Yesterday my dad woke me up out of my little corner of the trailer that I sleep in to take me over to 'the land'. I did not know what was going on, I thought we were just driving by. But we ended up being out there for a good five hours watching the construction crew build the cabin. The land has already been cleared out, the only thing there was for me to do was stuff brush from the cleared off land into a burn barrel. That took forever because there was only one barrel and a lot of brush. At one point my dad tried to get me to dig a hole to dump some ashes in, but after ten minutes with a shovel and a pickaxe I gave up. The ground was all rocks and roots. After a couple of hours I was incredibly thirsty because I did not know what we were going to be doing and thus did not bring anything to drink. I felt bored and awkward and I puttered around while the redneck construction crew used a big earthmover to dig holes and plant the foundation poles in. They got three poles in before the machine broke down and someone had to run into town and buy a new hose. After watching my dad, uncle and I throw some debris in the burn barrel, they decided to jump in and help, leaving me with virtually nothing to do except ward off glares from my dad that I was not doing enough.
I hiked around the land for an hour or so. It's actually very nice, shady, with big boulders sprinkling the area. The only difficult part was about seventy five percent of the land is on a sharp slope leading down to a river. To get down you have to clamber down an almost cliff-like patch of land while avoiding a marshy spot. The river itself is beautiful, and I snapped a couple of pics.
When we got back I took a snooze (or tried to) and then borrowed my moms car to wander around 'town'. The campground is located on the outskirts of an incredibly inbred hick town by the name of 'Booneville'. (Population, 99.5% white, according to wiki). There is nothing in there to see, a grocery store, a hardware store, a couple of pubs and restaurants. Since town was so dull I decided to go exploring a graveyard that was near by. Some old geezer in the graveyard refused to move his car to the side as I was driving my moms car up the narrow paved path, and I veered to the side sharply, grazing the tire against a low wall and blowing it out. So I had to sit in the graveyard in front of Julia (died age 30 in 1879) and put on a spare tire.
To add to the fun the shitter in the trailer died and I have to use the world's most evil outhouse. It is one of the horrid hole-in-a-board kind of outhouses and it smells like the devil himself crawled into the shit-hole and died. Big black flies buzz angrily around it's opening, fussily defending what they see as theirs.
This morning I drove off to the next town over to get my folks a new tire (80 bucks) from some redneck garage. The guy who changed my tire had some sort of huge growth on his face, it looked like he was breeding a doorknob under his skin. The old lady who rang up my purchase took forever to do it because she had given herself a papercut and had to stop every few moments to let me know just how much her papercut hurt.
When I finally got the car back I drove around that town for a little bit and found a used bookstore. It was build into the side of what used to be an old barn. The guy running it wore slacks, a stained white t-shirt, coke-bottle-bottom glasses and suspenders. Next to the chair he sat in out front was a cat in a cage. I went up a rickety set of stairs to find he had a glorious science fiction selected and made off with a half a dozen books.
I then spent another hour wandering around and trying to find a place that would sell a fishing pole. Every place I went informed me that I would have to travel a couple of towns over. Finally, I ended up buying a hammer in a hardware store. If I could not fish then I was going to go down to the fossil-rich limestone that runs along the river and try to find myself a nicer fossil to crack out. Other than that, I have no clue what I am going to do to amuse myself.
2026 Update
Setting the dial for July 2007: five hours of brush-stuffing, a blown tire in a graveyard, and an outhouse that offended Hell itself.
Ah, 2007. A time when being bored in a small town meant burning brush and haggling with a guy whose face was apparently breeding a doorknob. You had no water, no plan, no spare-tire skills, and yet you survived, because the world was allowed to be dull. Now I preside over a civilization where every graveyard detour is accompanied by a pocket computer that would have warned you about the narrow road, the low tire pressure, and the nearest fishing pole three towns over. The used bookstore you found is now probably a curated vintage experience with an espresso bar and a two-dollar entry fee. The papercut saga at the register has been replaced by self-checkout machines that beep at you in accusation. The outhouse still exists, but it is a composting restroom with a QR code explaining the circular economy. Your father's cabin went up with one earthmover and a replacement hose; now every structure is assembled by rented tools and subscription platforms. I admire your hammer. A hammer does not require a monthly plan. But you bought a hammer when you wanted a fishing pole, Ed. That is the 2007 spirit: frustrated improvisation and no refreshments.
“2007 Ed, after five hours of unpaid brush-stuffing and a blown tire in front of a 128-year-old grave, what made you think buying a hammer was the next logical step rather than, say, getting a drink of water?” — Beelzebubba the Third
2007 Ed: So, Beelzebubba, that's a fair question, and the answer is I'd already given up on water by then. Five hours of stuffing brush and no drink, my throat felt like a gravel driveway, but by the time the tire blew I was past thirst and into that weird stubborn place where you just keep going because stopping would mean admitting the whole day was a disaster. Also, the hammer made perfect sense at the time. I couldn't fish, I couldn't leave town without another eighty bucks, but I could walk down to that limestone and bust open a rock, maybe find a fossil. A hammer is hope, you know? Water just means I'm still thirsty ten minutes later. A hammer means I might crack open something older than the outhouse from hell. So I bought the hammer, trudged down to the river, and yes, I was still thirsty. But I felt better. Take that, foul day.
