Often I’ve talked about how quiet it is here on The Mountain — and it most certainly is — but it’s far from silent. Wind whispers in tall trees, birds call to each other, cicadas and crickets buzz just to hear themselves buzz, squirrels complain loudly.
Every now and then, we hear the cry of a hawk or an eagle. When night falls, coyotes howl.
Nearby neighbors’ dogs bark. From down in the valley comes the mooing of beef cattle and the crowing of roosters.
We’re not completely cut off from sounds of the civilized world, like the Jakes rapping out on Route 62. The faint hum of Butterball west of town. Backup beepers on heavy equipment clearing land for a house. The drone of light planes ferrying guests to and from fishing resorts on the White.
On Friday nights during the summer months, the roar of engines at the racetrack in the valley, miles away. The grumble of a diesel as a delivery truck struggles up The Mountain.
The crack of gunfire — ah, the sweet sound of Liberty.
So no, our humble patch of Ozarkansas isn’t totally silent. But if you left the urban or suburban place where you likely live and work and play, and you came here to visit, I can confidently predict one of the first things you’d say.
“It’s sooooo quiet….”
We get that a lot.
Checking the calendar, it’s now been 12 weeks since the last time I watched television news. We don’t have cable like we had for all those months at the campground, and though I can stream Fox News or NewsMax or whatever, I don’t.
What I choose to consume, I read.
As I’ve said before, I’m not doing this intentionally. It’s not a boycott or some sort of media-fast. It’s merely a by-product of the life I live. And that’s not without effect.
I have better things to do these days.
There’s the work we’ve undertaken on The Mountain, of course. And when the day’s labor is done, if I flop in front of the TV to unwind there’s a good chance I’ll watch something related to (or at least consistent with) our American Life.
Maybe a how-to for a project I’m contemplating. It could be a day in the life of a homesteading family or a snapshot of rustic living, be it practical or philosophical. Perhaps it’s some like-minded soul putting an insightful stamp of validation on all the reasons we’re here.
And then there are times when sitting in front of a glowing screen isn’t even a consideration for me. Most mornings I don’t turn on the TV — today, for example, I stepped out into the cool air and walked along our road, noticing. Hearing a rustle in the woods off to my right, I engaged in a ten-minute game of peek-a-boo with a whitetail buck.
The day’s news would keep. I had better things to do.
As expected, we’re doing more business in Mountain Home now and virtually none in Harrison. It’s closer, and shopping for most of our project needs is ridiculously convenient — The Home Depot, Lowe’s and Harbor Freight are clustered within a quarter-mile of each other, right off the bypass.
Today we needed a couple of tools, and the best deals could be found at Harbor Freight. We came away with a 16-pound digging bar (to move the big rocks), a square-nosed “transfer” shovel (for moving gravel and such), and a five-by-seven tarp (to cover our woodpile at the fire pit.
We crossed over the highway and browsed the aisles at Lowe’s. The sight greeting us as we entered the store, still one hundred days before Christmas, was downright disturbing (pictured).
The reason we were in Mountain Home this afternoon was to show Ernie to prospective buyers. That, as it turned out, was pretty much a bust — they want to finance the purchase, and every lender I know of will loan based on book value (which is well below market value).
Game over.
Back on the Home front, the upcoming week is full of possibilities, both for the cabin and the site. We attack at dawn.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB