Four separate stories, four different lives in the wake of the perfect storm. The choices we make are building the new face of humanity. Each day we struggle to survive. No more news, no Hollywood and no political finger pointing. Now the lights are out, water stopped running, this is Our World.
Its been some time since I have made an entry. We are fitting in well here. There has been no storm since the previous. We have put together a school house that a few of the women were so gracious enough to lead. Connor goes to school now. Though the curriculum is a little advanced without tv and other distraction we are free to work on his studies for most of the day. This opportunity makes me very emotional and I am just so grateful each day that we are a part of this community.
Community. That was the key all along. After roughing it for so long I became bitter with the idea of community. We were pushed out of a few early on because I had a young boy and didnt garner and skills useful to our world. We were simply two more mouths to feed. I took on that loner attitude. That, sort of, I can do it all myself sort of mindset. When I look back I can see it was killing me. Carrying Connor on my back, literally, as we trekked miles of forest.
There were purposeful incisions made into communities. Divisions put in place by a newer type of segregation. Instead of black and white we were fed a left and right. Or a liberal, conservative. Another line in the sand for us to sneer across at one another. This was how we fell. It wasn’t government debt, war, corporations. No. It was the fact that my fellow Americans, myself included, didnt grab somebody by the back of the neck and tell them to wise up or it was gonna really start to hurt!
Sprouts. We are harnessing all of the sun we can get for these sprouts. All of our window sills are filled with the home made seed starters we created. These plants will feed us all summer. We will can up the remainder and have some resources for the coming winter. For now though we nurture these plants as though they were our own flesh and blood. The girls have been great about it. They are just the right age to enjoy and get wrapped up in the gardening process.
I sure hope their future will only be enriched by the experience of having a garden and not become incumbent on it. A recreational garden can be very rewarding. I grew up in the country. My father was a peanut farmer. I know. The point I am making is when your lively hood is left to the whims of crop and nature it can be a scary life to lead. I would much rather my daughters have the ability to procure food from other sources than their own sweat and labor.
Still, we are comfortable here. For now. I would like to get out and meet some of the people in my neighborhood. Many faces have changed. The only thing is, approaching a home in our world is not what it used to be.
Philadelphia is on fire. Center city is burning just so folks can keep warm. You realize it is early spring and the nights are still in the mid 30’s. What few trees were around have now been burned and we are literally ripping the walls out of abandoned homes to burn. The mood in the city is just dead. It’s as if the whole lot of us saw the tanks roll out and each of us knows we blew it. Whatever they were here for didn’t matter cuz now they were gone and most of us knew in our hearts they weren’t coming back.
I imagined the new government forming and officials in some secret bunker somewhere were dispatching aid to larger cities. Scratching off those, like ours, that simply didn’t comply. I could see the graphite of the pencil rubbing over PHILADELPHIA. Lost to the distribution of limited resources.
It made me think more about our plan to train the people. To stop the violence in the city. It was rare that you heard a gun scream off in the distance. Most of the ammo had been expended stealing others’ goods. That mean barring any major weapons hand to hand combat would be king. Dan and I had the tools to make it work for us and we would.
I felt like some German military official in the late 1930’s. The little Hitlers were all huddled over their trays eating. Hands clasped, I was praying that the bomb was close enough to kill. I could see them from a closet door at the back of the cafeteria. It was risky because in order to reach this vantage point I had to go outside. There was always the chance of being seen and then, cover blown. Still I enjoyed the view.
First came the fire almost like a dragons burp. Their eyes. Their eyes were just priceless. I enjoyed so much watching that look on their face. Utter disbelief. I am sure a look that they experience on a daily basis from the drug addled “products” they put up to the highest bidder. After the fire came the glass and metal. It cut deep and with it came great force. Men, if you could call them that, were burst from their seats. Food exploded all over their clothes. It was epic.
As they lay their trying to move I thought. Now that they were splayed out like this, covered in their lunch, it might be fun to take them out to desert and let the wolves tear them apart throughout the cold night. It would be a reasonable death for such scum.
My heart was hardening and I could feel it. Like a small black hole forming in my left ventricle it was sucking out my humanity. I had to draw the line. I could not become one of them. I left the view. Left them to suffer.