Eric Pappas rented a car for the weekend, and took a long journey into the wilderness - beyond even rural - for one purpose: to find the gold guru that everyone was talking about. Traders, analysts, account executives had flocked to this guru's isolated retreat. His advice was becoming legendary.
Eric was in for the surprise of his life...
Showing posts with label agoldrasputin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label agoldrasputin. Show all posts
Sunday, April 10, 2011
The Voice Of The Forest
The highway ribbon of civilization had slowly transformed into rawer and more isolated wilderness. Asphalt had turned into smooth, well kept gravel. The road to his destination was hugged more closely by the trees and bushes; groomed gravel turned into raw. Eric Pappas found that speed limits had become self-enforcing as his rented car jolted over the washboard gravel. Along this road, a speed-limit sign would be more taunt than order.
Stopping on the now-narrow two-lane road, uncertainly, Eric checked his GPS. He was now in an area close to where the maps in his unit showed a blank. Had he not gotten directions, had he merely relied upon his GPS with longitude and latitude stuffed into the destination point, he would have been lost. Whoever this isolated gentleman was, he did not want to be found. Yet, found he was – and frequently. This hermit, this recluse, was like a gold Rasputin.
Living in the wilderness that Eric was uncertainly navigating, he gave out free pronouncements. They were often incisive, and more than enough of them were prescient. Amazingly, this Gold Rasputin had a following amongst traders and analysts whose base pay was at least ten times Eric’s. In spite of their income and wealth, they came almost as supplicants to see this man who lived in isolated squalor. He was that good.
Centuries ago, he would have been a fêted anchorite. Dripping out his wisdom gleaned from his sole communion with God; unattached to the bonds and limitations of the city. In today's secular age, he offered up tips. He was already a minor legend in the gold world. How could a forest isolate be so on top of an asset that all-but required a citified country place, in the form of a satellite Internet connection and electric power?
The last town, little more than a village, was ten miles back; it was cheerily named Farnhorn. Recognizing a good thing, the shopkeeps knew of this Rasputin and added “gifts” to their lines of goods. Thanks to his new well-heeled admirers, those offerings sold. Eric himself had pulled in, knowing about the one and only suggested gift.
Having gotten his bearings, he proceeded down the road that soon forked. In front of him were a path of dirt and the same corrugated gravel. Slowly turning right, he took the dirt: it only had enough width for a single car. It must have been a logging road in days long gone; the trees reaching for the clouds were not young. Trundling for a few minutes, Eric stopped and again checked his GPS. It now showed a blank: no road at all. Its compass and distancing feature showed he was driving in the right direction. The grooves worn into the road, by tires on cars that were a few classes above his rental, reassured him. So did the directions he had received in Farnhorn.
Two more minutes of driving, plus an attentive eye, got him his stopping point. Thanks to that part of the road being set into a narrow field, there was enough space for a U-turn. Tire tracks made it clear that more than a few cars had made one. Again stopping and checking his GPS, Eric saw that a five-minute walk would get him to his destination. So, he took the U-turn and left his car in a spot that would give another driver ample sight warning. Thankfully, the grass was solid enough to hold his tires on this dry day. He left the car on the edge of the grass so as to give enough room for a car to squeeze by if needed. Like the archetypical Canadian pedestrian who waited patiently for the light to change to green at 3 AM Sunday morning, it was a near-useless gesture but a good habit nonetheless. From what he could tell, he was alone.
Prudently locking the subcompact, remembering the gift he had gotten from the seemingly designated Farnhorn vendor, Eric pulled out his GPS and got the direction he had to go. Based upon the way the dirt cut into the quiet forest, he could continue walking along the rutted path. So he did – until he saw a two-year-old blue BMW X6 M parked awkwardly on the side of the road.
Its owner wasn’t far away; Eric first saw his back. Dressed in an open-necked blue shirt that was soft on the eyes, trim black pants and a slim belt, the balding man with greying hair was fumbling with his own GPS. The way he moved, combined with his car, suggested that the fellow was used to life on the higher side. His house was likely a mini-mansion or two-floor condo.
Approaching quietly, Eric waited until the stranger stopped fumbling before saying hello. A cardboard box was in front of him near his feet. Seeing the man turn around, he was surprised to see this obviously hard-charging success story flash blue eyes that looked oddly placid.
“So you’re here to see the guru too.”
