It Just Goes To Show

When Steve Bolinger was ten his father gave him a single-shot, bolt-action, .410 shotgun. The boy was thrilled, of course, because only men owned shotguns, like Unkie Don, brother Sid, and Dad, himself. Steve was so excited that he sneaked into the woodshed to insert a shell in the chamber. To his terrified surprise, the shell exploded. The shot went into the dirt floor inches from his toes, while the powder splattered across his face and hands leaving minute burns. The accident occurred because Steve had forced a three-inch shell into a two-and-a-half-inch chamber.

As the boy grew, he made a habit of being careful with weapons as he developed into a good shot. He hit rabbits on the run, pheasants on the wing, even deer as they loped through the fern-covered forest floor of their father's hundred-acre farm. When Sid got a clay-pigeon hand-thrower and load-your-own machine, young Steve shot so many shells he could hit five out of ten pigeons from the hip. And all the while, because of his .410 experience, he demanded that safety always reign.

During his high school years, Sid bought a 30-06 deer rifle and a .22 pistol. Now Steve was in Heaven. He could shoot any weapon he wanted: Shotgun at live game or at clay pigeons; a high-powered rifle at deer or at paper targets; and a pistol at tin cans perched precariously on the fence posts. At every outing he hunted and practiced safely and

enjoyed himself immensely.

Father Herb put in an orchard on the Bolinger Farm. Naturally the two boys did much of the work including digging the holes, placing the saplings, covering and watering, then pruning, spraying, and picking. As they worked the small orchard full of delicious apples, pears, peaches, and plums, they also learned the business of grapes, because Father had put in fifty of the juicy berries too. The work fell to the boys: more post holes, planting, watering, and harvesting, but they didn't mind because they loved the juice and the after-hour joy the vineyard brought them. It didn't take long to realize that the fruit was natural bait that lured pheasants, and that allowed the boys another chance to use their guns.

When Sid was a Senior, the two hiked into the hardwoods with their rifles. They picked walnuts off the ground and hunted the squirrels that scampered among the treetops. Both activities pleased them though they got little game, for without dogs they never learned how to outsmart the wily animals when that scurried on the opposite side of the trunks: the chattering tree-climbers never stayed in one place long enough to get a good shot. But it was fun being outdoors with the animals, with a gun and your brother who liked to do what you did.

Herb Bolinger was a sound businessman. He knew the value of cheap labor. As long as the boys did their work he let them go to the fields and forests with their guns. That way he got a great deal of work out of them. Sid and Steve kept the truck farm trim, cultivated strawberries, blackberries, and raspberries; tended the asparagus patch; fertilized the

rhubarb; and, of course, hoed and weeded the long rows of corn, beans, peas, and tomatoes. They enjoyed the variety of plants from hilling the potatoes so they wouldn't burn in the hot summer sun to staking the tomatoes so they would produce more of their juicy, flavorful fruit.

A favorite job was making cider. Herb had ingeniously made a press out of a hydraulic jack turned upside-down so when the boys cranked it squashed the apples neatly. They bottled many gallons of gold-yellow juice every Fall and even stashed a few bottles under the straw to ferment into apple-jack. They did the same with the grapes, making excellent juice that Herb sold at his fruit stand. They also experimented with wine-making but the boys never mastered that. The bottles always blew up.

The Fall also brought a great demand for pumpkins, and the Bolinger Farm supplied the eager customers. Herb contacted the schools and many children picked their own to make jack-o' lanterns as class projects. On weekends, after Halloween, the boys shot at the unpicked pumpkins. The big fruit made excellent long-range targets because of their color and size. They also liked to see them explode when hit just right. To guarantee a great splatter, Steve pumped water into the orange spheres by jamming in the garden hose.

During the Winter, Steve did all the farm chores. He collected eggs, fed the geese, fed and milked the cows, and even made sure the beehive had enough sugar-water to make it through the cold weather. Steve loved to work the bees and found the honey perfect as it drooled over early-morning pancakes. There was always a lot to do on the farm, particularly

since he had to spend a half-hour every morning and afternoon on the school bus. On weekends he liked to slip out to the pond and ice-fish.

