Chapter one
There’s a breath of spring in the mid-March air as I head through the woods with my youngest two, Jack and Rose, to meet our new neighbor. I haven’t laid eyes on him yet, but what Jack told me was enough to give me pause, although I’ve learned to keep an open mind about these things.
“He hasguns,” Jack said with far too much relish when he spied our neighbor last week unloading his belongings from his trailer. He’d bought the parcel of land next to ours, once owned by Allie and Bill Hoffenberger, before a mudslide completely devastated their impressive homestead. They’ve gone back to California, and young Harrison—known to us as Obadiah—took up residence in the one-room cabin left behind, before hightailing it back to his cushy life in Boston just before Christmas.
My oldest daughter, Bethany, wasslightlyheartbroken about it all, but she’s since recovered and is back to dating another neighbor of ours, Ben Wilson. And now this new guy with the guns has moved in, and it’s time for me to meet him.
My husband, Josh, would normally accompany me on such a welcome visit, especially when the only salient fact we know about said neighbor is, as Jack said, that he has guns.Somany guns, apparently, Jack saw him unloading from his truck. Well, hopefully he won’t aim them at us, but since this is the wilds of West Virginia, who knows?
Seriously, though, I’m hoping this guy is just well-prepared for the homesteading life. Jack said he seemed friendly, and when Jack waved at him from the trees, he waved back. My just-turned-thirteen-year-old son wasn’t quite brave enough to step out and say hello, so that’s what we’re doing now. I’ve armed myself—pun intended—with various jars of jam and chutney, a loaf of homemade bread, and a pot of chicken stew as a way to welcome our new neighbor, guns and all.
We pick our way through the forest, the once well-trod path not quite so beaten down after the winter snows, and with us having no good reason to head over to the empty plot of land. The tiny, bright heads of crocuses are pushing their way through the damp black earth, which seems kind of amazing considering that just a few weeks ago, when we were making maple syrup, there was a good foot of snow on the ground.
A red-breasted robin flits from branch to branch above us, and I glance at Jack, who impressed me with all his knowledge about robins a few months ago. “Jack, what’s that bird?” I ask, pointing to one with a strip of blue along his back.
He shrugs, seemingly indifferent. “I don’t know.”
Well, at least he knew about robins, I think wryly as we continue walking through the woods. Homeschooling this last year has been a little hit or miss, but at least my kids have been learningsomething. William, at sixteen, is about to get his GED a year early, although that’s been way more up to him than me.
As we approach the Hoffenbergers’ property, I feel a flicker of apprehension. Just how many guns was Jack talking about? Andwhat kind of guns? Hunting rifles or more serious weaponry? Jackhasbeen known to exaggerate, but if we’ve got some trigger-happy backwoods redneck as our neighbor…
I step out into the clearing hesitantly, keeping Jack and Rose behind me, just in case. The cabin, I notice immediately, has changed quite a bit since I last saw it looking dilapidated and abandoned a few months ago, its front door hanging off its hinges and moss growing on the roof.
Now it’s a veritable hive of industry, the door fixed and the moss cleaned from the shingles; there’s smoke coming from the chimney and a shovel and a rake leaning by the front door. Our new neighbor has been busy. In the yard, I see that a smokehouse, an outhouse, and a woodshed have all been built, and he’s halfway through constructing a front porch, which for now comprises a few posts and half a floor.
As I take a step closer, the front door opens, and there he is, our new neighbor. He’s got a full head of unruly black hair and a bushy beard, and he’s wearing a plaid flannel shirt, canvas cargo pants, and work boots. He’s tall and burly and kind of reminds me of a bear. At least he’s smiling.
“Hi!” My voice comes out in something close to a squeak. “We’re your new neighbors.”
“I think I recognize you,” the man says to Jack, who ducks his head, shy for the first time in his life. “I’m Mike Landry.” He holds out one hand, and I balance my basket and crockpot on my hip to shake it.
“Abby Bryant, and these are my two youngest, Rose and Jack.”
“How long have y’all been living here?” Mike asks, rocking back on his heels as he gives us all a friendly but assessing look. I have the sense we come up slightly wanting, as though we’re not as hardy as he’d hoped. To be fair, he wouldn’t be wrong. We’ve all become more resilient and resourceful since moving toWildflower Valley, West Virginia, but the cushy suburbanite vibe hasn’t left us completely.
“Coming up on a year,” I tell Mike Landry. “We moved here from New Jersey to try our hand at sustainable living.”
“Sustainable living, huh?” he asks, sounding skeptical.
“Well, we’re not there yet,” I say quickly. I have a sneaking suspicion he’s had a gander at our homestead and decided we’re amateurs, which, to be fair, would be the truth. “Working our way slowly toward that goal,” I explain on a laugh.
“Ah.” He nods in understanding. “Well, the first thing you need to do, of course, is to be energy independent. That is, if you’re serious about going off the grid.” He gives us a meaningful look, as if he doubts our commitment.
“Ah, well…” Of course, in the homesteading world, there are plenty of hardcore acolytes who manage to live completely off the grid—they have their own well, electricity supply, and manage to source all their food themselves. They make their own clothesandlaundry detergent; they don’t even buy so much as a lightbulb. They basically live as if they don’t need money.
We are not those people. Not yet, and if I’m honest, almost certainly not ever.
“Are you hoping to be completely self-sustaining here?” I ask, and he snorts in awell-duhkind of way.
“That’s the plan,” he agrees. “Getting there.” He nods toward his various building projects. “Next up is a well and solar panels. And I’m going to be adding onto the cabin, of course. My plan is to be completely self-sufficient by the end of the summer. Because,” he finishes, his voice turning ominous, “you never know what’s coming. Or really, you do, but most people don’t want to face the reality of what’s heading toward us.”
I realize, somewhat belatedly, that I may have met my first honest-to-goodness prepper. “Well, yes,” I say after a moment. Iheft the basket of jars and the crockpot; my arms have started to ache. “Can I bring this inside?”
“Those are for me?” He sounds so surprised, I can’t help but smile.
“Just a way to welcome you to the neighborhood.”
“That’s very kind of you.” He relieves me of both and then ushers us toward the cabin. “You want to come in? I was just about to have some blue spruce tea.”