His clothes outclassed Eric’s more serviceable gear by a sizable margin, but he didn’t seem to care. His voice, used to authority, was soft. Walter Turrin felt too relaxed to introduce himself. Introductions were part of the competitive world of wresting money from an often refractory market, hedge as one might. He had taken the trip to see the guru so as to get away from all that. He had to clear his mind so he could think for a change. How lucky he was to buy a sedate X6 M! Although urged to by his wife as part of the domesticity track, he was glad that that serviceable car of his could manage the unbeaten track that led to this calm secluded forest. The guru’s tips were top-notch, but that was only part of the experience. The other part was rebooting the brain in an environ far, far away from the tunnel-vision-inducing scramble for profits.
Both men, looking at each other, felt the urge to size each other up melt away. They were sure that they would never see each other again. Out here, in pleasant isolation from the incentives and cues in each of their parts of the world, they were just travellers to the same destination. Unconsciously, Eric’s left hand tightened on the bag that carried his own.
Each with an offering, they ambled silently and comfortably until they reached the co-ordinates plugged into their respective GPS device. Walter had to put down the box he was carrying to check his; Eric let him.
Greeting them at the spot was a somewhat weathered, but neat, hand-lettered sign; it was nestled in a small tree with some branches removed. It only said, “THIS WAY” with an arrow. Another sign was underneath, which said “Please Feed The Dog.”
Sure enough, a medium-sized gray dog with brown splotches and an indeterminate pedigree was loping towards them. Rather than defensive or territorial, it was curious and standoffishly friendly. The standoffishness disappeared when Eric pulled out the suggested gift:
Dog treats.
Stopping on the now-narrow two-lane road, uncertainly, Eric checked his GPS. He was now in an area close to where the maps in his unit showed a blank. Had he not gotten directions, had he merely relied upon his GPS with longitude and latitude stuffed into the destination point, he would have been lost. Whoever this isolated gentleman was, he did not want to be found. Yet, found he was – and frequently. This hermit, this recluse, was like a gold Rasputin.
Living in the wilderness that Eric was uncertainly navigating, he gave out free pronouncements. They were often incisive, and more than enough of them were prescient. Amazingly, this Gold Rasputin had a following amongst traders and analysts whose base pay was at least ten times Eric’s. In spite of their income and wealth, they came almost as supplicants to see this man who lived in isolated squalor. He was that good.
Centuries ago, he would have been a fêted anchorite. Dripping out his wisdom gleaned from his sole communion with God; unattached to the bonds and limitations of the city. In today's secular age, he offered up tips. He was already a minor legend in the gold world. How could a forest isolate be so on top of an asset that all-but required a citified country place, in the form of a satellite Internet connection and electric power?
The last town, little more than a village, was ten miles back; it was cheerily named Farnhorn. Recognizing a good thing, the shopkeeps knew of this Rasputin and added “gifts” to their lines of goods. Thanks to his new well-heeled admirers, those offerings sold. Eric himself had pulled in, knowing about the one and only suggested gift.
Having gotten his bearings, he proceeded down the road that soon forked. In front of him were a path of dirt and the same corrugated gravel. Slowly turning right, he took the dirt: it only had enough width for a single car. It must have been a logging road in days long gone; the trees reaching for the clouds were not young. Trundling for a few minutes, Eric stopped and again checked his GPS. It now showed a blank: no road at all. Its compass and distancing feature showed he was driving in the right direction. The grooves worn into the road, by tires on cars that were a few classes above his rental, reassured him. So did the directions he had received in Farnhorn.
Two more minutes of driving, plus an attentive eye, got him his stopping point. Thanks to that part of the road being set into a narrow field, there was enough space for a U-turn. Tire tracks made it clear that more than a few cars had made one. Again stopping and checking his GPS, Eric saw that a five-minute walk would get him to his destination. So, he took the U-turn and left his car in a spot that would give another driver ample sight warning. Thankfully, the grass was solid enough to hold his tires on this dry day. He left the car on the edge of the grass so as to give enough room for a car to squeeze by if needed. Like the archetypical Canadian pedestrian who waited patiently for the light to change to green at 3 AM Sunday morning, it was a near-useless gesture but a good habit nonetheless. From what he could tell, he was alone.