The first Spring job that required any great effort was putting up the maple syrup. The Bolingers had a small operation -- about two-hundred trees -- so they did everything by hand and with no outside help. They boys sawed, split, and hauled wood to put under the long, metal evaporators, they drilled holes in the trees and pounded in the spiles, gathered the sap which they poured into fifty-gallon drums they pulled by the tractor, then boiled and finished off the golden liquid. The syrup was the pride of the Bolingers and brought top dollar at their summer fruit stand.

Years later, when Steve had left the farm, he dabbled in gardens in his backyard. He'd have four beefsteak tomatoes, a row of beans, some peas, but could never put in corn because of lack of space. He remembered his youth spent in the county and drove around the dirt roads every Sunday he could.

As time passed and his city job grew wearisome, he thought about the hard work conjoined with carefree life in the country. He dreamed of his good ole days and wished he could afford a piece of land and at least hobby-farm on weekends. But his job didn't allow him much leeway. He knew it never would and he didn't like the prospect. Because of that, Steve shot at the down-town rifle range every week, once or twice a year got to a skeet range, and turned to buying lottery tickets in the hope that he would win so he could fulfill his dream of getting back to the country.

Steve bought a ticket every week for fourteen years. Once he won

twenty-five dollars. Another time on a wild streak of luck he won four free tickets in a row. Buying the tickets became as habitual as his childhood chores. He rationalized that a dollar a week or fifty-two a year was no great loss. He further philosophized that he helped lucky winners and the state projects that used the millions by being a regular. Stoically Steve said that buying lottery tickets was an investment whether he profited or not.

During his college years, Steve rubbed shoulders with many art students. It seemed to young Mr. Bolinger that they saw life as he did: It should be natural and one should live it fully. While he had no artistic talent himself, he loved to talk with these friends and greatly admired their work. Over and over he heard stories of great artists who never had enough money to pay the rent, of rich benefactors who helped starving artists, of men and women so devoted to expressing themselves that they would rather half starve than compromise by selling themselves cheap and work for a living. Steve grew to love his artist friends. He also wished he could help them.

In middle-age, Steve experienced the Hippie Years. Too old and settled now to be one of them, still he admired their desire to get back to the land, to live naturally, eat only organic food --- what he called farm-food --- to milk their own cows, and not be dragged into oblivion by the Establishment that had dulled him. Because Steve felt trapped, all he could do was watch, wish, and continue to buy lottery tickets. In the meantime, his guns began to rust and he got to the country less frequently

even when his own sons urged him.

One day, Steve heard that Sid's brother-in-law won a small lottery. Everyone at the office had chipped in, so each contributor walked away with two-hundred thousand dollars each. What the man did with his winnings impressed Steven. The in-law treated each of his five siblings to a free, two-week tour of Ireland. What a great way to spend a lottery winning, thought Steve. It also planted an idea in his mind.

From the moment that Sid took the trip, Steve's dreams changed from winning a lottery in order to meandering in the woods, shooting his guns, taking care of animals and gardens, and putting up maple syrup and tending beehives. Now Steve Bolinger developed a great and glorious Plan.

He would place the fortune in a trust fund called The Farm. The Farm was the manifested brainchild built on the memories of his childhood, youth, and mid-life. The underlying motif would be Do It Yourself. Phantasmagorically he planned a large orchard full of apples, cherries, peaches, pears, plums, and nectarines. People from town would rent a tree, prune and spray it, then reap the harvest of all its delicious fruit. Steve could easily afford the initial cost, upkeep would be nothing, yet it would benefit many people. He would even build a Press Room in which he'd set up fruit presses so his clients could make their own cider and grape juice as he had as a boy.

While trees were on the dreamer's mind, Steve would also plant many nut trees: Walnut, almond, pecan, every nut that would grow on the

thousand acres he would purchase with his winnings. Now people and squirrels could enjoy a great variety of nuts. They'd also afford boys a perfect place to use their small-caliber guns.

The Plan also included a Pick-Your-Own berry patch. Blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, blackcaps, gooseberries, cranberries in the marsh, and sharp-thorned blackberries, Steve would plant them all and let townspeople pick until their fingers were stained. What joy everyone would get from this part of The Farm!

