Preps

Apple Fermentation Bread

My state is home to a place with a unique and important role in the history of our country. It is a bit difficult to locate this place due to its remoteness. The official name of it was Black Hills Ordnance Depot. It was home to over 800 concrete munitions bunkers nestled into the prairie in a very unassuming neighborhood. Grazing cows and warbling meadowlarks are more likely to be seen than something as foreboding as a series of neatly aligned concrete domes. The bunkers were built during WWII as a way to increase our country's ammunition storage capabilities. A town named Igloo was built near the bunkers to provide services to those who were in charge of the operation. In 1967, the Depot was closed, the community was disbanded and the houses were moved to other locations. But the bunkers remained.

A resurgence of interest has occurred due to new ownership of the land and the bunkers. An organization dedicated to providing safe sites for humanity to flee to in the event of human or natural disasters is selling the bunkers as potential homes for those who share a philosophy of preparedness. A couple of years ago, my husband and I attempted to check out the place but the ominous, turn-back-now words spray-painted near the entrance rattled me. My husband was unfazed and was ready to keep driving forward. I threatened to jump out of the vehicle and because I have a history of doing so, he wisely turned around. The bunkers' website may be as close as we will get.  

Out of curiosity, I checked into the process of becoming a member of their community. They have an application form which includes a checklist of skills you can bring to the group. After reading through the list, it was clear that my husband would have an edge. He is a skilled carpenter. He knows how to hunt, fish and he is a master gardener. I, on the other hand, am a preparedness loser. Yes, I am a skilled talker and I can make a mean cheesecake but most of what I do would likely be considered a liability. 

In an attempt to bolster my self esteem, my daughter and husband remind me that I might have hidden talents that could be useful. My recent forays into food fermentation seem promising. I can bake bread without commercial yeast. I can take surplus vegetables and preserve them with just a container, potable water and some salt. My novice status in this process doesn't guarantee food safety, yet. But that might be the least of our worries if we are staving off a zombie apocalypse. Perhaps, I could entertain others with a tale or two around the campfire if preppers do such a thing. I can identify many birds of my state and I love bleach. Surely, that has to count for something. 

Despite my husband's definite tilt toward usefulness, I reminded him that we both have one big strike against us and that is age. I doubt the bunker community wants to commit to too many folks with impending health needs unless we can prove that we know how to forage our way to stable health. And, as I reminded my husband, I am not sure I want to stake my life on a community of folks who are more nervous about impending doom than I am. Seems like a skittish business to me. 

Apple Fermentation; Green Tomato Fermentation;
Pepper Fermentation

Noisy Fall

Rachel Carson, a renowned biologist, was accustomed to enjoying the chatter and singing of birds each spring while she enjoyed a cup of coffee and worked on her scientific research and writing. As the 1950's came to a close she noticed a curious trend. The bird voices she cherished were no longer a part of her morning. Instead she was hearing a disturbing sound, silence. Her observation forever changed the use of pesticides in our environment as she discovered the cause of the decline of the birds. The chemical DDT was making its way through the food chain and weakening the shells of bird eggs. Ms. Carson went on to write the seminal book, Silent Spring. 

In some ways, we experienced our own silent spring as current circumstances resulted in a time of eerie quiet shutdown. The world seemed to stand still as the familiar sights and sounds of humanity screeched to a halt. Gratefully, the birds continued to sing and provide us with a healthy dose of nature. Other than that, life seemed anything but normal.

In contrast, our fall is filled with some familiar noises again. At 7:08 a.m. I hear the chug chug of a school bus idling as it waits for an elementary student to board the bus on my street. Around 7:45, my neighborhood elementary school sounds its bell, alerting students to get ready for a new day. From 7:30 to 8:00, the sound of traffic increases as worker bees head to the hive for another round of duty. At 8:25, the muffled conversations of middle school students begin as they wait for their bus to arrive on the corner. Sprinkled throughout the day, the sound of children enjoying their recess time on the playground makes me smile as I imagine swinging, sliding and games of tag. 3:00 p.m. brings more chatter as school kids, laden down with backpacks like bipedal turtles, make their way home from another day of school. And periodically, the beautiful sound of a practicing marching band fills the air. 

The crack of bats and animated play-by-play coverage began again as professional baseball games worked their way to the playoffs after an abbreviated season. Sadly, the Twins did not make it as far as my husband would have preferred, but it is good to hear the sound of baseball in the air again. The sound of kids practicing sports at a park near our house also has a musical ring to it. Tailgating may or may not be happening yet but football is making attempts to happen as well. I am a certified sports idiot but I confess there is something soothing about the routine and rhythm of sports.

The evil C-19 continues to rear its ugly head and make life challenging for us and there is much debate as to what is right and what is wrong with our approach to the monster. I have no crystal ball to fill in the future blanks. I only know that I am grateful for the sounds of daily living, even when they seem a little noisy.