Prudently locking the subcompact, remembering the gift he had gotten from the seemingly designated Farnhorn vendor, Eric pulled out his GPS and got the direction he had to go. Based upon the way the dirt cut into the quiet forest, he could continue walking along the rutted path. So he did – until he saw a two-year-old blue BMW X6 M parked awkwardly on the side of the road.
Its owner wasn’t far away; Eric first saw his back. Dressed in an open-necked blue shirt that was soft on the eyes, trim black pants and a slim belt, the balding man with greying hair was fumbling with his own GPS. The way he moved, combined with his car, suggested that the fellow was used to life on the higher side. His house was likely a mini-mansion or two-floor condo.
Approaching quietly, Eric waited until the stranger stopped fumbling before saying hello. A cardboard box was in front of him near his feet. Seeing the man turn around, he was surprised to see this obviously hard-charging success story flash blue eyes that looked oddly placid.
“So you’re here to see the guru too.”
His clothes outclassed Eric’s more serviceable gear by a sizable margin, but he didn’t seem to care. His voice, used to authority, was soft. Walter Turrin felt too relaxed to introduce himself. Introductions were part of the competitive world of wresting money from an often refractory market, hedge as one might. He had taken the trip to see the guru so as to get away from all that. He had to clear his mind so he could think for a change. How lucky he was to buy a sedate X6 M! Although urged to by his wife as part of the domesticity track, he was glad that that serviceable car of his could manage the unbeaten track that led to this calm secluded forest. The guru’s tips were top-notch, but that was only part of the experience. The other part was rebooting the brain in an environ far, far away from the tunnel-vision-inducing scramble for profits.
Both men, looking at each other, felt the urge to size each other up melt away. They were sure that they would never see each other again. Out here, in pleasant isolation from the incentives and cues in each of their parts of the world, they were just travellers to the same destination. Unconsciously, Eric’s left hand tightened on the bag that carried his own.
Each with an offering, they ambled silently and comfortably until they reached the co-ordinates plugged into their respective GPS device. Walter had to put down the box he was carrying to check his; Eric let him.
Greeting them at the spot was a somewhat weathered, but neat, hand-lettered sign; it was nestled in a small tree with some branches removed. It only said, “THIS WAY” with an arrow. Another sign was underneath, which said “Please Feed The Dog.”
Sure enough, a medium-sized gray dog with brown splotches and an indeterminate pedigree was loping towards them. Rather than defensive or territorial, it was curious and standoffishly friendly. The standoffishness disappeared when Eric pulled out the suggested gift:
Dog treats.
Hearing
“You might as well go ahead,” Eric said quietly to Walter. “I’ll look after the dog.”
“Sure,” Walter replied. His eyes lit up as he looked at the brown-eyed, curly-haired fellow who was his companion by circumstance. “Happy dog-feeding.” What could be taken as patronizing back at the office was just friendly here.
Having wished his fellow traveler well, he walked off at a slower pace than his usual stride. Strangely, he felt eager. Walter had defied the suggested gift, judging that it was more important to feed the man. On a quirky lark, he had bought a case of twelve Meals Ready to Eat from some survivalist shop. Normally, Walter avoided survivalists and other doomsayers like the plague. They were reverse hysterics, just as embarrassing as the keener who thought the Dow was going to 100,000 real soon you-betcha. Compounding their inverted enthusiasm was a love of schadenfreude that seemed totally unnecessary. If the system were to collapse – a possibility Walter did entertain if presented to him soberly without preachiness – then why not just quietly make contingency plans? If you wanted to warn people, why not just say it once and leave it at that?
His opinions, firmly held when back in his turf, seemed a little disembodied as he was walking alone to meet the guru. The box of MREs settled onto his forearms as he continued.
The destination wasn’t easy to spot. Secluded in a copse of trees, Walter found himself staring at an honest-to-gosh treehouse. Six feet above the ground, the lumber it was built with was well-weathered. The dimensions were that of a small shed except for the five-foot height. There was no sign of a ladder: it was as if the guru had used a rope ladder and pulled it up with him. The entranceway must be in the back. Like many treehouses, the boards were not laid tightly on top of each other; there were cracks between them. Walter was sure that the dwelling was occupied.
It was.
“You have come here wondering why you are embarrassed all the time by your lower cohorts. Is that not correct?” The voice, which would contain little more than dry charm in an office setting, telegraphed authentic charisma in the faraway woods.
“Yes, it is,” Walter replied quietly. It wasn’t just getting ribbed about them. They really believed what they said. Had it been a mere sales script, he could let the ribbing and the implications roll off his shoulders. But oppositional defiance, with an undercurrent of malicious glee about the troubles his friends and neighbours would face? How could Walter face his friends knowing that the salt of his earth wanted them to suffer for no more reason than being normal?
Again, the voice spoke. “Have you any knowledge of student politics?”
High-school politicians? Those sleazes? Sure, Walter had friended his class president; only someone with a grudge wouldn’t. But live like her?
“What does being class president have to do with it?” His tone showed what he, as a lad, really thought of student politicians. They had to be insincere; they feigned –
“They have skills that are easily mocked. Do they not?”
For some reason, Walter thought of the class bullies. He was self-confident enough not to be bothered by them, but he had seen the ones that were. They did have a tough time, which many of them would never forget. You could always tell a victim: they were the most reliable type to turn down a friend request from an old classmate. The kind with an agreeably wild past from a distance…
“Yes. But feigning friendship, don’t you think that goes a little over the line?”
The voice, unattached to a visible person, continued. “Was it friendship that they feigned?”
Well, not quite. They had this knack of…
…good people management?
Blinking, Walter saw what the guru was driving at. Why did he have to be embarrassed by the hard-core? How did his old class president avoid being embarrassed by – well, some of the stunts that were pulled? It wouldn’t hurt him to pick her brain on the guise of a mini-reunion.
Looking around at the secluded copse, he didn’t think of control words like “hypocrite,” “sellout,” “loser,” “dork” and others: ones he lived and died by in high school. He was an accomplished and highly successful professional now. And yet…in some way, he was still stuck there. The quiet, sun-flecked woods took away the need to focus on his success track and gave him what he had been looking for: perspective.
Now feeling a relieved kind of odd, he sketched out a plan in his head. Embarrassing they may be, but he would no longer have to be tripped by the goldbug forest’s dark and sometimes tangled roots.
The voice continued. “You came here wondering why gold can go up despite contrarian alarms?”
Again, the guru hit the spot. Catching himself nodding, Walter added an audible “yes.” The scene was too calming for him to register the surprise he would feel later about an isolate who knew so much about the state of the gold market.
“They are wrong this time, as they are on occasion. You will find it so.”
Now plainly relieved, Walter thanked the guru and pointed out the gift. “Really, thank you.”
“Then you must go,” the voice answered in a way that connoted regret but finality. Remembering the young man by the dog, Walter turned around and headed back the way he came.
Now came Eric, who had played with the now-friendly dog after feeding it the treats. His onetime companion strode back, confident yet still reflective. “This man is everything they say he is,” Walter told him. “You’ll find everything makes sense again.” With those words, he hiked off to his BMW.
Eric was left alone to go see this guru, who could evidently work minor miracles. Picking up his own pace, he too came to the treehouse. To his amusement, the dog followed him.
When he heard the charismatic voice, he was impressed…but something about it made him stop. It reached into his memory: it reminded him of someone who he had known back at his place of work. Strangely, the voice from behind the mostly closed walls called up the memory of…
“Carl?”
It was Carl. Forced out after the downsizing, which had left Eric glad he had kept his job in the mailroom, Carl had vanished. The fellow had been cynical, sometimes bitter, but charming all the same. He had an often twisted maxim for the young man whenever they met.
Seeing the mid-sized man climb down on a now-exposed rope ladder confirmed it. He was the same Carl: still black-haired but bald except for a ring around the ears, somewhat stocky, eyes that could be both empty and pixieish, a somewhat florid face. Yes, it was definitely Carl. “How did you wind up here?” Eric asked, agog. So shocked, he didn't even think to ask why the older man was spry instead of stiff.
Carl smiled, in part out of satisfaction but only partly. “You know I got canned,” he explained as his voice returned to his good old normal, “and I don’t know what to do with myself. Everything looked like it was going to hell in a shopping cart back then.
“So, I bought myself some land in the middle of this nowhere and set up a shack. It’s about a ten-minute walk from here in a secret location,” he added with a wink.
“After rotting for several months, with nothing except satellite Internet, I began to dispense some gold advice. Lucky me: after fifteen years of watching the thing, I finally had the knack of seeing where it would go. Enough for people to remember.”