Another division wealthy Mr. Bolinger planned he called Pick-A-Pot, where people would start their own seedlings in his massive greenhouse, then take them home so they could enjoy the flowers all Winter. Steve was particularly keen on having an entire section of the state-of-the-art greenhouse planted in Gardenias, his favorite-smelling flower. He dreamed of taking the odoriferous blossoms to town and anonymously leaving them at women's desks or workplaces.

Naturally, a great part of Steve's imaginary project was the garden. Like the other sections, he based it on the visitors doing the work. Rent-A-Garden he named it first, but Garden-Your-Own was its final name. The idea wasn't new, but he didn't care. It allowed him to give the townspeople a chance to grow garden-fresh vegetables without having to buy their own land. He enjoyed providing the space, plowing it, then supplying free use of tools and water. In his dreams, he figured the people would enjoy the fresh produce more because they would have gotten their hands dirty caring for it. What a great way to use the money from his

dream-winnings!

The more Steve exercised his imagination, the greater the scope of his project grew. Next he established a full-fledged honey-business complete with all the equipment needed, including a Honey Hut for extracting the sweet liquid from the combs. His sons would operate The Farm Store and sell great quantities of honey as well as many gallons of maple syrup the sugar bush would produce. In fact, Steve Bolinger visualized The Store becoming the favorite shopping place of the organic-minded people throughout the county, where everything was natural and home-made the way it used to be and how he wished it still was.

The next thought that entered the would-be wealthy man's mind was a Fish Farm. Obviously he would name it Catch-Your-Own. One pond would be shallow and mucky; he'd grow catfish there. A neighboring pond would be deep and cool; he'd put trout in that one. Another pond would specialize in a mixture of species: Bass, blue gill and crappie, pike, and his favorite, walleyes. On the side he would have a worm farm for the fishermen --- obviously named Dig-Your-Own. The avid fisherman could, of course, ice fish too, just as he had as a boy on his father's farm pond.

Steve even dreamed of a special area he'd name The Frog Pond where bullfrogs would reign. The dreamer had researched suppliers of wildlife and found a company that could furnish tadpoles by the hundreds of thousands. How the aging Bolinger imagined great frog hunts where stick-wielding, mud-footed boys hooped and hollered, then had a great

frog-leg feast afterward!

Steve's mind, now on animals, and always remembering the joy he'd gotten while hunting with Sid and his father as a boy, created a grand project called Hunt-Your-Own. A hundred acres would be devoted to pheasants and quail only. He would stock the land with hundreds of birds from the wildlife supplier, then do everything he and his money could to establish the land as a perfect habitat. He would plant a few acres of corn and other plots of grain throughout the plot. He'd even plant brambles and bushes to protect the birds. To be sure that foxes and other predators wouldn't get in, he'd anchor a twelve-foot fence, barb-wired and electrified, several feet in the ground with cement. He didn't want any meat-eaters digging under. When the birds matured, Steve would open Hunt-Your-Own to a small number of hand-picked friends. No one would bag over the legal limit and all would respect the land and the great opportunity the benefactor had provided.

Because of his childhood experiences, once Steve had established Hunt-Your-Own in his mind, he would allocate fifty acres and stock it with rabbits only. He would plant acre after acre of carrots, greens, alfalfa, everything the cottontails loved. Plus, of course, perfect hiding places and a very deeply anchored fence to keep the beasties out. Steve would run this Hunt-Your-Own on the same basis as the bird fields by disallowing dogs. He especially liked the thought of having a father-and-son hunt where bonding could take place as they hunted shoulder-to-shoulder.

The natural extension of the first Hunt-Your-Own fields led to a

waterfowl area. Already expert in pond building from his Catch-Your-Own division, the dreamer would build ponds and plant them with reeds, rushes, lily pads, duckweed, and wild rice. He'd stock it with geese and ducks. What an addition, Steve thought; hunters wouldn't have to brave ice-cold and drizzly early mornings. Now they could simply join the Hunt-Your-Own Club and seek waterfowl at their leisure. Steve liked the addition of the wild rice because that would attract migratory wildlife which would satisfy his being part of the balance of Nature. Yes, his idea of creating his thousand-acre farm was blossoming well. Mentally.

