You can sometimes make very close guesses about a man from his auction bill, and you might enjoy peeking at the material side of one who has lived a Heartland version of American dream.
He was hunter, fisherman, and handy home craftsman who bought good gear and kept it polished and running. Guns, rods, reels, tools, boat, pickup, ATV.
He was also quite good to Mrs. Fudd. He bought her the nicest new appliances and a perfectly respectable Impala, red with a moon roof. He permitted her to own and use carnival glass and even lawn figurines. If that isn't evidence of saintly forbearance I don't know what is.
Over on his side of the property he kept his Fudd stuff, and he kept it well. A Winchester Model 70 in 7mm Remington Magnum. That's probably the tool involved in the moose antler mount although it might have been bagged with his Remington 742 in .30-06 (a rifle in which interests me only because three spare magazines have been rattling around in my junk box for years). A .22 and a 12 gauge round out his arsenal. It's modest by our standards, and it lacks the ninja firepower most of us worship. (What? No pistols? No hi-cap AK-47s?). But it served his purposes, and it's reasonable to assume he correctly dismissed any stray thoughts about a serious zombie threat there on the outskirts of Elmore.
The home place is also under the hammer, a nice big house on four-plus acres of timber. That got my attention to the point of a careful inspection via Google maps.
In the end, "no." I'm happy here even though I sometimes wish for a tad more land. The Fudd estate, at a little more than four acres, qualifies on that score, but, like Camp J in Smugleye-on-Lake, it is inside a city limit, meaning I couldn't pace off 100 yards and build a berm. Couldn't test new hand loads from a bench on the deck.
Besides, Fudd Acres is in Minnesota, and I have my pride.