Issue link: https://digital.copcomm.com/i/635319
42 wholelifetimes.com M y new 22-year-old personal assistant arrived punctually at 3pm. She bounced in on a chilly day and before she took off her coat, asked for a large plastic bag. "I don't want my squirrel to dry out," Christine explained, taking a dead animal out of her pocket. She gingerly placed the limp little thing in the bag I handed her, secured it with a white twist-tie and put the precious package outside in the shade. "I don't think you want this in your refrigerator," she said. Christine is a survivalist. She collects fresh road kill and practices her skinning skills on the creatures. Once she removes the skin, she makes little purses out of the surprisingly beautiful fur. She uses the pouches to store tinder, just in case she has to build a fi re. I never thought I'd have a personal assistant, let alone one who is a survivalist. Christine's dream is to live off the land, off the grid, with no running water or electricity, growing her own food and collecting rainwater. I'm not the type who needs a personal assistant; I know how to get things done myself. I do my own housework and cooking, take care of my 10-year-old child, teach part-time at a university and manage a growing freelance career. But last February I broke my right leg, the leg I use to press on the gas pedal, and I became helpless and housebound. Walking on crutches was so diffi cult in a bi-level house. I couldn't negotiate the steps. I couldn't even let our beagle outside. I certainly couldn't do laundry or make beds, and this would continue for six weeks. I needed help! On that fi rst day, Christine arrived wearing a striking grey, hand-crocheted poncho over a white turtleneck that looked like a piece of fi ber art. She was kind of shy and soft-spoken and had long dark-blond hair, parted in the center. She wore no makeup and had a nice smile. She was my niece's ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend. I was virtually living on the couch—in pajamas, depressed— but not in pain because the emergency room doctor had given me pain pills. I liked her immediately. The fi rst task she did for me was to fold an enormous pile of laundry in the basement, which, again, I had no access to. She folded quickly and neatly. My undies came back to me in precise squares. I couldn't complain. Soon, she was not only folding the laundry, but doing the laundry. I didn't know what a housekeeping goldmine she was at that time, so I had her stick to laundry and letting the beagle out, answering the house phone and getting my kid off the bus at 3:45. When she was fi nished with those tasks, she read a book or did word puzzles from well-worn puzzle magazines. My depression eventually lifted and I began to ask Christine to do more and more things. She scrubbed the bathroom, changed the beds and cleaned the fi sh tank. She also made fabulous cookies. Sometimes we are given a negative and it turns out positive. Breaking my leg led me to meet Christine, who knew how to do everything—to survive. It's people like Christine who will survive WWIII. As for me, I'm back on two feet but I won't be creating squirrel purses any time soon. However, I will be whipping up batches of her delicious peanut butter cookies, which are a little piece of heaven. Christine's Flourless Peanut Butter Cookies 1 c. peanut butter 1 c. brown sugar 1 tsp vanilla 1 egg Salt Mix ingredients except salt in a bowl. Grease cookie sheet. Place small round balls of cookie dough on sheet. Using a fork, make crisscross marks on dough. Sprinkle cookies with a little salt. Bake at 350ª for 10 minutes. Let them cool before removing from the sheet. backwords SURVIVING SUBURBIA WITH A SURVIVALIST By Laura Yeager Off the grid but on the job