonsense person used to being in control of everything around him. The muzzleloader he carried was no match for my high powered deer rifle, a Stevens 30.06, but I was carrying my weapon safely hanging from a sling on my right shoulder, whereas his muzzleloader was pointed my direction. Plus, I had my fold-up hunting stool hanging from the opposite shoulder which would have prevented me from quickly moving into a firing position; not that I considered it to be a necessary option. Basically, — as the old-timers might say — he had the drop on me. As I pondered his question and how best to respond, it dawned on me that I was wearing a camouflaged balaclava for concealment while deer hunting. Carefully and slowly, not wanting to arouse further suspicion or incite a bad reaction, I removed my fluorescent orange Elmer Fudd cap and pulled off the face cover so they could see that I was actually human.

I have a hunting cabin back up the trail about three-hundred yards, I replied, pointing back the way I had come and vainly swiping my hand across my scalp to flatten what was left of my hair. I was convinced that the static from the balaclava had left it standing straight up and disheveled. I was just heading out to hunt this morning. I got around a little bit late. I usually come out before daylight, but I overslept. My nervousness forced me to say more than I probably needed to say, but it seemed to have a positive, calming effect on the family… that and the removal of the balaclava.

The man relaxed and lowered his musket slightly, though he continued to maintain his vigilance. I think we got turned around in that fog.

I was not sure how to continue the conversation. In all the years that my brothers and I had owned the property, I have occasioned upon other hunters, especially in this particular area. The adjacent property owner did not hunt, but his adult children and grandchildren did. They were bow hunters mostly, but would venture out during muzzleloader season occasionally. This was a first time for me to meet someone during modern gun season, especially on Opening Weekend. Opening Weekend and each individual’s hunting territory are kind of sacred to deer hunters; no respectful hunter dared interfere with another hunter’s treasured spot in the woods.

Turned around, huh? Well, that can happen in these woods, for sure. Especially in a fog. I had no idea why anyone would even be out in the woods during deer season, other than to deer hunt. Do you folks live nearby?

Less than two hours back up the trail… Aaron’s voice trailed off as he turned and pointed back the way they had come. Well, we were following a trail, but apparently lost it in that fog. His face showed confusion and concern. He looked around, as if trying to find a familiar reference point.

A heavy truck rattled and banged along a country road less than a quarter mile from where we were standing. The horse again yanked at the lead line, causing the young teenager to have to put her whole weight into controlling the animal. Aaron’s eyes widened as he looked in the direction of the noise that seemed to be getting closer.

Thunder? On such a clear day?

No, that’s just a truck. Noisy as thunder though. Probably hauling a load of feed to one of the farms down the road. They are kind of a nuisance at times; you can hardly hear yourself think when traffic gets really heavy on that rough road. The woman had pulled the two younger girls more tightly to her side, even though the youngest was trying to pull free to get a better look at the camouflaged stranger with the gaudy orange cap and vest standing before them.

How are you young ladies doing this morning? I smiled toward the youngsters. My grandchildren were all older than those two, but I did remember what it was like when they were at that curious, inquisitive stage of development. That phase made it fun to be a grandparent.

They both pulled back into hiding behind their mother when I spoke directly to them. I turned back to Aaron. Where are you headed? Maybe I can help get you back on your trail. I don’t know everyone out here, but I am familiar enough with the general area to give y’all some help. Maybe I can get you closer to where you are going or hook you up with someone who can. And, I added, likely showing the concern I felt at the moment, you folks really do need to be wearing hunter orange if you are going to travel through the woods during deer season. I shudder to think about what could happen to y’all.

Aaron thought for a moment before saying anything. He was apparently studying my dress, which was the latest-greatest in camouflage technology and included the required fluorescent Hunter Orange cap and vest. His face, and the faces of his family, registered additional concerns, but I could not figure out what was bothering them. We are walking to my brother’s place, less than a day’s walk from our cabin. We planned to spend a few days visiting with him and his family.

What’s his name?

Byron, Byron Clements.

Clements? I mused aloud. Doesn’t ring a bell. What road does he live on?

Aaron was puzzled. Uh, well, he doesn’t live on a road exactly. The nearest road to him is probably the Morristown trail.

Morristown? Instinctively, I rubbed my chin in thought. During the early logging years in Northwest Arkansas, there had been a lot of small towns, most of which sprang up around logging camps. Nearly all of those little towns had faded into history as soon as the hardwoods were harvested. Even so, many of the country roads carried the names of some of those towns, as well as a county or state road number. Darn, I wasn’t raise out here, so I don’t know the old road names. Lots of those old logging towns are gone now. I simply don’t know where they were or what road they were on. How far is it from Huntsville or Aurora, or maybe Wittier?