At this point the great lottery winner had two ideas simultaneously. One was to create a division he'd call Raise-Your-Own. Here, he'd have interested people register at The Farm Store for a Thanksgiving turkey, a Christmas goose, a duck or chicken for any occasion. They'd tag a gosling or duckling. When the clients came for their holiday special, the buyers would do all the preparing: slaughtering, de-feathering, and gutting. Steve felt this experience would make them a greater part of the process of self-sufficient foot producers. It was in perfect keeping with the overall thinking of his Plan. He would supply the habitat, the food, and all the equipment necessary. He'd even show the customers how to prepare the bird when they came for it. Steve conjured in his dreams that Raise-Your-Own would be an ideal addition to The Farm, one that many people would love. It'd sure beat buying an animal at a grocery store.

The second thought that entered the dreamer's mind was The Range. He didn't know if he should call this division Shoot-Your-Own or not. The

principal was simple. He'd use the dirt from digging out the ponds to build huge earth embankments. Then he'd set up targets. At one range only high-powered rifles would be allowed. At another, only .22's for young boys. And for even younger lads, there's be an area for air- and BB guns. Another range would be for shotguns including skeet, trap, and electrically controlled moving targets on the ground so they'd resemble running, hopping, rabbits. Another area would be a pistol range.

All of these would require supervision, so Steve imagined creating a great relationship with the police. The law would monitor the ranges as well as use it. Part of the complex would include a Club House -- perhaps even a Boy's Club and a Girl's Group -- where equipment and supplies would be furnished so the shooters could make their own shells and even clay pigeons. Hunting and gun safety courses would be offered. Affiliation with state and federal clubs would be established. All this, of course, would be placed at the far end of the thousand-acre Farm where it wouldn't bother the gardeners, hunters, or fishermen.

Once he'd planned the range, another idea entered his mind, an archery range. Then a spear-throwing area popped up, and finally a knife-throwing plot. He didn't know if he would allow hatchet and tomahawk throwing in that area or make a separate range. Not everything was perfectly planned as Steve Bolinger imaged how he would use his lottery winnings, but he felt comfortable with the basic ideas.

It was at this point that Steve remembered his college days. While he was offering so many people chances to fulfill his own boyhood desires, the

thought of his artist friends became more vivid. He remembered the camaraderie and the close bonds he'd established at college. He remembered the good feelings he'd experienced when around them and their work. Steve also remembered the complaints of the artist in the real world: how they had to pay the rent, play out the role of the starving artist, and be labeled second-class citizens. Now that he had millions, Steve would change this: at least on The Farm.

So at the end opposite all the sound-making ranges and growing activity, Steve built in his mind bungalows, studios, offices, everything artists of all media would need to create without threats, barriers, and obligations from the outside. If the artists wanted or needed to get away from the intensity of creating they could work on The Farm. But in Steve's mind he knew it would be wrong to obligate them to: no forced labor there.

Part of the complex would be an enormous performing arts building, fully equipped with state-of-the-art stages, lighting, orchestra pits, curtains. He'd include a film-making studio so movies could be made. In addition, he'd add wings that would include pottery wheels and kilns, palettes and easels, marble and mallets, paper and typewriters-- all the tools that would be needed by the tactile artists. Ah, what a masterful touch to his Plan! While every other division was grand and beautiful, this was the perfect icing on that glorious Do-Your-Own concept-cake. The Arts addition would round out his greatest dream: to give everyone a chance to create what and as he wanted without barriers.

It was two o-clock in the morning when Steve Bolinger finished creating his Art-Your-Own division, only a few hours after the Saturday-night lottery drawing. Not able to sleep, he rolled out of bed and turned on the light. Absently he took his latest ticket from his wallet. He looked at the numbers. He didn't know why because through the years he'd given up picking numbers: now he let the computer do it. He figured if he was to win it would be with any number.

Now his half-blurred eyes saw 4, 13, 27, 38, 44, and Powerball number 2. They were meaningless numbers in the middle of the night. He'd call later in the day and see what the winning numbers were. He rolled into bed and slept. But those numbers kept repeating themselves. Even though he hadn't memorized them. They kept resounding over and over like a recurring, night-time melody.

4, 13, 27, 28, 44, Powerball 2 ...

Finally the numbers banged so loudly that he sat up in bed, wide-awake.

"Alright, already!" he said aloud. "I'll check them right after breakfast."

