by D A Carey
Dave talked about a time when people got together to cook at home and can vegetables, make jelly, or sew clothing. Much of the time people didn’t do those things because they were poor; they did it to hang on to valuable skills of previous generations. They did it for the pride of doing something themselves and for the fun of creating something unique. Liz was thoroughly enjoying the conversation and wasn’t merely agreeing to be polite, but because she genuinely understood. She interjected comments about her own family and upbringing, and Dave was encouraged to share more of his thoughts, hopes, and plans.
Their talk came so natural and easy that Dave eventually took her to see the mines and show her the vast reserves of supplies deep underground.
Liz was in awe of the immenseness of it all. “My God,” she breathed. “Will this community actually consume that much food?”
“No, not unless we are here for a very long time and don’t produce our own. In that case, this is merely a place to die comfortably. That’s not the plan. This food is here to help others. It could even be for other communities outside our own that fall on tough times. If other people are trying to do the right thing and preserving law and order and morality in a world gone crazy, we want to help them. By doing that, we are helping ourselves.”
“So, are you saying you’ve built the world’s largest post-apocalyptic soup kitchen?” Liz teased with a sparkle in her eye.
It was easy for Dave to see why millions fell in love with her on screen. “I guess I never thought of it that way. We always take care of our own first. So yes, maybe it is exactly like you say. Don’t tell my other investors, though,” he said with his own twinkle in the corner of his eye.
He pointed to the mountains rimming the huge South Park valley. Liz followed his gaze. Off in the distance, she saw huge windmills turning at a brisk pace. “Those are ultra-efficient wind turbines that provide a great deal of power for this charter town,” Dave told her. “I always intended for each one to be green, both to lure investors and because those technologies are most sustainable if the SHTF. I expect each community will have a different strength in sustainable energy options. In this location, the wind is constant and strong, leading to a surprising amount of wind energy we can harness. When you couple that with solar options, geothermal and another idea or two I have up my sleeve, this community could be completely energy self-sufficient under several different scenarios.”
Liz came across so genuine and into the plan that Dave decided to show her some of the ex-Special Forces men and women who were training in another area. This was the part that Dave was most worried would scare people. He did notice Liz hesitate when she saw them, so he explained that these people were meant to be security for the people and communities and not a private army. They were the leadership cadre of security folks and trainers that would be stationed at each community. Every one of them had met a key criterion in the hiring process; they each wanted to eventually move back home in one of the charter towns near where they were from or wanted to live. Dave didn’t want mercenaries. As some of the men and women left for communities that were closer to completion, other ex-military people would be hired and trained for new locations still on the drawing board.
“It makes me feel good that we can find well-paying jobs for these veterans and send them back home to support their friends and family. I’m a strong supporter of our military, both during and after their service to our country, and proud of it. They’ve given so much for us, it suits my sense of capitalism that I can do this without making it a handout. They get solid high-paying jobs, and they help me secure my investment and turn a profit. It’s important to find a way to do things that build, grow, and give back at the same time. It’s not that hard if you try. If our friends in government could live by the same principals, this entire endeavor would have never been needed.”
Liz shuddered when she reflected how they might need those veterans to make sacrifices similar to what they had overseas here in their own home communities if things got bad.
***
Later, after Liz left and Dave was in his truck, he reached over to turn on the news, then changed his mind. He’d grown tired of the news. Sports weren’t fun anymore, either. He turned on talk radio, and the host, Bill Anderson, was in the middle of a discussion.
“For the actors, actresses, and sports figures to use their platform to pontificate on their perceived injustices doesn’t make sense. If the NFL or NBA wants to use their celebrity to preach, let them. However, the federal, state, and local governments should not be subsidizing sports. It’s obscene that men making millions get tax breaks when a single mother of three making thirty grand a year can’t get a break. The hope is that enough American people will stop watching and buying merchandise to hurt the bottom line of theses sports…
“I call on the professional sports leagues to give up all your tax breaks and subsidies at all levels—federal, state, and local. Give up the stadium deals and tax loopholes and pay taxes like the rest of us. In return, we will make sure our public officials direct at least seventy-five percent of those tax revenues toward an approved social program they choose for the next ten years. Not having tax loopholes and sweetheart deals might mean that a commissioner would make thirty million a year instead of forty. It might mean that an athlete might make twenty million instead of twenty-five.”
Bill was called a sellout, racist, and hater for issuing the challenge. What was most interesting was that no one talked seriously about accepting the challenge. Apparently, they enjoyed their protests and notoriety more than they honestly wanted to solve a problem. In a final chapter of insanity on the topic, when some of the few legitimate reporters remaining in the profession questioned these athletes as to what specific change they were asking for, problem they wanted to fix, or what program they would fund, all they got in response were curse words, anger, and shouts of racism.