Aaron looked around the tree tops nearby as if trying to locate something. I studied him as he puzzled for a few minutes. Finally, he spoke. I heard of a small town called Huntsville. It a fair distance from where we are settled… quite a distance as a matter of fact. Aurora is quite a distance further than that. I think Huntsville may be close to a river or something. Can’t say as I’ve been to either, though we were close to Aurora during the war. There may be a place called Witter to the west of us. I’m sure there is none east.

Aaron’s speech pattern was different than most I had heard in the area. His words came out with a decidedly British lilt.

Okay. That puts him east of Wittier for sure. I let a mental map of the area form in my mind. Aurora was slightly north of Wittier. If he was far from Huntsville, quit a distance from Aurora and Wittier was west of his brother’s place, I figured his brother had to be somewhere south and east of Wittier. My cabin was less than a mile northeast of the old Wittier post office, which had long ago consolidated into Huntsville’s in the name of progress.

Yes, he would be east of Witter, his voice carried the sound of relief as we found a point of directional agreement. And south and east of Morristown. Walking distance is something akin to forty or fifty miles, I suppose.

I was not very familiar with the towns in the counties east of Madison County, where my hunting property was located. It was apparent to me that they had done more than just get a little lost. I realized that deer hunting from my stand was a lost cause for the morning, so I made the only reasonable gesture I could think of at the moment. How about we venture back to my cabin and get a bite to eat; maybe share a pot of coffee while we sort this thing out and get you back on track?

At the offer to eat, I noticed the two youngest girls look up at their mother in askance. They were apparently hungry, or just being typical youngsters.

Well, Aaron started hesitantly as he looked from me to his children and back, I suppose we could sit a while and get our bearings before we travel onward. I do want to make it to Byron’s place before dark. We’ll be hard pressed to do it if we delay very long. He looked around the tree tops again. Kind of late in the year for bees to be out, isn’t it?

The woman and the teenager followed his gaze into the trees. Without thinking about it, my face screwed into a quizzical look. I replied slowly, questioningly, in answer to his question, Yeah? I did not know what had prompted him to ask the question. I fought the urge to look into the tree tops as I watched their eyes glance from tree to tree.

Completely unsure of where they were going or how they planned to get there, I turned back toward my cabin and motioned them to follow. If Byron’s place was truly 40 or 50 miles away, it would be a tough walk through these hills, even using the roads. I was somewhat surprised they didn’t have a dog with them.

I am a suspicious person by nature, but not aggressively so. It was a bit unnerving to walk through the woods with a noticeably nervous and armed stranger at my back. Therefore, I tried to stay close to Aaron and make small talk as we slowly trekked up the cut road that would lead us to the cabin. The two youngest girls clung to Sarah’s hands as they walked along. Bringing up the rear was the oldest girl with the pack horse. The horse was still unsettled, sensing something in the surroundings that she did not like.

The cabin is nestled in a grove of oak and hickory trees about fifty feet from a gravel county road. The cabin is rough finished on the inside; the rafters and wall studs have no wall covering. It has no indoor plumbing, meaning, our facilities consist of an outhouse about eighty feet further down a logging road. The logging road starts at a swinging iron gate by the county road and runs past the cabin, deeper into the woods. It is also an easement for hunters who have landlocked property behind mine. Nonetheless, the cabin does have electricity, which makes things really nice — read that as ‘we have a microwave oven, radio and antennae TV’. The government did mess with my TV reception by forcing the industry to convert everything to digital, but I can get several local channels with the rabbit ears if conditions are right. We also have connection to a rural water system, but it is only plumbed to an outside hydrant. Next to the cabin, my family and I built a small shower house and use a propane fired turkey fryer with a five gallon pot to warm water. The heated water is then poured into a thirty-gallon plastic barrel. A small electric pump provides the shower power.

Even in early November, some of the oak trees still held onto several of their browned leaves, though the majority of the other species of trees had dropped all their foliage. Those fallen leaves rustled under foot as we made our way toward the cabin while the straggler oak leaves rustled in the early morning breeze. Under different circumstances, I would have pondered the serenity of the natural sounds as they vainly tried to cover the manmade noises around me.

Mommy, look! exclaimed the youngest girl as we neared the cabin. Her wide-eyed pointing caught me off guard. The family stopped in their tracks, staring toward the cabin porch.

It took me a few minutes to realize what had gotten her attention. Prior to having electricity, I would hang a kerosene lantern under the porch roof to use as a night light for nocturnal trips to the outhouse. Once the cabin was on the electrical grid, I installed an outlet on the porch and replaced the lantern with a cheap string of Christmas lights. Those lights were never unplugged. They would burn constantly when the cabin was occupied, which is the only time that all the electrical breakers were powered for use. She was amazed at the multi-colored array shining from the shadows of the porch.

