Now
if you think I'm just making this story about George up, well just
you think again. It's as true as the gospels. Oh the names might be
changed, and the characters to protect the guilty ones, and even most
of the events may be skewed to make them less ineffable, but it's all
true, cross my heart and hope to die. And here's a little map to
prove it. It matches perfectly with a well known location in the
western hemisphere.
So,
George and Mottles wanted to explore their whole island, but the
walking was difficult as the beaten paths were made by those born to
be wild. George had been doing some fishing with the little boat and
was quite confident with the ores now, so one really calm morning
with Mottles seated on the prow, they ventured off along the shore,
taking everything they valued with them in case they found a better
nook to call home because the prevailing west wind really blasted at
them some days. They headed south, George having his compass handy
to make sure. Most of the shore which wasn't just plain swampy and
full of red wing black birds had a little clay cliff wall along it
which was the summer home of many swallows, with muskrats thriving in
the mud at the bottom, and mud hens paddling in the weedy puddles.
When they came around the southern tip there was open water to the
east as far as the eye could see. As they cleared the rocky treed
outcrop they could see into a nifty cove with a sandy beach and a
little meadow sloping gently up from the waters edge. They went no
further. This would be home. With their hearts in their throats
they gently beached their little boat and both jumped out to explore
this little piece of paradise.
Mottles
found it first, hidden from view behind a tuft of pines, almost
overgrown with grass and saplings. Lumber. Neat stacks of 2 x 8's
and 2 x 6's and 2 x4's and plywood, 3/4”and 3\8”and cedar shakes
and rolls of heavy plastic and bundles of pink insulation now home to
more than a few critters. Plastic pails of nails with names like
ardox and common of many different lengths were all lined up in a
row. There was even a pile of triple glazed slider windows strapped
over with several sheets of plywood. There was enough stuff here to
build a castle. It must have taken days to haul this stuff out here.
Maybe it had been sledded out in winter over the ice, who knew?
Some of the new pines growing through it were six feet tall. This
stuff must have been here for years. As they poked around further
they even found a crate half sunk in the sand which said in big black
letters, “Acme Wood Stove.”
Well,
George sat down on a stack of 2 x 4's and scratched his head. And
Mottle's head too. Somewhere in his forgotten past there stirred a
memory of building things and the pride of his accomplishments. But
the only tools he had were the hatchet and a pair of pliers. He
could probably pound nails with the hatchet but he had no saw. Could
anyone build a little home with a hatchet? He started to ponder his
future. Could anyone survive a winter out here? He'd need some warm
clothes. He'd already snared a rabbit with a piece of soft cable
he'd found on the beach. Ice fishing would be good, the lake here
was full of nice Jacks, although they were a bit bony. If he waited
for a good east wind he could make it back to the big city and his
bank account would have lots of money after not spending any for a
few months, but could he find his way back out here? He really
didn't want to go back to his little pad with the saggy bed. This
life was way better. What should he do, what should he do?
(To
be continued)
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