survive « Robin Writes

Everyone needs a day off now and again, and yesterday, I took mine.

We started off with breakfast at the local café, and since I’m a creature of habit, I went for the loaded hashbrowns and, of course, bacon. My husband had the biscuits and gravy; I usually have to flip a mental coin to decide between these two . . . we go there at least once a week, or sometimes pick up something for dinner.

Then we headed north to the town of Doolittle. “Town” is kind of a misnomer because all we saw was the antique mall and—wait for it—a Stuckey’s! Bet I haven’t seen one in 30 years, and yes, I got a pecan log roll. Tasted just like I remember . . .

So, this antique mall. Wow. I mean, the place is huge! The outside looks like an old West town, there’s tons of parking, and on a Sunday morning we practically had the place to ourselves—at least until about 11:00. It took us TWO HOURS to walk through the whole thing, and when we checked out, we noticed a few more things outside—furniture and such. There’s a flea market section too; no AC so we hurried through that but it was typical flea market stuff.

We went there looking for a pie safe. I have always wanted one and they’re hard to find—and the ones I do find are either not quite right or super expensive. Even after today, I’m still looking.

We did find two more chairs for our kitchen table, and a dinner gong—the old triangle kind. I was holding out for a dinner bell, and we saw two, but they were HUGE, aka heavy. Really heavy. Cast iron heavy. Also around $300. So, no.

My husband picked up some kind of saw thingy, and of course we got some fudge. And peanut brittle. And chocolate covered cashews.

I can’t wait to go back—I saw a few other things I’d like to pick up one of these days. Particularly a very nice leather shoulder holster. Oh, and the Indian spear . . .

But the best thing I found was Tupperware. Not the used, icky kind, but clean, well-kept vintage stuff that you can’t get from the company anymore: cracker boxes, butter keepers, all kinds of things. Picture your house when you were a child; well, if you were a child in the 50s-70s.

This place is awesome, and unlike a lot of “antique” malls full of plastic junk—Tupperware aside; you know what I mean—this is the real deal.

You should go. Prices are reasonable, and it’s a prepper’s heaven: hand tools, old fashioned, non-electric kitchen gadgets, handmade quilts, and a lot more . . .

Chapter One

We left our cozy little compound, Brad and Abby and I, and took our time hiking back down to the camp. Brad stayed for a few days, but was anxious to return to Walt’s old place. Funny how we still called it that; Walt had been gone for years.

We’d gotten the old pump system working and repaired, thanks to Brad, and scavenged some old PVC pipe to rig up irrigation for the garden. Since we didn’t have to hide anymore, we started digging up the meadow across the road so we could get our seeds in the ground. Oh, we were still careful, but it was more habit at this point than any real fear.

“Damn, it’s hot.” I wiped my face and walked over to the old stone steps that used to lead to a screened porch. “Abby, take a break, will you? You’re making me feel lazy.”

Abby looked up and shaded her eyes, gauging the position of the sun. She shrugged and kept digging, tossing her blond braid over her shoulder, and hollered back, “In a minute!”

See, there’s the difference between us. She keeps going and going, with her “in a minutes,” and when I’m done, I’m done. That’s all, folks.

So I took a swig of water and watched her work. About five minutes later, I gave up and grabbed the hoe again. Sigh. Of course I knew it was important—and this was just the start.

We still had to gather and cut firewood, but the fallen buildings would provide a lot of that, at least for this winter. And Abby would go hunting. Not me. I can shoot, and I have no problem defending myself or anyone else, but I’d just rather not kill something I’m going to have to eat. Not that I mind eating it, but don’t want to look at it first, when it’s still alive.

Had to find water barrels too. Probably go into town for that. Ha. A long time ago, a trip into town from camp was a hell of a lot of fun. Now, not so much, although you never knew what you’d find, even after all this time.

Colonel Barton and his guys had cleaned up the place, and after him, Colonel Hoefer. Mostly, though, they just cleared the roads and shoveled everything off to the side. Big piles of who-knew-what.

In town, too, there was still stuff to be found if you knew where to look.

But in the meantime, this garden was kicking our butts. Four days now, in the August heat.

Abby finally stopped and took a drink. She looked around, grinned at me, and said, “Come on, let’s go for a swim. We can finish tomorrow.”

Thank heavens. I set my hoe up against the steps and walked over to the footbridge, slowing impatiently while Abby caught up.

We took the old trail to the lake, up around the east side of Sunnytop. Years ago, the lake had been full of young girls canoeing and jumping off the floating dock, running around and giggling.

Now, of course, most of those girls were dead, like everyone else, and the old dock had long sunk beneath the surface.

It was quiet now, and hot, the sun reflecting off the water, and the fish had come back. We’d cleaned up a couple of the canoes and used them from time to time. We talked, sometimes, about building a new dock, but we never did . . .