His eyebrows shot up as he waggled his head side to side. “I had to dish it out free, the regulations being what they are, but I got an online reputation for being a guru. Word spread, and here I am.”
Here he was indeed. Eric, still surprised, didn’t ask how Carl supported himself - let alone how he had scarfed up that treehouse of his and kept himself comfortable in it.
Instead, the young mailroom attendant burst out laughing. A former senior dividend administrator, easy to categorize as nothing more than a back-office drone, had the same people who looked down on him now eating out of his hand!
“I know what you’re thinking, kid,” Carl continued with a wry smile. He actually had a pretty good batting average in that department ,even back when he was working. That phrase had been one of his trademarks.
Letting his belly show as he straightened his back, “Yep, I loved the sight of the people that used to treat me like the furniture eating out of my hand. For the first six months, it was a helluva hoot.”
Then, his eyes showed something Eric had never seen in them. For the first time, the mailroom attendant saw the former dividend administrator look solemn. The treehoused copse now focused in as a backdrop for the back-office worker turned guru.
“But then I found I was doing good. For once, I could see those guys as just human: they were hurting, and I could do something about it.”
With that disclosure, the old man turned and surveyed his land out in the middle of a sparsely-populated nowhere. “And that’s what really made me what I am now.”
“Sure,” Walter replied. His eyes lit up as he looked at the brown-eyed, curly-haired fellow who was his companion by circumstance. “Happy dog-feeding.” What could be taken as patronizing back at the office was just friendly here.
Having wished his fellow traveler well, he walked off at a slower pace than his usual stride. Strangely, he felt eager. Walter had defied the suggested gift, judging that it was more important to feed the man. On a quirky lark, he had bought a case of twelve Meals Ready to Eat from some survivalist shop. Normally, Walter avoided survivalists and other doomsayers like the plague. They were reverse hysterics, just as embarrassing as the keener who thought the Dow was going to 100,000 real soon you-betcha. Compounding their inverted enthusiasm was a love of schadenfreude that seemed totally unnecessary. If the system were to collapse – a possibility Walter did entertain if presented to him soberly without preachiness – then why not just quietly make contingency plans? If you wanted to warn people, why not just say it once and leave it at that?
His opinions, firmly held when back in his turf, seemed a little disembodied as he was walking alone to meet the guru. The box of MREs settled onto his forearms as he continued.
The destination wasn’t easy to spot. Secluded in a copse of trees, Walter found himself staring at an honest-to-gosh treehouse. Six feet above the ground, the lumber it was built with was well-weathered. The dimensions were that of a small shed except for the five-foot height. There was no sign of a ladder: it was as if the guru had used a rope ladder and pulled it up with him. The entranceway must be in the back. Like many treehouses, the boards were not laid tightly on top of each other; there were cracks between them. Walter was sure that the dwelling was occupied.
It was.
“You have come here wondering why you are embarrassed all the time by your lower cohorts. Is that not correct?” The voice, which would contain little more than dry charm in an office setting, telegraphed authentic charisma in the faraway woods.
“Yes, it is,” Walter replied quietly. It wasn’t just getting ribbed about them. They really believed what they said. Had it been a mere sales script, he could let the ribbing and the implications roll off his shoulders. But oppositional defiance, with an undercurrent of malicious glee about the troubles his friends and neighbours would face? How could Walter face his friends knowing that the salt of his earth wanted them to suffer for no more reason than being normal?
Again, the voice spoke. “Have you any knowledge of student politics?”
High-school politicians? Those sleazes? Sure, Walter had friended his class president; only someone with a grudge wouldn’t. But live like her?
“What does being class president have to do with it?” His tone showed what he, as a lad, really thought of student politicians. They had to be insincere; they feigned –
“They have skills that are easily mocked. Do they not?”
For some reason, Walter thought of the class bullies. He was self-confident enough not to be bothered by them, but he had seen the ones that were. They did have a tough time, which many of them would never forget. You could always tell a victim: they were the most reliable type to turn down a friend request from an old classmate. The kind with an agreeably wild past from a distance…
“Yes. But feigning friendship, don’t you think that goes a little over the line?”
The voice, unattached to a visible person, continued. “Was it friendship that they feigned?”
Well, not quite. They had this knack of…
…good people management?
