The Road to Everywhere [Plato]
Posted: 09 Nov 2017, 18:18
It was the morning, but not so early that the sun had yet to rise. In fact, the great solar disc was just beginning to peek its way over the horizon as if it were playing a game of hide and seek, and wanted to be sure the moon was not about to come running to try and capture it. This was the time of day when Samson had usually been up for a few hours, let the dogs out to roam and relieve themselves, and was in the process of putting together a protein heavy breakfast. Now, it was true that Samson had been up for a few hours, and the dogs were outside, running back and forth between the house and the mountain man’s beat up truck, but his morning meal had been hastily scrounged together oatmeal, because it only took a few minutes to make and didn’t take much in the way of him keeping his eyes on it. He’d treated it with some maple syrup and butter, which effectively killed any health benefits that might have come from the lean choice. The flaw in that plan was that oatmeal, especially with sticky substances in it, was not particularly portable, and he’d found himself carrying his bowl around, shoveling the contents into his mouth. The end result was a need to clean out his beard and some pretty substantial curse words that might have made his mother blush.
He was a man on a mission though, and he wasn’t about to let a brief distraction stop him. It had been before the sun came up that he rose, and began to load things into his truck. There was a work bench. Toolbox. Then there was a lot of furniture, as much as he could cram into the space. And when Samson built something, he didn’t make it with the standards most furniture retailers went for. For example, when he made a chair, it was solid wood from top to bottom, and the legs were usually strong enough that they could support a wooly mammoth. His chairs were also usually a little bigger than ‘normal’ to accommodate for his height. Of course, that much could be blamed on family tradition, because the Krahn family liked to not only grow them big, but plentiful. Back home in the mountains, it had been common for any piece of furniture to have a need in being built strong enough to withstand not only the weight of three or six homestead farmer’s sons, but also their roughhousing. Of course, there was more in that truck than just chairs. There was also a disassembled bed frame which looked like it might have been made out of actual tree limbs fitted together as if by some miracle of nature.
In truth, it was bigger than king-sized, because Samson needed enough room not only to stretch his feet out, but also so he could occasionally sprawl. And he was a man who took up quite a lot of space when he flopped down, all limbs spread. Not only that, but the support for it was such that a person could have built a small house on it, and it wouldn’t have budged an inch. The music that early was not Samson’s usual choice of country, folk, gospel, or classic rock, but instead the steady rumbled stream of barely coherent complaints about poorly made beds which couldn’t stand up to the vigor of a little active lovin’.
And so it was by the time the sun was rising, he had everything squared away in his truck. Because the cool of autumn was finally beginning to settle in, he’d decided it would be a good idea to actually put on more clothes than just a pair of jeans. Unfortunately, after the misshap with the oatmeal and having sweated through a second layer, he’d decided that he didn’t have the patience for a shirt or sweater and was once again moving through the woods bare of chest, with skin and ink in the air. He loaded into the cab of his truck, and leaned to push the door open so that he could let one of the dogs in with him. Missy had been left in the tender care of the vet, because with her broken leg and the surgery, Samson figured she was better off with someone who knew how to take care of her if something bad happened. Besides. He trusted Plato, and it wasn’t as if he couldn’t go to check up on her whenever he wanted (which happened to be pretty frequently). The one who scrambled into the truck was a Border Collie, of only a few years old. He was named Johnny, because when he’d been a pup, Samson had been forever telling him to be good. True to his breed, Johnny was constantly full of energy, but for a man who liked to do everything with his own hands, the dog was a great companion. Especially since he could round up the other pups and seemed to know most of Samson’s tools by sight alone.
Seconds later, he was pulling out of his drive.
He was a man on a mission though, and he wasn’t about to let a brief distraction stop him. It had been before the sun came up that he rose, and began to load things into his truck. There was a work bench. Toolbox. Then there was a lot of furniture, as much as he could cram into the space. And when Samson built something, he didn’t make it with the standards most furniture retailers went for. For example, when he made a chair, it was solid wood from top to bottom, and the legs were usually strong enough that they could support a wooly mammoth. His chairs were also usually a little bigger than ‘normal’ to accommodate for his height. Of course, that much could be blamed on family tradition, because the Krahn family liked to not only grow them big, but plentiful. Back home in the mountains, it had been common for any piece of furniture to have a need in being built strong enough to withstand not only the weight of three or six homestead farmer’s sons, but also their roughhousing. Of course, there was more in that truck than just chairs. There was also a disassembled bed frame which looked like it might have been made out of actual tree limbs fitted together as if by some miracle of nature.
In truth, it was bigger than king-sized, because Samson needed enough room not only to stretch his feet out, but also so he could occasionally sprawl. And he was a man who took up quite a lot of space when he flopped down, all limbs spread. Not only that, but the support for it was such that a person could have built a small house on it, and it wouldn’t have budged an inch. The music that early was not Samson’s usual choice of country, folk, gospel, or classic rock, but instead the steady rumbled stream of barely coherent complaints about poorly made beds which couldn’t stand up to the vigor of a little active lovin’.
And so it was by the time the sun was rising, he had everything squared away in his truck. Because the cool of autumn was finally beginning to settle in, he’d decided it would be a good idea to actually put on more clothes than just a pair of jeans. Unfortunately, after the misshap with the oatmeal and having sweated through a second layer, he’d decided that he didn’t have the patience for a shirt or sweater and was once again moving through the woods bare of chest, with skin and ink in the air. He loaded into the cab of his truck, and leaned to push the door open so that he could let one of the dogs in with him. Missy had been left in the tender care of the vet, because with her broken leg and the surgery, Samson figured she was better off with someone who knew how to take care of her if something bad happened. Besides. He trusted Plato, and it wasn’t as if he couldn’t go to check up on her whenever he wanted (which happened to be pretty frequently). The one who scrambled into the truck was a Border Collie, of only a few years old. He was named Johnny, because when he’d been a pup, Samson had been forever telling him to be good. True to his breed, Johnny was constantly full of energy, but for a man who liked to do everything with his own hands, the dog was a great companion. Especially since he could round up the other pups and seemed to know most of Samson’s tools by sight alone.
Seconds later, he was pulling out of his drive.