<< Liz >>
Liz was tired from all the travel and was happy to be home in Kentucky relaxing. These visits made her feel conflicted. She loved it here, understanding this was the wellspring that replenished her and helped make her successful. While she enjoyed the normalcy of being with her family, Liz also knew she was becoming increasingly acclimated to star treatment. She wasn’t ashamed to admit she liked it. Thankfully, Liz was smart and well-grounded enough to keep from crossing any lines to becoming considered hard to work with. It was easy to tell how some people could turn into divas before they even recognized it. Because she didn’t want to end up that way, her trips to Kentucky were all that much more important. Sometimes maintaining her values wasn’t easy. The road to Hell was paved with good intentions.
“Young lady, your mind is a million miles away,” Grandma Jean said as she was cleaning up the kitchen.
Liz snapped out of her reverie. She’d been churning through everything she’d seen and learned regarding Dave’s opportunity. She agreed to buy into a home high in the Colorado Mountains. Avoiding the trips home was getting easier when she got busy, partly because as she developed relationships with her friends in show business, she felt justified in planning leisure time with them, too. Her trips away from the business replenished her body and soul. The Colorado location and type of people going there might be exactly what she needed. Liz did feel a pang of regret thinking that, if things truly did hit the fan and she did need to get away, shouldn’t she be with her family?
“Grandma, what do you think about all these people who think we’re living in the end times or an apocalypse is coming?”
“Honey, it’s always something. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“So you don’t think all this stuff is based on anything? Chaos isn’t coming?” Liz asked hopefully. She always trusted Grandma Jean’s advice implicitly.
“No, honey. That’s not it at all,” Grandma Jean said, sitting down at the kitchen table to focus on Liz. “Bad things happen all the time. But good people always rise to the top and overcome. This family is made of strong stuff.
If something happens, you’ll do well. We’re survivors. What I mean is that you can’t live your life in fear. You can’t live like the end of the world is coming to such an extent that you forget to thrive in the one we have now.”
“So, you do think something bad is going to happen?” Liz asked in surprise.
“Honey, why are you twisting yourself in knots over this? I can’t say something bad will happen or won’t. I just know that the world turns and things change. We can’t guess what the good Lord has in store for us. Things have always changed throughout history. The peace and prosperity we’ve experienced in this country is not normal for the world. The good Lord has always given people challenges to overcome. I don’t know why He gives us so many trials and evil people to overcome, though. It’s not my place to second guess His plan. Things happen, and good people pull together and get through it. They always have and always will. You have to keep your faith. That’s just the way of the world. It’s good to have friends and family when things aren’t going so well.”
“I guess that means everything will be okay.”
Grandma Jean let out a big belly laugh. Her whole frame shook, her eyes twinkled, and her cheeks got red. “Honey, that certainly does not mean everything will be okay. It means that things will happen as a part of the Lord’s plan. While I have faith that’s good on the whole, sometimes it’s not so good for an individual person or the country.”
“That sounds terrible,” Liz said, surprised Grandma Jean could be so happy with a plan that may mean many of their friends and family could die.
“I suppose it is if you’re that person that loses a limb, a life, or a child in service of a larger plan we can’t possibly know or understand. That’s where faith comes in.”
“Then why even try if it’s all preordained?”
“Just because the Lord knows what you will do doesn’t absolve you of the responsibility to fight for what’s right. We have to band together to build and persevere. That’s what good people do. Good people build in times of prosperity and preserve in times of struggle. Bad people tear people and communities apart and sow dissension and destruction.”
“That sounds like something Dave Cavanaugh would say.”
“Think about it from an old woman’s point of view,” Grandma Jean said. “It wasn’t that long ago that we had the Cold War. People were worried about nuclear war. When we had the Cuban missile crisis, people were building bunkers to live in. There is actually a cute Brendan Fraser movie about those times. Before that we had two world wars. My mother told some horrendous stories about the Great Depression. And don’t forget, it wasn’t too many generations ago we had the Civil War. So think about this; is it possible those events were glancing blows to the United States in terms of hard times? It’s like a hurricane that hits a hundred miles away and gets you all wet but you’re spared the mass destruction of the center. We’ve had it pretty good in this country, better than a lot of places. I hope it continues for many generations to come, but you never know. We can’t live in fear, though, and forget to enjoy what we have. I figure that’s what you’re doing in your career.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re thriving in the bounty of all the safety and progress we’ve made in the world. When I was a girl, acting was only beginning to be respected. In my grandmother’s time, it was thought of as a low profession. Stage acting or plays have always been a poorly compensated vocation. It’s been that way for hundreds of years. Now because of the wealth in this country, we can afford to put you on film to millions of people so they can see your beautiful face making stories come to life. When or where in the history of the world has it ever been possible to do what you do with the amount of pay and respect you receive?”
“I didn’t know you thought about my work that way,” Liz said, somewhat confused.
“Don’t get me wrong, honey. I love what you do. You’re one of the best there’s ever been. I’m so proud of you I could bust. You need to keep in mind, though, that I have the perspective of an old woman. Everything is temporary, and things always change. We can’t get too high and proud of ourselves, or too low. If you were so worried about all the bad things that might happen in the world and you didn’t follow your dreams, then what would you be depriving the world of?”
