Chapter 11: Home Plate!

I spent some quality time with my computer writing up a time-line describing what I'd accomplished in the last year, including photocopies of the bills and pictures of the results. Then I listed what I'd planned to accomplish in the next three months, then the next three months after that.

I put together a list of both unique and repeating expenses projecting out a year. The liquid propane cost was hard to quantify as I had no idea what it would cost to heat the second barn. The weather would play a big part in the demand.

I put in a formal request with the county assessor's office to value an acre of land on the island as undeveloped, developed as part of a homestead and as a fully developed trailer park. I had a couple aerial pictures taken of the island and dug out the surveyor's report. All this served to prove what acreage I had under development and what not. This influenced my property tax and inheritance tax valuations. I took all this documentation to the lawyer's office and got them busy preparing my federal and state income tax returns. Since I'd granted half the island to a not-for-profit almost all of my capital gains were balanced out. My roe deer project and expected expenses would help on next year's return. They took advantage of an old homestead exemption that was still on the books. After all the smoke cleared I got a refund!

My enforced year of residence was at an end. I wasn't going to leave: far from it. I intended to stay on the place, do a bit of farming, get some re-enactors running around to teach the kids something on their field trips and continue writing.

I dropped my extended documentation on the table in front of Mr. Bolt, the old codger that was involved with my case from Price, Smith and Bolt. He thumbed through it, taking in the costs and the results of the improvements. He nodded here and there and raised an eyebrow at a couple of other things. (I think he found the pictures of the bullet holes and the 30.06 cal rifle purchase!)

He carefully looked through the projected budget numbers. He smiled as he closed the binder.

"I'd grant you a long-term note on the strength of this documentation. I'm happy to say you won't need it."

He eased back from the table and dropped the heels of his shoes on the polished surface as he grinned like a badger. With his hands clasped across his belly he said "You've fulfilled all the conditions in the contract, both open and hidden. Your time analysis on a subsistence farm garden should be written up and used in courses documenting early American life. I'm prepared to close out the contract, giving you access to the rest of the funds and the materials held in our vaults here on the premises." He dropped his shoes back to the floor and slid a folder across the table to me.

Within was a bank account number with a long string of digits after it. "What's this? The access code?"

He grinned like crazy. "Nope. That's the balance."

Including two decimals, there were thirteen digits. The two left-most digits were one and six. I had tunnel vision. My face must have been white. He was handing me over ten billion dollars. Jesus Christ on a pogo stick. "What ... What ... What..."

I think that I short circuited. Someone handed me a glass of ice water. I drank most of it and started breathing again. The first thing that I said was "All right, where's Alan Fundt?"

He gave me a quizzical look. "Alan Fundt?"

"Yeah, you know. 'Smile! You're on Candid Camera!' THAT Alan Fundt."

Oh no; No, no. This is no joke. This is your investment account, sir. It seems that your benefactor, Carling Sears, was a rail baron of the time. He leased out the farms of the island for income yet did not live there. He established an account with an initial balance of one hundred and seventy five thousand dollars, compounded monthly. As you can see, it has grown like a weed on a manure pile."