“What about those of us who have our own gardens?” another voice asked. “I planted all corn in my backyard. What am I supposed to do with all of that?”
“Yeah, we were encouraged to do a single crop. Now what?” That voice was tinged with anger.
“Harvest your own gardens first,” I replied. “The idea is to get the food out of the damaging snow. It’s going to be a great deal of work, I won’t deny that. Just keep in mind this is your food for the winter! There is no waiting until a better day. It has to be done now!” I looked over this sea of unfamiliar faces and wondered what I was doing here. “We’ve set up a house as a food processing station and storage. Most of you are already aware of that. After you have separated what you want fresh, take the rest to that house and we will set a schedule to help you process it. I know we thought we had another month of growing and could tackle the harvest in stages. Well, we were wrong. Now let’s get busy!”
*
“Are you going to start harvesting, Allex?” Tom asked.
“No, we don’t need to. That shelter has bought us some time. Not much, but some,” I answered, knowing it should be done soon or the weight of the snow would collapse the plastic sheeting. “What I need to do right now is get to Eric’s garden and help them.”
“I think the community is expecting you to work with them first,” Tom continued.
“There are a hundred people out there working to save their produce,” I said in exasperation. “My sons have each other, Amanda, and Emilee. That’s it! I’m going to save my family first.” I turned to leave and bumped into Jim standing behind me.
“I’ll come with you,” he said. “Tom, would you make sure the fire in the smudge pot keeps going? Remember, that’s our food, too.”
*
We spent three hours at Eric’s picking vegetables and digging root crops with the snow falling around us. In the end, there were bushels of small and medium sized potatoes, onions, beets, and rutabaga, and more bushels of ripening and green tomatoes, peppers, and eggplant, all of which were stacked in the greenhouse to stay out of the continuing snow.
“I think your pumpkins and acorn squash will continue to ripen in the cold pantry,” I said to Eric when Jim and I were getting ready to leave. “I left you one of the quart canners and dozens of jars with enough seals.”
“Thanks, Mom. We wouldn’t have gotten this done in time without you,” Eric said, giving me a hug.
*
People struggling with small wagons and wheelbarrows continued to beat a path through the snow, taking the harvest next door for storage or processing.
The three of us worked nonstop to harvest the small garden that would keep us fed.
“Don’t pull the plants yet. It’s a long shot, but we might still have some growing time.
Jim, Tom, and I harvested two bushels of green and yellow beans and I intentionally left six plants of each unpicked that might be our seed for next year.
“I’m surprised there are this many tomatoes,” Tom said, looking at the basket of nearly ripe tomatoes and two more boxes of green ones.
We used the plastic milk totes for the potatoes and onions, leaving some still in the ground. Many years in the past I’ve dug spuds only to have missed a few and they came up the next year. Leaving some may be our only way of propagating. I instantly thought of Jacob’s French fries and Emilee’s chips and my heart heaved.
We did the same for the beets and rutabaga. I had no idea what we would do with two dozen green peppers, except share them with Marsha.
“Where are we going to put all of this?” Jim asked.
“Right now, we just need to get it into the house so it doesn’t freeze. We’ll work on storage later.”
*
The blanket of snow was now a foot deep and snowflakes drifted down in a lazy spiral. The temperature hovered at thirty-five degrees. Tom stared out the glass door to a curtain of all white and shivered. He looked worried.
“What are we going to do?” he said.
The lights blinked and went out. It was six o’clock.
“Tom, I think it’s time for you to move downstairs with us,” Jim said, clamping his large hand on Tom’s shoulder. He looked forlornly at Jim, and then at me, and grimly nodded.
“Tom,” I said, “we are going to make it. It won’t be easy. It’s going to be a bad winter and there will be more losses, but we will survive.”
*
History is written by those who can, not necessarily just by those who survived it. I survived it and I hope I’ve written the facts as best as I can remember them, so those who come after know where they came from.
*
Emilee closed her grandmother’s journal. She got up from the old rocker, wiped her tears with a cloth hanky, and put the journal back on the shelf.
About the Author
Deborah Moore is single and lives a quiet life in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan with her cat, Tufts. She was born and raised in Detroit, the kid of a cop, and moved to a small town to raise her two young sons, then moved to an even smaller town to pursue her dreams of being self-sufficient and to explore her love of writing.
Being a life-long Prepper, Deborah has done numerous articles for magazines, and speaking engagements at conventions regarding the subject.
Her first published novel, The Journal: Cracked Earth, made the Best Seller’s list in just six weeks. Book Two of the series, Ash Fall, went to the printer eight months early because of the unprecedented popularity and Book Three, Crimson Skies, is proving to be even more popular. Raging Tide, the fourth book in the series was to be the final chapter, but Deborah is delighted to announce that book #5 is right around the corner.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
About the Author