“Grandma Jean, I have some friends I’ve been talking to. They want me to invest in some projects related to prepping and planning for the future. It’s a good moneymaking thing, and it’s a good option in case something bad happens. Is that crazy?”
“Well, I don’t know about investments, and I’m sure you have people that could give you better advice than me. I suppose some people made a lot of money selling bomb shelters during the Cuban missile crisis. Heck, there was probably someone selling things during the World Wars, the same as people profited during the Civil War. You need to be careful the people you’re involved with are of high character, though. Nothing in this world, even safety and security, is worth mortgaging your good name or soul for.”
“This is different. This is like investing in companies that build wood stoves and windmills and teach archery and canning as well as other traditional skills that people can enjoy now and still have in case they are needed later. It’s like you and your quilting. They will also have housing communities and farms as well, like the orchard and hobby farm up the road.”
“Well, I don’t know how profitable all that is. I’ve done most of that stuff all my life and never got rich. If people knew how to do those things, though, they’d be a lot more self-reliant than they are now. Still, my fingers hurt too much anymore to quilt. I do miss it. I would love to teach it to you when we have time. Most of those skills you talk about we’ve been doing right here for a long time.” Grandma Jean’s eyes clouded over for a moment, lost in her memories. “If bad things ever do happen, I hope you remember that your home is here. We have our own food and supplies, and you’ll be safe.” Grandma Jean wrapped Liz in a hug. “As for those communities,” she held Liz at arm’s length and looked her in the eyes, “I love the farms and the u-pick ‘em places with peaches and strawberries, although I don’t know if I could live that close to all the other families. It sounds like a cross between a sixties-style commune and some old western fort from the Indian days.”
“That’s exactly how Mr. Cavanaugh described it.” Liz chuckled.
“You mean that good-looking man from TV?” Grandma Jean asked in surprise.
“That’s him! You’d like him, Grandma. He’s a lot like you, and he is dashing in person.”
“Oh, pshaw.” Grandma Jean turned to put away some dishes so Liz wouldn’t see her blush. “Don’t you go teasing me like that, child. I haven’t wanted a man since your grandfather died.”
“I only said you’d like him is all,” Liz said.
“Well, don’t you worry about me, honey.” Grandma Jean glanced over her shoulder at Liz, the color rising in her cheeks, and asked hesitantly, “So, is he really dashing?”
Independence
“Our constitution was made only for a moral and religious people. It is wholly inadequate to the government of any other.”
- John Adams
Chicago, IL
Adnan Khan owned a small shop about halfway between the Miracle Mile and Chicago Midway Airport. He had emigrated from Pakistan in his twenties. When he got his green card at thirty-three, it was the third proudest moment of his life behind the birth of his sons. Life in America was not paved with gold and as easy as people in his home country thought. He worked long hours in a shop he owned below his small apartment that was not much larger than a rich man’s closet. He sold everything from t-shirts to potato chips and repaired cell phones as well.
It had been difficult when there were four in the small apartment. Now he was alone, his wife having died a decade earlier from cancer and both his sons moving on with their own lives. Adnan was immensely proud of the college degrees both boys earned after much hard work. They were contributing to
the American dream and blending in to this melting pot the right way.
Adnan had seen much violence in his life back in his native country and again living in some of the rougher areas of Chicago. He had experience blending in and avoiding trouble and felt no shame in hiding. Adnan wasn’t a fighter. It wasn’t that he was a pacifist; it was that he wasn’t a strong man and had seen so much fighting and death he knew you couldn’t win them all.
The riots sweeping the city were lasting longer than he could remember before. The shop wasn’t making any money, so he pulled down the heavy steel shutters and locked up and took two cardboard boxes of junk food up to his small apartment. While he may not eat well or even very healthy, he would not starve. The electricity had been off for a couple days so he could only read by candlelight. Other residents of the building had left days earlier when the power went out. He dared not light a candle for long for fear the rioters would see and try to break in. Adnan saw people ravaged on the streets with little or no police response.
Peeking through a slit in the second floor shutters, Adnan saw a mob of perhaps fifty people on his block. Some were fighting and some were drunk. He was sure many were from the local gang. It wasn’t clear if they were fighting with each other or brutalizing a new victim. He heard glass crashing against the building and assumed it was only beer bottles until he heard the whoosh of flames that told him it was a Molotov cocktail. Adnan prayed it would go out or the mob would leave before the flames came to his apartment.
His prayers went unanswered. The smoke began filling his tiny apartment. Adnan tried to open to steel shutters to go down the fire escape but had to duck back inside when shots were fired in his direction and pinged off the rising steel shutter. He knelt by the window, desperately gasping for a lungful of fresh air while the thugs howled with glee and drank and shot toward his window. He prayed for the sound of a fire engine or police sirens. He never heard anything more than the crackling flames, the whooshing of smoke, and the laughter of the gang as they fired gunshots at this window before the smoke overtook him and he lost consciousness.
