[frankthetank]

I look at it this way. When the SHTF comes, your going to deal with it one way or another. If it involves slave camps, so be it. There is reason to live, just take a hike in the woods and breath in some fresh air, let the sun beat down on your face on that warm spring day. Take a walk down a snowy trail...etc etc.

And what about girls/women...thats enough for me to want to stay kicking for awhile! ...wait...i take that back

[DamienJasper]

$this->bbcode_second_pass_quote('Ludi', 'W')hat is so hard about looking for a community to work with to buy some land, or find a community which has some land already?

Have you even tried this, DJ?

[Petro]

Toyed with idea of posting to this thread. As I feel lately I really don't have much to offer to discussion here at PO, I still lurk several times a day. DJ, you seem to me to be caught in a trap that I find myself in often: future overload. Too much information/speculation about possible futures, or, lack there of. I makes myself nuts with it. Although I don't believe if sticking my head in the sand, for myself and I suspect possibly for you, it might be a good thing from time to time. Others have said more of less the same thing already. Sometimes needing to take out the trash in the morning is enough reason to live. I wrote an unpublished short a while ago, I probably shouldn't attach it here (not looking to piss anyonw off), but I feel it is germane. Enjoy or not. Get someting, or not. It's free.
[I'm far too lazy to reformat this from the original for some reason cr's never follow the document when I paste]
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...pie, and all the rest.

I decide to leave my mother’s house before it gets any darker. It’s
been snowing since I arrived around noon, and there’s more than a foot
on the ground. It’s hard enough to get around, but in snow, at night, the
risks double. Losing control of a prosthetic leg and having it slide away is
one thing. Freezing to death searching for it—is another.
So I get my things together and get up from the couch. Abruptly, I inform her it is time that I leave. She quickly turns off the TV and stands in front of me. Something she has done since the accident. In case I wobble. I mouth the usual ’thank yous’. She replies with the usual, ’it was nothing’, then holds my crutch as I put on my jacket and gloves. I want her to stay inside—let the day end with what is already said. It’s not be though—she follows me outside.
We stand on the snow covered porch of her tiny bungalow. Fidgeting like a child I do everything to avoid her eyes. But outside, waiting to say our final goodbyes, it isn’t easy. No TV to pretend I’m watching. It’s irrational, but I feel if I give her a final opportunity to study me, she’ll see see through the act—see my desparation. Sense the reproach that I harbor for her—self-loathing of myself. And then things will end badly.
She holds out a carefully wrapped piece of pumpkin pie.
Then, as if reading my mind, “It‘s not so bad—Is it Billy“, she says to me.
“Maybe you need to find something—You know, something to keep you busy.”
I watch the snow fall in the front yard with detached, unfocused eyes.
“Maybe cut down on your drinking”, she says.
Now I’m forced to look at her. I pretend the snow is attacking my eyes. I curse and rub them clear before meeting her warm gaze. She doesn’t see what I‘ve become. She sees only the teenage son she once had. Before the accident.
I consider her words.
The snow-laden air carried a chill, and I shiver.
“I have to go ma. Look it‘s dark already.“
I take the pie—give her a quick peck on the cheek.
”I love you ma—”, I say, then turn away.
As I climb down the steps of the small porch I find myself wondering how many
times had I tried to hang on to her simple words of hope. And, how many times had they slipped away.
I don’t look back as I wade through shin-deep snow covering the yard. I know she stands beneath an exposed light bulb in the doorway of her small bungalow, watching, as I track into the grayish blur of falling snow. I know concern twists her face.
As I hit the pavement of Poplar Street I realize my miscalculation with time. Nightfall had snuck in quickly. I turn to look back at the bungalow.
She looks the way she did the day of the accident. When she could only look down at my broken, bloody, body, and sob uncontrolably. I remember on that day as I lay there in the throws of shock, looking up at her, how she became a distant thing to me—a silhouette—faint. Looking at her insubstantial form now—it reminds me of that day. I think hard for a moment trying to remember what she looked like before the accident—when I last saw her clearly.
“Thanks for the pie”, I shout a little too loudly, then wave. I try to pick up my step a little—feign happiness. It’s a sad display in the end, but the best I can manage holding a piece pie, and all the rest.
She waves back excitedly. Says something that gets lost in the snowy distance, then returns to the warmth of her little house and turns out the porch light.
It was a fake-job—but what’s the difference? She’ll feel better now, less worried, I assure myself.

I sit over a glass of bourbon, a cup of old coffee—cigarettes, a dirty ashtray and a piece of homemade pumpkin pie. I intend to get drunk. In fact, I intended to drown in high-octane bourbon. I have this same intent everyday. Lately. I look down and think about yet another Thanksgiving with my mother. How we talk about everything—anything, that is far and away from things like: drunk driving, accidents, and of course, amputations. About how I had tried on many occasions—many holidays, to bring up the accident. How I’d ask questions like: how did we get off the road; didn’t you see the other car coming. Things like that. No matter how casual my tone, the conversation quickly ended with her sobbing into her hands, despondent.
“You think it’s my fault don’t you Billy”, she would sob.
“You blame me for—”
I never had the courage to press further. She seemed so confused, and frail. Eventually I would calm her with assurances that I didn’t blame her. She would smile,
blow her nose and offer coffee. I would accept then leave soon after.
It was her fault—everyone knew it was her fault. She had been drinking all day at Tony’s before driving to pick me up at the bus-stop. But I wasn’t looking for that—I just wanted to talk about it. Maybe—get it all out. Once and for all. After my thirtieth year, I came to a horrifying realization; she will never be able to talk about it. It had broken her mind somehow. I’ve never brought it up again, and it eats at me.

I pull the clear wrap from the paper plate and roll it into a tight opaque ball and toss it aside. She included a cheesey platic fork with the pie (mothers think of these things).
I begin to stab out a large piece of the spicy filling—quickly jam it in my mouth. Then another—another—until only a krinkled ridge of crust remains. I leave it, like an
offering. I drink some more bourbon—chase it with cold coffee, and chain-smoke until my lungs ache. I don’t get drunk afterall. Don’t know why.
With the lights turned off I clearly see the graceful spectacle of the snowstorm
through the kitchen window, and I look out far into the night.
Eventually, I make my way to the bedroom.
The skin on my thigh, just above where my left knee should be is sore and chapped red. It happens every winter—especially when walking long distances. I unbuckle the harness that holds the prosthetic leg to what is left, pull it off with a groan, and stand it beside the bed. The room is pitch black.
For a moment I consider that there is one—more—light, I could put out.
I have my father’s old shotgun afterall.
Under the covers I roll to my side and watch the snow fall. There will be much shoveling to do, tomorrow.