I laughed, Oh, I put those silly things there to use as a night light. Believe it or not, they really light the place up once it turns dark here in the woods.

Aaron and his wife looked at me, brows wrinkled. It appeared they would not move further forward until they had a better understanding of them.

Not to worry, I said, the lights don’t get hot. They won’t cause a fire or anything. They are very low wattage. I began walking again, looking back toward them, hoping my explanation had given them what they needed. At that point, I felt that I understood why they were dressed the way they were; undoubtedly they were members of one of the religions that did not fully embrace all modern contrivances. Apparently, they did not decorate for Christmas either. I hoped they would not delay further just because I had the lights.

Glancing back and forth to one another and then to their children, the couple nodded acceptance and followed me toward the cabin. I had to dawdle to force Aaron to catch up with me. I definitely wanted him to be beside me. As we neared the cabin, I carefully ejected the bullets from my rifle into the palm of my hand and put them into a cartridge holder on the gunstock. I could sense Aaron’s eyes watching me as I worked the bolt action to accomplish my task. I could tell he was very curious about the process.

Unnerved by the intensity of his interest, I did something I normally do not do; I left one round in the chamber and put the rifle on safety. I debated with myself about how to handle the weapon once we reached the cabin. Though the man was considerably shorter and lighter than me, he was at least thirty years my junior and looked tough as nails. I could not take him in a fair fight, if it came to that.

It was a pleasant day, especially for November. When at the cabin, we always keep a large campfire in a pit surrounded by huge rocks. The pit, dubbed a cabrito pit because I heard them called that at a Texas deer camp, was the envy of the hunters at the camps behind mine. We had dug the fire pit about three feet deep into the clay then encircled the top with huge flat boulders. The other cabin owners did not see the backhoe that my brother had used to dig the pit and move the rocks; they thought we had done it all by hand. They were unwilling to undertake the manual labor of building a similar pit for their cabins, partially because their cabins were located in areas that were too rocky for digging. We chose to let them believe it was done the hard way.

Because I was the only hunter at my camp on this day, I only had one chair set up by the fire pit. Why don’t you tether your horse to the porch rail while I get y’all some chairs?

Hesitantly, Aaron wrapped the horse’s lead line around the porch rail. He and the teenager charged with leading the horse spent several minutes reassuring the animal before they moved any further.

Come on in, folks. It’s not much, but it’s comfortable inside. I stepped up onto the wood decked porch with its tin roof. I had a fire burning in the woodstove, more for warming wash water than for any other reason. Besides, I like the feel of a wood fire early in the morning. November mornings are cool, sometimes cold, even if the days are in the sixty or seventy degree range. I decided to place my rifle in one of the gun racks that were lined in a row along the wall near the door. Later, I regretted not waiting for Aaron to enter the cabin so he could see what I did, and maybe copy my action with his weapon.

The cabin is a thirty-five feet by twenty-one feet frame building. Inside are six bunk beds that are positioned against half the east and west walls and all along the south end of the cabin. Those crude bunks provide comfortable sleeping for as many as twelve adults. In the center of the room is a large table, on which we kept a supply of food stuffs ranging from bread and hot dog buns to potatoes, dry beans, potato chips, cookies and peanut butter. The table is the only mouse proof area for storing those items. It also serves as a dining table and as a platform for the occasional deer camp, low stakes poker game. Even though we have electricity, I keep a kerosene lantern on the table, which is lit every time I camp. I like the smell of a kerosene lamp. There is a door in the center of the porch side of the cabin. Straight across from the doorway is a refrigerator on the only circuit that remains powered all the time, whether we are camping or not… for obvious reasons. A propane cook stove, a range with an oven, is located next to a kitchen sink. The kitchen is not plumbed to the rural water system. Since this is a seasonal use cabin, the risk of frozen pipes is too great to be fully modernized. Therefore, water is fed into a sink through a garden hose which is hooked to a twelve-feet high water tower outside, which can be easily disconnected when we leave. From the sink and around the corner of the wall is a countertop and storage shelves. The microwave and a coffee maker are set on the counter against the north wall, with canned goods stored underneath. The woodstove sits dead center of the north end and another door opens out to the cabrito pit area. A stone walkway leads to the parking area, the logging road and the outhouse. The exposed rafters and wall studs of the unfinished interior give the cabin a rustic look, plus they provide excellent ‘hangers’ for extra clothing items since we have no storage shelves for clothes. Three ceiling fans move air around as needed.

