The Dystopian Diaries

by K. W. Callahan

  My goal is to one day supplement my diet here with an array of food that I’ve grown or caught myself. Next spring, I’d like to plant a garden and learn how to harvest and preserve my plantings. I don’t know what sort of farmer I’ll make, but I’d at least like to give it a go. Until then, I’ll have to continue to rely upon the local grocery store for my provisions. It kind of makes me feel as though I’m cheating on the whole process, but Rome wasn’t built in a day. I have a lot to learn about off-grid living, and it’s not like I’m being forced to learn it all at once. This is going to be an extended process, and it’s one I’d prefer to enjoy rather than have forced down my throat.

  I’m going to fish, and eventually I’m considering doing some hunting, although I’ll have a much easier time killing and eating what I catch from the lake than murdering a sweet woodland creature. I know that a life is a life, and I still feel empathy toward the fish I catch, but there’s something different about the eyes of a fish as opposed to those of a bunny or deer when they look into mine. There just seems to be less life and understanding about them if I had to put it into words. This doesn’t mean I don’t care about the fish I catch. I kill them as quickly and as humanely as possible right there on the spot after catching them. I keep a super-sharp knife nearby to hack off their heads.

  But enough about that. I really don’t like discussing it. It makes me wonder how well I’ll do trying to hunt, kill, and dress a deer. But again, the cart before the horse.

  For now, I’ve finished my food, and the sun has set, so I’m going to clean up dinner, do the dishes, and maybe take an evening walk around my property.

  August 30th

  8:22 a.m.

  I got busy last night tidying up around the cabin so I didn’t get to take my walk. Therefore, I decided to go for an early morning amble before taking my dip in the lake.

  There is something truly magical about the mornings here. The way the morning light reflects off the lake, the scent of the morning commingled with pine needles, the coolness of the air, the stillness of the world, a light mist that lingers just inches above the lake and that wafts into wraithlike shapes in a soft breeze that trickles through the air; it’s all so calming, yet so invigorating.

  One thing that I’ve noticed I miss from the old days is the weather forecast. In a way, though, I’ve begun to appreciate its absence. In my bucolic environment, it adds a sense of mystery, suspense, even excitement to the day. Will it be sunny, hot, and dry? Will it be foggy and moist? Will it be one of those humidity-laden Midwest days? Will it rain lightly for hours? Will there be a torrential downpour with crashing thunder and electrifying lightening? I have no idea. So I have to stay tuned in breathless anticipation to find out what the day will bring!

  I slept like a log last night. I find that even without my full-time job, I sleep better here than I did back home. I think this is due to several factors. First, and probably foremost, is the hard work I’m putting in each day around the homestead. That hearty physical activity really puts me down for the count each night. It’s different than my old work. Sitting in an office all day exhausted me mentally, but it wasn’t like this. I like this sort of work much better. I feel a sense of accomplishment at the end of the day, and my mind rests peacefully.

  Speaking of “peacefully,” lack of sound is another factor that has me sleeping well at night. I sure as heck don’t miss the sounds of the city. I used to live across from a Chinese restaurant, and it never failed that just about the time I was falling asleep at night, the workers there would decide to take their out trash, slam-banging the Dumpster lids in the process. And without fail, the trash trucks would be out at 5 a.m., several times a week, slam-banging the same garbage bins around. Then there were the commuter trains, the noisy neighbors, the fighting drunks in the alley, the partying teens in the same alley, the constantly roaring airplanes overhead, the honking vehicles, the revving motorcycles, and all the rest. Here, you might get the hoot of an owl, the burble-gurping of a bullfrog, the chirping of crickets, the drone of the cicadas, or the occasional tweeting of the early bird happy with its worm, but I’ll take those sounds over the city alternatives any day.

  Also gone is the list of nagging problems and the overwhelming amount of stress and pressure that accompanied my old work. Now when I lay my head down at night, it’s unburdened by the strangling noose of the nine-to-five. And with that albatross gone from around my neck, I can finally breathe freely the fresh air into which I feel as if I’ve been reborn.

  It wasn’t that I hated my work; it’s just that I felt trapped by it. The longer I toiled, the more I yearned for some level of freedom. And I don’t just mean the freedom to enjoy the fruits of my labor by attending sporting events, going out with friends, or eating a meal prepared by someone else. I mean the freedom to be my own person, unhindered by the rules of the workplace and the restrictions of an average job, in an average apartment, in an average everyday world.

  Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing the matter with average. I was fine with it for 20 years. But we all need a change occasionally. I just made my change slightly more drastic than most. And I wouldn’t have been able to make that change were it not for all those average years to begin with. It’s just that to me, those years were a means to an end. I wanted to use them, not to have them use ME. Like Thoreau says, “Most men, even in this comparatively free country, through mere ignorance and mistake, are so occupied with the factitious cares and superfluously coarse labors of life that its finer fruits cannot be plucked by them.”

  When I hit the ripe old age of 40 (just five years shy of where poor old Henry David’s time on this planet ended), I realized that as my mother used to say, I needed to “Move it or lose it!”

