The Collapse CLXIX: Branches

26 September 20XX+1

My Dear Lucilius:

Today I took a walk up the road that leads to the North.

I have not been up this road in at least three months, not since I rode in a truck over the hill towards McAdams. For walking up the road it has been even longer.

It is a funny thing, heading out now. Beyond just the things that I would have always brought – my wallet, perhaps a pocket knife – I now sport other things: a much larger knife on my belt on one side and a holster on the other, a backpack that has the makings of fire and bandages and a small snack, and a foldable saw, a water bottle stuffed into the side. I recently I have taken to carrying a small coil of rope around to make a bundle of any and all wood that I can find.

The road itself looks as it always had; one could scarcely tell that the civilization went on pause a year ago, except for the fact that the weeds which would normally have been cut down have reached full grown now. Brown and dry, they chatter in the Autumn wind. 

 We were fortunate not to have any fire this year. The fact that we could haunts me, one of the things I cannot truly prevent except to work to cut down the weeds in a defensible space all around The Cabin. It seems like senseless work at times, this cutting of vegetation that is neither for food nor fuel. Still, senseless work is not always the same thing as useless work.

I pass one of the outlying houses as I am on my way. A small herd of cattle is in one of the fields nearby so the house has to be inhabited, but I am far enough away that I cannot make out any sign that it is. I presume, given the presence of cattle, that someone is watching me even if I cannot see them; I raise my hand in greeting to my unknown watcher. If they see me, there is no sign back.

The seasonal campgrounds where I did my laundry for years on on my left. Beyond our flow of refugees last year, there has been no-one that used the space: without electricity there is no heating things like trailers or RVs or tents, and without heat no-one stays here in Winter. The paint is a little faded – it was in a decline even in the last few years as our town became a place to drive through, not to stay – but surprisingly to me, the windows appear to all be intact. To my mind I cannot recall whether there is anything left inside the office/store, or even if the last owners that were there had simply left last year and not come back. I make a note in my mind to ask Young Xerxes about it upon my return; the supplies would be welcome and to be frank, I eye the wood of picnic tables and benches that are weathered but likely would burn right fairly.

Past the campground I pick up at the local creek with the eponymous trees lining its banks. The creeks, rivers, streams, and rills always seem to run here – a handy thing in that for all that we have endured in the last year and a bit, the loss of water has not been one of those issues (to be fair, it was one reason I chose this location). Trees have more or less lined the way here periodically, but these trees are far enough away that later in Winter they will not be as readily accessible; better to get the wood now.

Carefully picking my way through a sagging fence of rusty-red wire, I start my search. Within in a few minutes, I find two or three branches I can cut and carry back with me; pulling out my saw, I get to work.

Ideally I would have an ax to do this, as sharpening saw teeth is a bit beyond my skill level – but given that I have no transportation other than my legs, anything that cannot be bundled and carried on a back or shoulder simply becomes unachievable. I can shoulder a small bundle of branches; I can only carry a very few logs.

The branches make a raspy cutting sound as I saw them, a combination of wood and sawdust and metal that I remember from when I had to trim tree branches back in the days when I had a very different life and was perched up on a ladder. It is odd to me that it seems like a different life entirely.

As I cut and remember, it brings to mind my children. I wonder where they are in all of this. Are they safe? Are they somewhere they are protected? It is all beyond my ability to change at this point; those choices were made long before this day. Still, I worry.

I speak to Pompeia Paulina about them sometimes. She always listens attentively and says the kindest and most positive things. Part of me wishes that they could meet her and vice versa. Part of me wonders about the wisdom of that: the last conversations we had were what could only be called contentious, although I wonder that given the world that we all now seem to live in, if those things would even be worthy to consider being talked about.

The stillness between finishing with each branch is almost breathtaking. One of the greatest differences I find in our changed world is how much silence there truly is. Man-made noise – the roar of autos or the drone of mowers and weed eaters and the sounds of music – are discordant in this world; it immediately draws attention to itself in a way that is both intrusive and dangerous. One begins to understand while natural world is so often filled with silence: noise is deadly and potentially life ending.

Finishing my cuts, I carefully wipe down the saw with a rag in the bag to remove all the sawdust, then fold it gently and replace it in my backpack. Like so many things now it is effectively irreplaceable – or even if it could be replaced, what would I offer for it? Laying the cut branches into a stack, I tie my cord around them, making a bundle I can sling over my shoulder. Repacking my pack, I hoist it and the branches up and make my way back to the road.

The dead grasses crunch as I make my way back to the road, where they transition to a short crunch of gravel before they hit the less yielding ground of pavement. Overhead I hear the chanting of flocks of birds, heading to their Winter quarters. I wonder if they realize that for the first time in almost 200 years, likely they can fly most or all of the way there without seeing a single human or hearing the below of a single rifle or shotgun.

The trip back is as silent as the trip out. As I pass the cattle, I see a figure now standing by the tree. They wave at me; I wave back. People waved here before any of this started on the roads as one would drive by; the fact that they still do it is a bit heartening.

Hitting the gravel road that leads home, my feet start crunching again. The creek in front of the house burbles as it runs by, an occasional “plop” suggesting a fish that is after the encroaching insect population. I have tried to manage my fishing here, reserving it for when things are truly desperate and I need a food source outdoor.

A thin trail of smoke leaks from the chimney, dissipating into the breeze as I turn into the lot The Cabin sits on. This remains the one thing I worry about in terms of the appearance of habitation and for which I do not have a good solution yet; perhaps I can bank the fire lower and still generate some heat.

I am hopeful that something exciting is on the menu, but in my heart I know it likely be the same selection of things that we have had for the last few months. I am grateful for it of course, even as I am grateful for the company that will serve it and eat it with me.

It is the small things that we must look to, Lucilius, for joy in these times.

Your Obedient Servant, Seneca