dystopia « Robin Writes

No, no. We are not “flipping” rocks, although we certainly have enough that we could apply almost any meaning to that term and still have plenty of leftover rocks; we ordered gravel for our driveway.

Talk about a fiasco.

My insurance agent recommended we call this guy, so we did. He was supposed to come out Tuesday around five o’clock, but never showed. The next night, his DAD came over around 8:00 p.m. when it was getting dark.

So far, so good. Sorta.

My husband went out to talk to the dad; we’d already discussed what we needed, which was gravel to top off the road. Period.

The two of them walked the driveway and my husband came in and asked me what color I wanted . . .

Um, gravel-colored? I didn’t care. Really. Brown or white, what was the difference?

The next night, the dad showed up around 4, not 5 as he’d said, and I was down in the woods when I heard the truck start dumping. They left shortly after spreading the entire drive, and I went to take a closer look.

O. M. G.

Repeat. Several times.

Throw in a few cuss words.

Repeat again.

They had dumped road-bed sized rocks—boulders, compared to gravel—all over the driveway. ALL the way down.

I was furious. FURIOUS.

I paced. I bitched. I moaned.

Okay, actually, when I came back inside and my husband said, “What do you think?” I replied with “fine.”

And we all know what THAT means . . .

So I expanded on that. A lot. Several times.

Honestly, I thought I would cry—and I never cry—and why? Because it’s a done deed. The solution? Use the blade and then—oh, Lord—use rakes.

Because we don’t have enough to do around here, right?

So I called “the guy” and naturally had to a leave a message. Okay, I left two. I was pissed.

The next day, the guy shows up around 5:00 with a load of gravel, even though I’d told him to CALL ME. My husband was at the barn and called me down there to meet the guy and talk to him.

I was loaded for bear.

And then—

Then I saw the guy. Close to seven feet tall, yes, really, and probably 300 pounds. I’m guessing. Holy crap. Maybe I should have tempered those messages a little, right? Yikes!

Of course, turns out he’s a really, really nice guy and we finally determined that my husband was confused or clueless and that his dad is blind or clueless.

Long story short—oh, wait, maybe I should have started here? Anyway, the guy brought gravel, now in two piles until we finish RAKING the damn drive and mashing it down into the existing roadbed.

I figure it’ll be September before we can lay the gravel.

Good grief.

I took a road trip this weekend to Kansas City. It was, yes, the 101^st Missouri Writers Guild conference, and normally a four-hour trip, but it got me to thinking.

Many, if not most, preppers have a BOB in their vehicles for those little emergencies, and a lot of “regular” people have at least a car-type emergency kit, which usually consists of some tools, flares, and maybe a blanket or some kitty litter in the winter.

Since we’ve spent so much time on the road the past year, I’ve been careful to keep our BOBs replenished and ready for almost anything:

Matches, knives, heat blankets, water, jerky, applesauce in a pouch (it sounds gross, and maybe is, but it was on sale), water bottles, and some granola and extra ammo. I also carry maps, very detailed ones, and a first aid kit, as well as all the car kit paraphernalia.

And of course, we had all our necessities in our luggage.

This is one of the simplest preps you can do, and it’s not just for SHTF. You could be a traffic jam, accident, overheated car, out of gas, or a flat tire—which we narrowly avoided on the return trip last night.

It goes without saying that you should ALSO know how to use these things, from maps to weapons to tire irons. And practice! The side of the road is no place to figure out what goes where and how to do it and what happens next.

Especially when you manage to wander around in a pretty sketchy area of a major city for twenty minutes or so, all in the name of “adventure!”