Blinking, Walter saw what the guru was driving at. Why did he have to be embarrassed by the hard-core? How did his old class president avoid being embarrassed by – well, some of the stunts that were pulled? It wouldn’t hurt him to pick her brain on the guise of a mini-reunion.
Looking around at the secluded copse, he didn’t think of control words like “hypocrite,” “sellout,” “loser,” “dork” and others: ones he lived and died by in high school. He was an accomplished and highly successful professional now. And yet…in some way, he was still stuck there. The quiet, sun-flecked woods took away the need to focus on his success track and gave him what he had been looking for: perspective.
Now feeling a relieved kind of odd, he sketched out a plan in his head. Embarrassing they may be, but he would no longer have to be tripped by the goldbug forest’s dark and sometimes tangled roots.
The voice continued. “You came here wondering why gold can go up despite contrarian alarms?”
Again, the guru hit the spot. Catching himself nodding, Walter added an audible “yes.” The scene was too calming for him to register the surprise he would feel later about an isolate who knew so much about the state of the gold market.
“They are wrong this time, as they are on occasion. You will find it so.”
Now plainly relieved, Walter thanked the guru and pointed out the gift. “Really, thank you.”
“Then you must go,” the voice answered in a way that connoted regret but finality. Remembering the young man by the dog, Walter turned around and headed back the way he came.
Now came Eric, who had played with the now-friendly dog after feeding it the treats. His onetime companion strode back, confident yet still reflective. “This man is everything they say he is,” Walter told him. “You’ll find everything makes sense again.” With those words, he hiked off to his BMW.
Eric was left alone to go see this guru, who could evidently work minor miracles. Picking up his own pace, he too came to the treehouse. To his amusement, the dog followed him.
When he heard the charismatic voice, he was impressed…but something about it made him stop. It reached into his memory: it reminded him of someone who he had known back at his place of work. Strangely, the voice from behind the mostly closed walls called up the memory of…
“Carl?”
It was Carl. Forced out after the downsizing, which had left Eric glad he had kept his job in the mailroom, Carl had vanished. The fellow had been cynical, sometimes bitter, but charming all the same. He had an often twisted maxim for the young man whenever they met.
Seeing the mid-sized man climb down on a now-exposed rope ladder confirmed it. He was the same Carl: still black-haired but bald except for a ring around the ears, somewhat stocky, eyes that could be both empty and pixieish, a somewhat florid face. Yes, it was definitely Carl. “How did you wind up here?” Eric asked, agog. So shocked, he didn't even think to ask why the older man was spry instead of stiff.
Carl smiled, in part out of satisfaction but only partly. “You know I got canned,” he explained as his voice returned to his good old normal, “and I don’t know what to do with myself. Everything looked like it was going to hell in a shopping cart back then.
“So, I bought myself some land in the middle of this nowhere and set up a shack. It’s about a ten-minute walk from here in a secret location,” he added with a wink.
“After rotting for several months, with nothing except satellite Internet, I began to dispense some gold advice. Lucky me: after fifteen years of watching the thing, I finally had the knack of seeing where it would go. Enough for people to remember.”
His eyebrows shot up as he waggled his head side to side. “I had to dish it out free, the regulations being what they are, but I got an online reputation for being a guru. Word spread, and here I am.”
Here he was indeed. Eric, still surprised, didn’t ask how Carl supported himself - let alone how he had scarfed up that treehouse of his and kept himself comfortable in it.
Instead, the young mailroom attendant burst out laughing. A former senior dividend administrator, easy to categorize as nothing more than a back-office drone, had the same people who looked down on him now eating out of his hand!
“I know what you’re thinking, kid,” Carl continued with a wry smile. He actually had a pretty good batting average in that department ,even back when he was working. That phrase had been one of his trademarks.
Letting his belly show as he straightened his back, “Yep, I loved the sight of the people that used to treat me like the furniture eating out of my hand. For the first six months, it was a helluva hoot.”
Then, his eyes showed something Eric had never seen in them. For the first time, the mailroom attendant saw the former dividend administrator look solemn. The treehoused copse now focused in as a backdrop for the back-office worker turned guru.
“But then I found I was doing good. For once, I could see those guys as just human: they were hurting, and I could do something about it.”
With that disclosure, the old man turned and surveyed his land out in the middle of a sparsely-populated nowhere. “And that’s what really made me what I am now.”
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