Both doors are salvaged steel swinging doors with large, reinforced windows in the top half. Those and a single window behind the refrigerator are the only external sources of light. The electric lights are exposed incandescent bulbs with a simple pull-string switch. I pulled a string to better light the kitchen area. The tentative footsteps that had followed me across the porch and into the wooden floored cabin stopped.

Mommy, look what he did, exclaimed the youngest girl.

I smiled at the little one and walked toward the bunks. I had several fold-up chairs stored on top of one of the bunk beds. Her eyes followed me as I pulled down a handful of chairs and began walking toward the door leading to the cabrito pit. Come on, let’s get everybody set up and I’ll see about rustling up some grub for everyone. What would you like? Have you had breakfast? I’ve got eggs and bacon.

I set up the chairs that I had carried outside. Sarah and the two girls had followed me through the north door and then watched as I went back inside the cabin to get more chairs. Aaron and the teenaged girl came from where the horse was tied rather than traipse through the cabin. Once the chairs were all set, I pointed toward the chairs, inviting them to sit down. They hesitantly tested the canvas fold-up chairs then seated themselves while I picked a couple of cord length logs from my wood stack and threw them onto the fire.

Aaron watched intently as I walked into the shadow of a nearby cedar glade to my wood stack. The wood stack was seventy-five feet long with three rows of logs as small as two inches in diameter all the way up to heavy pieces over two feet diameter. The larger logs were cut at two-foot lengths while the smaller ones were four feet long. The stacks were bracketed on the ends and intermittently by the two-foot diameter cedar trees in the glade. As is the nature of cedars as they grow, the lower limbs had died and the trunks stood bare up to approximately twelve feet.

Do you both like coffee? I asked Aaron and Sarah. I did not care much for coffee myself, but I was prepared to drink some and be sociable. You can lean that gun against the tree there, or put it in the gun rack inside. Our camp rule is no loaded guns within fifty yards of camp, except on the firing range. I hoped that he had not noticed my contingency bullet still chambered. Because a muzzleloader is not ‘loaded’ until it has a primer, I did not expect him to do anything other than put the weapon in a safe position.

Yes Sir, I reckon we do drink it on occasion. That would be right neighborly. We will drink some coffee while we get our bearings. Aaron moved to lean his musket against a nearby oak tree. Even as he relaxed into his chair, he seemed to be on edge… and on high alert.

Okay. Let me get the coffee going for us. What would you young ladies like to drink? I have orange juice and milk, or soda. I walked inside and busied myself putting coffee grounds and water into the drip coffee maker. I walked back to the door and asked the girls again what they would like.

The youngest finally spoke, What is orange juice?

The question caught me off guard. What is orange juice? I repeated the question and chuckled. Why, it’s the best thing in the world for a growing girl. Do you not drink orange juice?

No. She lowered her eyes in embarrassment.

Well, I suppose now is a good time to try some. You want to help me pour it? I looked to the two older girls, Would you like some juice, or would you prefer milk?

The oldest girl, who had been watching me suspiciously the entire time, spoke, What kind of milk?

Uh, two-percent. It’s not as good as fresh from a cow, but it’s good and cold. I was not sure what she wanted to know about the milk.

Satisfied, she replied, I would like some milk, as long as it isn’t goat’s milk.

Sarah gave her a scolding look for her comment. She did not seem to be quite as ill at ease as Aaron was, but maybe it was because her focus was on her children.

I laughed. I don’t blame you. How about you, young lady? I asked the middle girl.

My name is Ica. I will take some of that orange stuff, I suppose. Is it good? She received a scolding look from her mother for her supposed impolite question.

Ica? How interesting! My Grandmother’s name was Ica, Ica Ora. Very interesting. I mused. I like orange juice. I drink a glass every morning. It has vitamin C, which helps keep you healthy. Let me get some for you. With that I turned back toward the refrigerator and almost stepped on the youngest girl. Oops! Sorry. What’s your name, Little Miss?

Ruth.

I took three plastic cups from a package inside a storage cabinet and set them on the table. I pulled a gallon jug of juice from the refrigerator. Before I could do anything with it, Ruth asked, What is that?

This is the orange juice.

No, that big yellow box where you got the orange stuff, what is it?

Somewhat taken aback, I replied, You mean the refrigerator?

Yes sir. That box. She pointed to make herself clear. What does it do? How does it get bright inside?

Well, it keeps my food cold so it doesn’t spoil. The light helps me see what’s in there. I set the juice jug on the table and reopened the refrigerator. I pressed on the light switch until the light went out. The light comes on when I open the door. See how dark it is without the light?

How does it light like that? How does it keep the food cold?

The electricity makes the light glow bright. It keeps stuff cold with refrigerants that are inside the compressor and some cooling coils. I’m not an expert on refrigerators, I laughed, I just know how to use them. With that I turned back to pouring the juice while Ruth