c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(8-24)
Dr. Judson Baines had made a bold choice in piloting his Digger shuttle back to Planet Earth, and the remote locale of Evergreen Estates. It was a step taken in the interest of research and discovery. Things that had guided his life for years. He never spent much time pondering the mysteries of their universe from a theological perspective. Science was enough. What he could observe and study and measure, was real. Anything else, from antiquated concepts of faith and prayer, to political loyalties and tribalism, were beside the point of being alive. He was present and active as a scholar. Always watching his surroundings, free of prejudice. Without fear, but never short on hope.
Yet after realizing that he had stranded himself in a place forgotten by history and disconnected from mankind as a species, this cold tilt in his perceptions began to change. Wandering though vacant streets in the trailer community, he felt infinitesimally small. Insignificant and invisible. A mere grain of sand in a vast hourglass, counting away minutes in an eternity. Residents from the village of mobile homes had been desperate to escape the chaos of their own sins. Yet by surging forward to seek new vistas in the solar system, they scattered seeds that were necessary for sentient beings to survive. Their courage, however fleeting and ill-founded, kept the timeline constant.
Like settlers who originally populated the Americas, looking for free land, conquest, and opportunity, they unwittingly brought life to a new civilization on planets circling, afar. After escaping the judgment of guilt and consequences that they and their forebears rightly deserved.
Baines had landed in the midst of a graveyard, with the intention of peering at tombstones, and cataloging their inscriptions. Now, one etched with his own name could join the rest. In a sense, this fate would bring his bloodline fully back to where the circle had begun.
With his insides growling for sustenance, the university professor decided to hike along Pine Trail Road, toward the nearby township square. He reckoned that scouting the local landscape might be a useful diversion from thinking about his famished plight among the pines. And it would widen the scope of his mission. Something that was sure to yield genuine archaeological benefits. He strode up Sidley’s Hill, over what was left of the tarmac. Turning left and right from the centerline when necessary, to avoid spots where the hard surface had given way to incursions by nature. He basked in a golden glow from Old Sol, in the sky. Eventually, the heat made him short of breath, and dizzy. He had fallen out of condition, for going so long without a regular regimen of exercise. And so many skipped meals, in the interest of preserving his depleted stores of food. But determination kept him in motion. He refused to surrender.
Having crested the hill at what was once Route 528, he saw scattered debris and clusters of abandoned vehicles. Doors and hatches were open, tires deflated, and windshields cracked. Rust had spread without hindrance. Weeds and tall grasses surrounded the metal masses of junk. But beyond the intersection, he spied something else. A sight that revived his spirit with a burst of unbridled joy.
Wild corn, growing in a field located diagonally from where he stood!
He cried out in a fashion that was uncharacteristically humble and reverent.
“THANKS BE TO... GOD! IF THERE IS A GOD! AMEN!”
A light rain started to fall as he reached the agricultural boundary of this uncultivated field. Yet the drizzle only served to lighten his mood. He danced in and out of corn stalks, plucking ears here and there, for his synthetic backpack. Soon, he had stuffed the sack full of edible goods. The harvest would fill his belly, and bolster him in finishing the work at Evergreen Estates.
In the evening, he built a fire from discarded lumber that had been piled next door to his great-grandfather’s manufactured abode. He roasted the maize bounty eagerly, and consumed it while listening to a radio broadcast from Roosevelt Station. Once again, the unpredictable weather patterns had turned in his favor. The signal from Atlantia was clear and strong.
“Here’s an old favorite by Haywire Mac, the songwriter and performer Harry McClintock. ‘The Big Rock Candy Mountains!’ Sing along folks, I know you’ll recall the words!”
Dr. Baines thought that he remembered someone in his family twanging out a version of the tune, when he was very young. But he could not be certain. He listened intently while enjoying his improvised meal.
“One evening as the sun went down
And the jungle fire was burning
Down the track came a hobo hikin’
And he said, ‘Boys, I’m not turning
I’m headed for a land that’s far away
Besides the crystal fountain
So come with me, we’ll go and see
The Big Rock Candy Mountains’
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains
There’s a land that’s fair and bright
Where the handouts grow on bushes
And you sleep out every night
Where the boxcars all are empty
And the sun shines everyday
All the birds and the bees
And the cigarette trees
The lemonade springs
Where the bluebird sings
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.”
The professional educator smiled when hearing the word ‘boxcar.’ It reminded him of the prefabricated dwellings, some of which still had their wheels underneath. A sign that at least a few of the residents had intended to pull their homes out of the park. Though to what better destination, he could not imagine. With war and collapse touching every corner of the land, picking another site to set up camp would’ve made little difference.
Upon polishing off a half-dozen ears, he belched loudly. Then stood up on the outside porch.
“Okay old man, where did you hide the hooch? I’ve been here long enough. It’s time that I sampled your Tennessee liquor. Just one swig, my bloodstream isn’t accustomed to that kind of abuse...”
Baines rummaged through the cupboards until he found a sealed bottle. The contents were still brown and potent from aging. He twisted the stopper and took a swallow directly from the glass neck. Then coughed and fell backwards on his posterior.
“DAMNNNN, GREAT-GRANDPA, THAT STUFF REALLY PACKS A PUNCH! YOUR TASTE BUDS MUST HAVE BEEN MADE OUT OF IRON!”
He fell asleep that night while dreaming verses of the Haywire Mac classic. Visions of tobacco smoke and echoes of hillbilly music filled his head. He had likely reached the conclusion of his stay at the rural development, poking around in the rubble. Now, he needed to make an important decision.
What should he do next – go off traipsing around the continent, or even, the globe, or find a way to get home to Mars?
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