Steve Bolinger's life changed from one of mundane, dull-job thinking and dreaming to one of dynamic, exhilarating, fulfilling action the moment he held the lottery bank draft for seventy-million dollars. It was like the story of the young man who went to bed a prince, but after his father died overnight, woke up a king. The thought pattern and metabolism of both had altered.

It was as if all his dreams were his thinking/planning stage. Now, with

the long-waited check, he didn't self indulge by buying things for himself but went directly into action. Onlookers, including brother Sid, thought he was going off the deep end and acting irresponsibly. They wouldn't have thought this way had they known how many times he'd gone over his dream-plans in his head.

The first thing he did after he established the trust fund was to quit his job. Then he laid out his plan to Sid and hired him to work full-time in order to manifest The Farm. The Bolinger brothers had every real estate firm in the county looking for land. He even promised a bonus for the one that created a thousand-acre chunk by buying out small farms and consolidating them. After many trips to the country and studying aerial photographs, the new multi-millionaire purchased a parcel that outdid his expectations. After all, a thousand acres is square miles and that covers a lot of ground.

With his money and land secure, he now put people to work: Architects, construction crews, engineers, experts in agriculture, dam-building, pond making, earth moving and leveling, road building, fence installation, windmills, solar panels, greenhouses, swimming pools -- Steve enlivened the county economy and brought local unemployment to nil single-handedly. Within the first week everyone was saying that no one man had won the lottery, everyone in the county had.

Because he hired so many different crews, his dreamland was created quickly. Because everyone was part of Steve's success and wanted The Farm to succeed there was virtually no opposition, especially since Steve

made it known at the beginning that he'd hire only local workers and purchase all materials within the county. Volumes could be written about the many stories experienced in creating The Farm and generations passed on tales about the year they built it. The workers lovingly tagged the many spreaders that fertilized the soil as the Poop Brigade, the hundreds of high school students who installed the miles of fence were called The Fencers, and on went the appellations and stories.

Naturally the landscapers were supremely busy. Water pipes and electric cables spread underground for miles. With everyone working at top-speed because Steve paid cash weekly and promised ample bonuses if they finished at specific dates, the entire project was completed in only a year and a half. It was a spectacular achievement, considering a six-million dollar performing arts center was constructed, a million yards of earth removed, several thousand trees planted, eight running miles of rose hedge set, a dozen ponds built. The entire state was talking.

After the initial fervor, the tenor changed from beehive-excitement to breath-holding anticipation; everyone wanted to see the thousands of animals in place, the trees and plants producing, and what kind of people the artist colony and shooting ranges would attract.

While all this was happening, Steve and Sid felt they were in Heaven; it's not everyone who gets to live out boyhood dreams. But their life was not one of idle self-indulgence; they reveled in putting on work-gloves and shoveling and planting and hoeing and picking like everyone else. This endeared them to the people even more. Townsfolk and laborer alike

knew from the beginning that the Bolinger brothers were not out to exploit anyone; they were contributing something greatly needed and sorely wanted.

Steve's Plan was picked up at higher levels. The notion that private money could so affect county economy took the pressure off the tax dollar, bureaucratic administration and control. The success of the project influenced feelings across the country to the point that the new attitude was one of hope. Soon, many wealthy philanthropists looked at The Farm as a model to copy for community development projects around the world. One group even suggested that the Bolingers create franchises and oversee an international system, but they turned it down because they felt it would lose the personal touch. Steve and Sid were completely content with The Farm as a single entity; if anyone wanted to copy their idea and even make money off it that was their business. They would stay on their thousand acres and see that it operated as well as it was conceived.

After Steve bought an All-Terrain Vehicle, happy workers and participants saw him driving everywhere. He'd spend time pulling weeds or gathering fruit, squeezing apples or watering the greenhouse, digging earthworms or seining minnows, stocking The Store with honey or maple syrup, tagging animals or restocking fish, talking to artists or shooting on the ranges. Leagues were organized, the Boy's Club and Girl's Group were established, while conservation projects and school field trips abounded. All this because one man dreamed of the beautiful things he and his brother had done as boys, visualized a concept that could make happy

the multitude, and followed the extremely subtle feeling that there was a reason to keep buying lottery tickets all those years.

It just goes to show, doesn't it?