Get Pioneer Spirit
by
J.R. Salling
A tiny red glow in the morning mist identified
the precise location of our claim. For the better part of spring
break we three student historians had been camped at the edge
of the McKenzie Dairy Farm, busy trampling the ground cover
in the wooded strip between the pasture and the creek, and burning
everything else in an admittedly limited effort to live like
pioneers. On the whole we didn't really want plants in our woods,
nor insects, arachnids, snakes, bears — menaces all. If
the tree was big enough to block the sun, we figured, it could
remain unmolested. They take too long to die after they're girdled,
anyway.
I crawled out of my tent to see Jacob McKenzie,
whose father had agreed to our project, kneeling before the
fire pit, working a flint against a miniature tepee of kindling,
Yankton Sioux inspired I believe. A young, malnourished Grizzly
Adams, Jacob was the true survivalist of our trio, devising
rabbit traps, pointing out edible watercress, and packing enough
granola bars to keep us all regular for a month. You could have
tied nothing bigger than a jewelry box with the ribbon that
curled out of his combustible materials, but I had seen him
build them all week without any butane.
“Can I help you with that?”
“You could break up one of those branches,”
he replied.
Still barefoot, I moved toward the pile we had
collected with the cautious steps of someone who has good reason
to fear thorns and stag beetles, but stopped midway. “Do
you hear that?”
“What, the cow bells?”
“No.” I pointed to the second tent
with great emphasis, then crept closer to it. “Hey Carl!”
I barked. “You awake in there?” I yanked up one
of the flaps.
Carl fumbled with a pair of earphones in a pointless
attempt at removing them before discovery. They had become entangled
in his stringy hair, which always seemed to have a twig or two
in the mix.
“Check it out,” I announced, my voice
frosted with sarcasm. “He brought his tunes along.”
Jacob sprung to his feet and tossed the small
stick he had in his hand toward the tent. It bounced off without
serious mayhem. “What are you doing, Carl? Pioneers didn’t
have i-pods.”
“They had music,” he replied. To compound
the error he began to sing Camptown Races.
On the second doo-dah Jacob cut him off. “The
point of this exercise, asshole, is to live like they did in
the eighteen hundreds.” Then he turned to me. “Why
did we bring him along again?”
“Hey, he’s your roommate.”
Jacob sighed as he went back to work. “At
least get some clothes on and help us with breakfast.”
The advantage of living between farms was fresh
eggs and milk every morning. Although it mystifies me why everything
tastes better eaten with army surplus mess kits and a sprinkling
of soot.
“Sure thing, gentlemen, but first ... nature
calls.”
Carl slipped on his regulation button-fly jeans
and hand-made moccasins in record speed, a man on a mission.
“You Luddites can continue to live in the past if you
like,” he suggested before wading out into the mist. “But
I’m ready to return to civilization. I like technology
too much.”
We were in no mood to argue.
A moment later, while urinating, Carl became acquainted
in the rudest way possible with an electric wire, designed to
discourage cattle from straying out of the pasture. His cry
startled us. We spun around to witness him leap about as if
riding a bull, while emitting a steady stream of expletives
in the high pitch of a castrato, his wounded member still exposed.
I watched in amazement for a moment, then called
out, “What the hell did you do?”
With a smile that could have stretched across
the Mississippi, Jacob placed another small piece of wood on
the fire, from which individual flames began to pop out like
weasels. “I believe Carl has discovered that technology
can be one nasty son-of-a-bitch."
....
J. R. Salling is a classically
trained phlebotomist, currently on hiatus due to inexplicable
reoccurring episodes of hemophobia. His original cuneiform writings
were lost when the clay tablets were left out in the rain.
