How to Plan for Trouble

About twenty years ago I was invited by my Grandpa Dwayne to accompany him in hauling a load of firewood out of an area near the Smith and Morehouse Reservoir above Oakley, Utah. Having left work a little early that day and with the amount of sunlight extended due to daylight savings, I had anticipated that we would be able to gather a couple of truckloads of firewood before night fall.

I said to Grandpa, “How many loads do you think we will get tonight, maybe two?” His response continues to teach me to this day. He said, “Oh, I think we’ll be able to get one full load done tonight. We better plan for trouble. You’ve got to always plan for trouble, Boy.” I still figured that with my help, surely we could haul at least two loads.

A couple of hours later the truck was loaded and Grandpa fired-up the engine. As he drove over a cluster of dead branches lying in his path, the muffler of the old light blue 1978 GMC got snagged and became partially dismantled underneath. He calmly got out of the truck, looking like he expected something like this was going to happen, examined the damage underneath and then got up and started to chuckle. I always appreciated how he could laugh at himself in the face of his own foolishness.

At this point, I was beginning to wonder how we were going to get out of this predicament. He began wandering through the trees combing the ground with his eyes. After a few minutes he found what he was looking for and called out, “Here’s just the ticket.” With a piece of rusted wire in hand, he shimmied his way underneath the truck and wired the hanging muffler back into place. Pleased with his improvised solution, he stood, brushed off the leaves and twigs that clung to his white and blue-stripped engineer overhauls and said, “See, it always pays to plan for trouble.”

This incident probably added an additional hour to our journey. Rather than having a quantity driven agenda for hauling wood, he knew that one load was realistic and that there were other days ahead for wood gathering. Grandpa didn’t believe that his self-worth was tied to being an overachiever. When driving his truck he looked at his surroundings and enjoyed the ride. When he passed the waterfalls in the Uintah Mountains he always stopped to take a look. And when he set out to accomplish a task, he liked to plan for trouble. But he never went about frantically trying to accomplish a list of self-imposed urgent tasks that, when completed, measured his value as a person. Fortunately, I learned this lesson from him before he passed away two years ago.

I thought of my grandpa when I recently attended a funeral a few weeks ago. My good friend, Elaine Earl’s, husband passed away after gracefully battling cancer. He was a remarkable man. One speaker at the funeral noted how he had one of life’s greatest gifts: to be able spend time with those he loved most before leaving this life. The speaker went on to talk about the many ways in which he did this with his loved ones, friends and associates. Elaine and I reminisced over her husband’s services just the other day. We talked about the large number of people who attended, the beautiful solo music sung by her daughter and how nice the casket was that was chosen. That’s when she confessed that her husband had wanted a pine casket, but because she liked oak much better, that’s what he got.

This triggered a little secret of my own that I shared with her. My wife refuses to ever live in the Kamas Valley (the land of milk and honey, the land of my birth, aka—Zion) where I was raised. Not that she has anything against it; she just likes the city life where she was raised. Years ago we started a discussion that continues unfinished to this day. I have informed her that I want to be laid to rest in the rich virgin soil of the Kamas Valley (land of the free, home of the brave, aka—Zion). As you might have guessed she has plans for no such burial for me and especially for herself.

I have gently informed her that if she dies before me, not to be surprised if on resurrection day (assuming you believe in a resurrection and if you don’t then substitute the word “reincarnation” and it will work the same) she pops out of the ground only to have her eyes gaze across the beautiful sunset on the horizon of the western hills in the lovely land of Kamas Valley (my country ‘tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, long live the queen!, aka—Zion). Needless to say, a slight bit of contention remains wedged between us on this subject.

Here’s what I have concluded: he/she who dies last—WINS! Taking a page out of my Grandpa Dwayne’s book, “You’ve Got to Plan for Trouble,” I had decided to buy a burial plot in my place of choice and leave strict resting place instructions for my children. But I quickly decided against this idea due to the fact that our children dismiss most of what I say and heed quickly to my wife’s wishes. Furthermore, my wife would likely sell the plot of prime real estate and make a killing (pun intended) off of my death. No, I have a much better plan. I’ve taken a page out of my Great-grandmother Rhea’s book, (you may remember her as the family punch drinker from Column #1) “How to Live to be 101.” This is the ultimate form of planning for trouble—to outlive them all and do as you please in the land of the Kamas Valley (and crown thy good, with brotherhood from sea to shining sea, aka, Zion).

If you look around long enough, you’ll eventually find a piece of wire laying around to secure that old muffler back into place. Thanks again Grandpa. Your lessons continue to come in handy.