Reboot

I’d been wondering how long it would be before one of our more technically oriented people built us a still. I asked around and Mr. Hoolihan volunteered his services gladly. He knew everything there was to know about stills and was very happy to share this knowledge. Mr. Hoolihan became Stiller.

He gave us a short course on it. He spoke very quickly. Nervous. He’d been a Scottish pub owner. Civil, but to the point; stout, red headed with the accompanying freckles and he had huge puffy sideburns tinged with white. He always wore a tweed vest with a watch in one of the small pockets tied to a button with a chain. Victorian. He said that watch had been in his family since King David. Sixteen people were sitting in front of him, including me. We were all very interested in stills, for obvious reasons, but I also liked the mechanics behind it. It’s an elegant system.

“Now listen up. Is someone wroitin’ this dewn?” He talked with that glorious accent,

the rrrolling rrr’s. “Distillation separates chemicals by taking advantage of differences in boiling temperatures, ok? Mewnshoiners make high prewf alcohol by using distillation to separate alcohol from water. Someone please wroite this dewn, ok? Thar ya goo, good lads. Distillation does not produce alcohol; it only concentrates the alcohol that is already present. It’s actually the last step in the process of making mewnshoine ok? In the first part of the process, mewnshoiners essentially make a low proof beer, which gets distilled later. Here are all of the steps one needs to complete in order to make our ewn mewnshoine. Someone please wroite this dewn, ok?

“OK!!!” We all laughed.

“Thar ya goo…Good lads.

It wasn’t just for making moonshine. We could run engines on ethanol. That was something to look forward to later on. So there was more to it than burning brain cells. This was a skill to be passed on..

Stiller became very popular.

___________

Our child demographic was growing with every new boatload and a school had now become a priority. Mack actually had two teams going at once: one for the farm and one for the school. I kept busy by spending time working on both projects.

A simpler design than the hall was conceived without walls but we still had to dig deep and cut large trees for the supports. It didn’t have to be on stilts because it would only be used during the day for lessons. If it was ever destroyed by bad weather it could be rebuilt easily. It had to be relatively large though.

“Did you ask her how big she wanted it?” I asked Mack.

“Are you kidding?”

“Of course you asked her. What did she say?”

“Twenty kids comfortably seated in a semi-circular pattern. A mobile black board in the middle. Though she added that a lot of classes would be given in the forest or at the farm, on the beach and in the boats.”

“In the boats?” I asked. “Why in the boats?”

“Sailing of course. Gotta learn to sail.”

“Yeah. Of course. Um, sorry.”

This time we were done in a week because we had more help and the building was smaller and simpler.

So our school got built and lessons started right away. Four hours a day in the mornings. Mabel wanted a circular classroom; her in the middle, the students all around. Discussions were encouraged. Socratic, she said. Better that way. Builds confidence.

Our kids learned writing and reading, history, biology, chemistry, physics, geography, first aid, math, all about farming and basic engineering. Rick taught knots, Oliver, fishing and hunting, how to catch birds without hurting them. Stan offered to teach music. They had to learn all about piloting boats and the dangers of radiation poisoning.

The curriculum was adjusted to the times.

I encouraged everyone to give us their books. We put together a small library in one of the corners of the school.

Mack also went around helping people to build their huts, or Bahay Kubo as they’re known around here.. Everyone was busy. Our village was sprouting up quickly.

“When do we build yours?” he asked me.

“Not for me Mack. Thanks. I’ve always wanted to live in a tree house. I have a plan in my head. I‘ve had it since I was a kid.”

“Woa, that’ll be interesting too. Can’t wait to see it. Let me know if I can help,” he said.

Most people built their huts close to the others, but not too close. Some families were more tightly organized, but generally, people were spread out at least twenty meters away from their closest neighbor.

I had taken the time to scout out the perfect tree. I planned out the perfect little home for myself. There was an elbow in the river where a small island sat in the middle. Just five meters long and three meters wide, but there was a very hefty tree on it. Looked like an upturned open hand. Some people thought that the river was too noisy, but I enjoyed the sound…

I suspended my tree house from the strong, high branches using rope. Stan helped me. Mack was busy with his other projects.

“I have nails, big ones in da boot,” he said. “Be easier to nail this than using ropes don’t you think?”

“Sure,” I answered, “but I don’t want to hurt the tree.”

He understood of course. So no nails.

Good thing about this place, people all came in boats, and boats have lots of rope in them. I used small trees and branches for the flooring and roof. The tree itself came through the middle of my new floor. We started with that. We worked very well together and Stan never complained. When we’d finished the floor, we sat on the edge, had a drink of fruit juice and looked at the view. You could see the lake through the trees.

“You chose a very nice spot,” he said.

“I think so too.”

“The sound of the river won’t bother you?”

“No I like it. Puts me to sleep and it drowns out the sounds of the jungle. Thanks for your help Stan, I appreciate it.”

“It is entirely my pleasure my friend. Now, this is a nice floor, but do you have an idea about how do we build the walls? Because my walls at my hut, they are crooked. And if I remember correctly, you worked on those too. I thought maybe in the US, they like crooked walls. In Sweden, we like walls nice and straight.”

“Haha, nothing wrong with my walls, meatballs.“

“I dunno. Maybe we should get Mack.” Stan smiled again.

So Stan and I built the walls and then the roof. I wanted it to be large enough to be comfortable, about 4x4 meters, and the ceiling 2.5 meters high.

“How do you get in?” he asked.

“Through a hole in the floor. And I access the trap door by climbing the tree. Makes it a bit more private. I’ll tie a bucket to a pulley for bringing things up.” I decorated it with flowers and plants and spices found on the island, paintings from my ship, and various knick-knacks like copper fittings and books. I ripped out the copper compass from a ship. It was large enough to make a table and it looked fantastic. I built myself a shower for fun. A little outhouse up on one of the stronger branches, farther over the river. I got the idea from that Disney movie about a family marooned on an island. They built a very nice house with multiple rooms in a large tree.

There was a natural spa right next to my islet. A tiny cascade frothing into a small hole I’d dug out for myself. And of course, you could drink the water it was so clean.

I had a little pet frog that would sit and watch me. He was always there, little orange thing. Big-ol’ green eyes. I called him Punkin.

My little home had all the comforts you could want. I borrowed a mattress from a boat, a mirror, there was a solar powered fridge (very small) and most importantly, my pillow. Didn’t stop the dreams of course. We all had the same nightmares. Lost family, dead world, zombies…

I didn’t need a kitchen. Eating was very communal. We all ate together. We had a few cooks in our group who enjoyed preparing food very much. There was always something ready or cooking, if you were hungry you just showed up. We organized at least one communal meal per day. There was a team of people constantly gathering food. Everyone chipped in. I think no one wanted to be alone. The atmosphere was comparable to what you might have found in youth hostels all over the world: Communal and friendly. There was nothing to fight about. When someone got on your nerves, there was plenty of room to avoid them.