  I recall yet another Thoreau passage that reminds me that, “…men labor under a mistake. The better part of the man is soon ploughed into the soil for compost. By a seeming fate, commonly called necessity, they are employed, as it says in the old book, laying up treasures which moth and rust will corrupt and thieves break through and steal. It is a fool’s life, as they will find when they get to the end of it, if not before.”

  I guess I’m thankful that I realized I was living a fool’s life in some way as well. I suppose that many people do. I just managed to DO something about it. In those final years of toil, I began to feel so listless, so lifeless, as though I was contributing nothing to the world or to myself. I was just running grain through the grist mill day after day after day. And for what? Sure, a paycheck. But isn’t there more to the world than just a paycheck? I could envision the epitaph on my tombstone: “Here lies Nathan William Whitmore. He worked hard all his life, killing himself for the bonuses of corporate big-wigs. He received many paychecks, watched many television shows, and died behind his desk inside a miserable office cubicle.”

  How memorable. What was I accomplishing other than forming the dreams of others?

  I like Thoreau’s thoughts regarding the subject of working for others:

  “As for the Pyramids, there is nothing to wonder at in them so much as the fact that so many men could be found degraded enough to spend their lives constructing a tomb for some ambitious booby, whom it would have been wiser and manlier to have drowned in the Nile, and then given his body to the dogs. I might possibly invent some excuse for them and him, but I have no time for it. As for the religion and love of art of the builders, it is much the same all the world over, whether the building be an Egyptian temple or the United States bank.”

  Wow! In writing those words, it seems to me that Thoreau was a little harsh. I mean, not everyone has the desire to give up “normal” life to go live like a hermit out in the middle of the woods. Some people actually enjoy their work and the work they do for others. Still, I take his point to some degree.

  I have to say, however, being outside the regular employment world works better for me. When I sit down to eat at night, I feel like I’ve really accomplished something. At my old job, it was more a sense of mo
notony, and even though it came with long hours and a monetary reward, it didn’t feel as though I’d actually DONE anything worthwhile when I returned home each evening.

  So what’s today’s work assignment? Fishing! See? In what other world could I consider fishing in Lake Michigan “work” for the day? That’s what I’m talking about. Fishing is work because I SAY it is. And I’ll bet you anything that if I can catch and cook a fish or two for dinner tonight, I’ll feel like I’ve accomplished more than spending an entire workweek at my previous job.

  I’m reminded of that old phrase, “Give a man a fish and he eats for a day. Teach a man to fish and he eats for a lifetime.”

  12:05 p.m.

  Well, not much luck with the fishing so far, but I’m still at it. If nothing else, I’m at least getting to enjoy a late-summer day by the lake while reading some Thoreau and drinking a couple beers.

  I see some dark clouds building off shore. I wonder if we’re in for a storm later this afternoon. That’d be nice in a way; something to break up the day. It wouldn’t do much for my fishing work, though.

  Speaking of which, I’ve had a couple nibbles, but nothing dramatic yet. I think the water closer to shore is still a bit too warm for the big suckers to come in close. No internet means no fishing report, and no fishing report means that this amateur caster is on his own when it comes to tips, tricks, and tidbits about the local fishing.

  I’ve just relocated from the stretch of mostly open lakeshore that borders my cabin to the more secluded and shaded wooded section of shoreline that borders the southern edge of my property. There are some rocky outcroppings here, and the nibbles have become more numerous around these spots. See, even if I don’t catch anything, I’ve learned something that I can carry with me moving forward. That progress makes me feel good even though the fish are currently outwitting me.

  3:13 p.m.

  Okay, I’m wrapping up my day of fishing a little early. Why? Because I caught something!

  Success!!!!!

  I feel VERY accomplished! I caught not just one fish but TWO!

  At around one this afternoon, I felt a tug on my line. After numerous such tugs throughout the morning, however, I knew better than to get my hopes up. But my spirits began to rise as the tugging continued and my line drew taut. And soon, the slow, steady, plodding battle of man against fish began, culminating in my first beautiful catch here at my lakeside homestead.

  I’m a bit rusty on my fish identification since there wasn’t much opportunity for plying this pastime back in Chicago. But I’m calling what I caught a nice “steelhead” that was about 12 inches. A few minutes after this, I caught a small walleye (I think). Whatever they are, they’re going to be enough for a good dinner, so I’m happy.

  For dessert, I stumbled upon a blackberry patch lining the shore near where I was fishing! I took about 15 minutes after I finished putting my fishing gear away to pick a couple pints of blackberries. The birds and insects had taken their toll on the crop, but I definitely got enough for tonight’s treat. A little sugar and some milk on them and I’ll be good to go! I have to be on the lookout for these guys earlier next year so I can get the cream of the crop before the birds do.

  See? With the berry patch, I learned something else during my fishing work that will act to sustain my existence here. I love it! With each little bit of new information I glean about making my homestead and my life here more self-sufficient, I feel more independent, more free, more alive!

  6:15 p.m.

