Deliveries (Cumberland Saga)

The first “package” arrived the Thursday after New-Year’s Day.

The motion-activated sensor pinged in Sig’s and Roger’s homes at 1:53 PM. Somebody was coming up the poorly maintained two-track that led to the compound. They were not expected.

Sig was standing near the top of the drive when the ten-year-old, Dodge, 4-wheel-drive diesel truck cleared the tree-line and broke into the opening that housed the Copperhead Cove compound. Even though it was only ten years old, it clearly showed a lot of very hard miles.

The driver who stepped out matched his truck, not very old by the calendar but with a lot of miles on the odometer.

“Jerome asked me to drop off a tool box on my way to Asheville” the man said, pointing at the back of his truck.

Looking in the back of the truck, Sig saw a multiple-drawer tool-box on rollers. He recognized the nameplate riveted to the end of the box as one of his nephews. Jerome was in Cincinnati. Realizing that the driver had probably jogged 100 miles out of his way, Sig said “Thank-you from the bottom of my heart. Do you need a place to stay over-night or can we feed you?”

“No, I am sure I can make Asheville before dark if I get back on the road. Just yank out the box and let me be on my way.” the man with the heavy, dark beard said. “My job starts tomorrow and I don’t want to miss any hours. Work has been hard to come by.”

Sig looked over at his wife and said “Make him four ham sandwiches to take with him.”

Calling out to Roger who was snuggled down behind cover 40 yards from the truck, Sig said “Roger, start up the tractor and bring the slings”

Looking over at Blain, who had wandered over when he realized that something unusual was “going down”, Sig said “Help Roger get this tool-box out of the truck. You might learn something.”

And then Sig went stalking off. He was like that.

Roger gave Blain a quick lesson on slings-and-rigging. He showed him how to use chokers to snug up loops and in less than ten minutes had yanked Jerome’s 400 pound tool-box out of the bed of the gentleman’s truck.

Five minutes later Jerome's friend was directed around the loop at the end of the drive so he could drive down the steep, rocky two-track to the public road in relative safety. He had a brown paper bag containing four ham sandwiches, a loaf of bread, a pint of pear preserves and a quart of apple-sauce and quarter-pound of crispy, fried bacon. And he had a quart jar of clear, high-proof liquid suitable for Molotov Cocktails or sedating jangled nerves, whichever was most appropriate in the moment.

Jerome’s friend who drove the Dodge was just the first of many. Within a week, it was a rare day when two-or-three deliveries were not made to Copperhead Cove.

Sig’s letter had resonated.

Tool boxes and bags of seeds for pastures. Solar powered electric fence energizers and wire. Solar panels and electrical controllers. DC powered, drum wool-carders and bobbins for spinning-wheels and garden seed.

Coils of rope and baling twine, rolls of chicken wire and fabric and bird-netting and floating row-covers. Needles, thread, thimbles and magnifying glasses. Pallets of used solar panels and DC technology appliances and pumps.

It was an embarrassment of riches. Sig did not have enough places to put the unexpected riches.

Blain listened to Sig grumble about the seemingly unfocused deluge of "cargo". Specifically, Sig was pointing at the floating row-covers as "yuppy, feel-good junk".

By now, Blain had worked with Sig long enough to push back a little bit. "Ya know, I watch Sarah cutting cabbage for slaw or for soup and she spends a lot of time cleaning out the bug-poop. Either that, or she ends up throwing out a third of the head. Either way, that is a lot of waste. If those "floating row covers" keep the caterpillars off the cabbage, I would say it was worthwhile."

In a moment of self-awareness that Blain had not realized that Sig was capable of, Sig said "I ain't bitchin' because I think it is a bad idea. I am bitchin' 'cause I ain't comfortable receiving charity."

Blain, Sig and the others switched from cutting the downed timber into firewood chunks to pulling an old, portable sawmill out of storage and cutting boards for constructing sheds.

Once again, Blain suffered cognitive whiplash at the seemingly instantaneous change in direction. He had yet to realize that Sig (and Roger) were consummate chess players who were always thinking two or three moves ahead of the actual game. To Blain, it was instantaneous. To the others, it was the switching of rail to a slightly different pre-planned path.

Had Blain been privy to Sig’s thoughts, he would have been surprised to learn that Sig was more than alarmed by the largess.

Five short years ago, Sig had been one of the men from Copperhead Cove working construction where ever the work took him. It only took a glance for Sig to realize that he tool boxes that were showing up were not the men’s “back-up” tools but their main tool boxes.

To one degree or another, Sig knew each of these men personally. They were all wise in the ways of the woods. Where a city-man might only see fallen leaves, these men could see where the deer had passed, scuffling up the leaves. They could estimate the number of deer and assess their emotional state. Given a bit of information of the lay of the land and where other hunters were, they could even make accurate estimates of the life-spans of the deer in the passing herd.

These were not men who spooked easily.

The men sending their tool-boxes to Copperhead Cove were not hedging a bet and buying some arcane, academic option or taking advantage of an inexpensive way to store tools they had no need of.

They were, serious as a heart-attack, planning on landing in Copperhead Cove to sit-out the duration.

And that had implications for Blain.

“I think it is time for you and me went squirrel hunting” Sig said to Blain.

Blain looked up from his task, surprised. He didn’t know Sig was a squirrel hunter.

Roger interjected, “If Sig wants to go squirrel hunting with you, I highly recommend that you go.”

Blain felt foolish toting the old, Crossman 2100 pellet gun while Sig carried an old, pump, 20-gauge shotgun.

Sig was not one to beat around the bush. “My gut tells me that we are going to have a lot of company dropping in on us over the next few months. Folks we ain’t got room to house.”

Blain cocked an eyebrow in a “What does this have to do with me?” question.

“I ain’t about to kick you outta here. You earned your place. But if some of these guests have kids...and I am betting that a lot of them do...then the proper thing to do is for you to let them have the CONEX and we find another place for you to sleep” Sig said.

For the tiniest fraction of a second the thought surged in Blain’s mind that he would not mind sharing a bed with Sarah...and then he realized that he hadn’t earned THAT, yet.

Sig saw the passion surge in Blain’s face and then recede. Blain’s voice was curiously flat and without emotion. “What do you have in mind?”

“That ain’t for me to solve. First, you gotta decide if you are going to do the right thing and let that family and kids move into your CONEX.” Sig said.

“If you do the right thing, then I think the family moving into the CONEX oughta kick in a few dollars to make sure you aren’t sleeping under the stars...or in the rain” he said.

They trudged onward, squirrels forgotten. Blain was sure that if he DIDN’T choose to do “the right thing” he would not be welcome in Copperhead Cove. Blood is thicker than water, especially for people like Sig and Sarah.

"So what are you saying?” Blain asked.

“Figure out what it will cost to knock together an 8-foot-by-12-foot hut good enough to spend the rest of the winter in or to get a van-body towed up here” Sig said. “Somebody shows up with kids they will be thrilled to get the CONEX for that price. If somebody shows up without kids, you keep the CONEX and they get the hut or van.”

It only took Blain a second to realize that the van was the better option purely because it was turn-key and had none of his time invested in it.

“Are you OK if I just look at getting the van?” Blain asked.

Sig nodded his OK.

A moment later he said “See if you can get a volume discount. We might need five of them, if only to have places to store things...”