Not Knowing

Need a flowchart here, trying to figure out B's family. Good people, and all still very close. Needed whiskey and something to base a few meals on, so I went into town, stopping several times to examine extremely local places. Teasel is doing very well in some well-drained spots. It's an interesting plant. Chicken Gumbo and a beer at the pub. A package of strip steaks going into the remaindered bin at Kroger and I snatched them right up, a large russet potato and a small carton of sour cream, should last me a couple of days. Some nice tomatoes, a few cans of tuna, a package of fava beans from the frozen section. In a couple of months I'll be making cornbread again. I hate powdered milk, but I make a note to get a five pound box. If I'm snowed in I can make milk, then buttermilk (with lemon juice) to make cornbread; and get some powdered eggs, and a gallon of olive oil. Cinnamon, her actual name, thought that I did actually qualify for "Heat Assistance", that the county, with significant subsidy, would cut my wood. That would be fine, but I don't completely trust what anyone says, knowing what I know about saying. Suppose a dear friend appeared, and needed a place to hide. Assuming you'd want to do that, how would you do it? I have a tree-tip pit set aside for them, with water and a latrine, a good supply of rice and acorns, all the comforts of home. More difficult to hide someone in winter, because of the tracks. Hole-up and read. Think like a bear, sleep a lot. I go out to dump some food scraps on the compost heap, deep into the fantasy of hiding someone, imagining problems and elegant solutions, and there's a slathering possum. Caught thus, I can do no better than throw the scraps into the possums face and get back in the house. It's almost certainly rabid, so I get the shotgun and go kill it, dig a hole and bury it. There's a narrative in which I die of rabies, in another it's a snake bite, most likely I'll fall and break something; die, frozen, on the driveway. Some very good corn, that I cut and scraped off the cob, fried in a little butter, and ate with a spoon. Very good fritters, golden, and drizzled with a blackberry syrup; then I made some outstanding corn-meal, fresh corn cakes, that are extraordinary but don't keep that well. Too much sugar. There was a dead Luna Moth down at the mail-box, but it didn't seem to signify. It was just a dead moth. Later, having a great sliced tomato on a piece of toast, some goat cheese and olives, I wonder why the world is so fucked up.