  I’m sitting here inside my cabin at my small table for two eating my fish dinner and watching a rain storm roll in off the lake. It’s beautiful how the sheets of rain sweep from the clouds to sway across the lake like the fabric of window curtains blowing in a soft breeze. The water droplets are framed in a whiter shade of gray against the sky, caught in a momentary purgatory as they fall from the heavens to be absorbed by untold trillions of their brethren sloshing in the waves below. It makes me wonder if people are much different, dropped as if from heaven to be absorbed by a sea of humanity here on earth.

  On lighter topics, I’m thinking about getting a dog. It wouldn’t be an immediate acquisition since I’m still acclimating to my new digs. Maybe I’ll make the decision closer to wintertime. A good ‘ol hound dog; yes, I think that would work just fine. I’m going to need a good bed warmer, and I remember as a kid there being no better bed warmer than our hound dog Maggie. Plus, a dog is such a great companion. I think it could be a lot of fun for both of us to run wild together out here.

  Tonight I’m not so tired, but I feel good…invigorated! It’s been an easy yet productive day, and it’s the productive part that leaves me with that sense of accomplishment I love.

  August 31st

  6:57 a.m.

  I find it impossible to sleep late. While the environment here is great for late-morning snoozing – the solitude and peacefulness making for perfect bed partners – I just can’t seem to do it.

  It’s strange, I would have thought it would be the opposite, that I wouldn’t be waking until maybe nine or ten o’clock since I’m on my own schedule here; but instead, I often find myself lying in bed, wide awake by six, sometimes earlier. I guess that knowing the day is mine has a sort of motivation to it. I want to rise and seize the day rather than have the day seize me as it seemed to when I lived in Chicago.

  Today, added to my regular chores, is going to be target practice. This might not sound like much work, but there is definitely some work involved. I have to build a backstop for the bullets I fire so that I can gauge my accuracy. I brought with me a pump-action shotgun, a hunting rifle, and a handgun, along with a plethora of ammunition for each weapon, all of which I bought in the months leading up to my relocation.

  It’s not that I’m a gun nut or anything. But by moving out of the city, I saw the opportunity to arm myself with an array of weaponry since I wasn’t sure what I might be dealing with out here. Ironically, I feel safer and less in need of guns here than I did back in the city. But since I have them, I figure I might as well familiarize myself better with their handling and accuracy. I’ve shot before, but not in quite some time, so like my fishing, I’m a bit rusty and in need of some target practice.

  12:09 p.m.

  Woo!! That was a workout!

  I’m sure glad the soil near the lake is sandy. It made my work building the bullet backstop much easier. With some 2 x 4’s, a large piece of plywood, the support of several surrounding trees, and by positioning my backstop near a slight incline on my property, I’ve built a nice-sized stop that should work to block the bullets I fire.

  During my work digging sand for fill, I found a stone arrowhead. I’m thrilled with the discovery since it only adds to the wonder I feel regarding my new property. It makes me think about all the people who have been here before me, what they were doing, how they lived, and what this place might have looked like one hundred, two hundred, even three hundred years ago or more.

  Previously, I found a corroded and well-worn Indian head cent from 1879 when I was working to clear some overgrowth from a raised flower bed near my cabin. It gave me pause since I knew the cabin on the property had been built in the 1940’s. As I stood there pondering the coin and its history, I found my gaze lingering on the stone outline of the large planting bed in which I was working. It was then that I began to realize that the planting bed was not a planting bed at all but the remains of a foundation. While the realtor that showed me the property said nothing about the remains, I’m willing to bet that they are the foundation left from the first cabin constructed on the site. As I continued my work clearing the foundation turned planting bed, I also found several square-headed nails, a rusty hinge, and a 1919 Mercury dime.

  This experience, paired with the finding of the arrowhead, made me want to go buy a metal detector in hopes of making similar discoveries. But I quickly tempered this desire with the reasoning that scavenging the property, and in turn revealing some of the answers to the intrigue of my
site’s history, might only serve to diminish the magic it holds. Some things are better left to the imagination. Answers reveal the truth, pulling back the shrouds of mystery that veil the past. And sometimes the mind, left to its own devices, can create a far more interesting account (even if it is only fiction based on conjecture) than that of historical fact.

  So, for now, I’m content to fill in the blanks of my property’s history with my mind and the clues I discover along the way. Indian attacks against early settlers? Trading between basket-bearing Indians and wagon-loaded pioneers? A ship in distress landing on the lakeshore to be helped by area Indians? Or maybe those sailors were attacked and mercilessly slaughtered for their encroachment upon a sacred Indian burial site?

  They’re all possibilities as long as the mystery remains intact. And I like it that way.

  But for now, I’m hot, sweaty, and due for a dip in the lake to cool off before I try out my new weapons.

  2:27 p.m.

  That worked out well. Not only did my backstop perform exactly as intended, but I got to fire all my weapons until I felt completely comfortable with them, AND I met one of my neighbors.

  When I write “neighbor,” I use the term loosely. I’d say that there are maybe five other homes within a several mile radius of my own homestead. His name was Oscar Renson, and he came peaceable, yet curiously, to see what all the shooting was about. Once he saw my backstop and my array of guns and ammo laid out before me, he looked delightfully intrigued.

  “Had I known you had a shooting range here, I’d have brought a few of my own guns along,” he told me with a grin.