Small Building Construction, Part Twelve

Mr. Danny Shine, at Speaker's Corner
London, England (ca 2009)
photograph by
Acapeloahddub

If you see this message, I am having picture taking issues. Plus, this is it for my small building construction project, at least the parts I'm willing to share.

So, on with a rant.

I was reading someone else the other day and she said something like 'If you need a detailed manual to survive, you have bigger issues."

I whole heartily agreed until I realized most folks had non-preppers as parents

Let me explain.

When I was two years old, my mother 'bugged-out' from our family's home because of the Cuban missile crisis. She dressed my sister and I in our nicest clothes; grabbed the bugout bags, she and my father had packed after he was notified about an emergency deployment to the Caribbean, and we flew north out of danger.

Most other families, in our neighborhood, stayed.

At six or seven, my sister and I found my mom and dad's stash of silver dollars. To get these silver dollars, my dad would go to the bank and ask for dollar coins as change for a five dollar bill.

When I was tenish, a hurricane was headed towards our home. My father went into our bathrooms and filled the bathtubs with water and added a little bleach (about a cup). My mother wanted to go to the store, but my dad stopped her. He told her we have about seven days worth of canned food in the house; (This was back when folks only got paid once a month) we don't need any more food.

On the way home, my father stopped at hardware store and bought charcoal, some lighter fluid, and filled the car with gas. He saw many of our neighbors trying to buy food from empty supermarkets. We watched the tv as the storm approached. When the storm finally reached us, we all hid in the small bathroom under the stairway. After the storm, and before the lights came back on, my father grilled on the back patio with his military flashlight for illumination after checking on the elderly neighbors, next door.

My mother? She was cooking everything else using her stainless steel pots and pans.

When I was thirteen, my father and grandfather taught my sister and I how to shoot a .22LR single shot rifle. My younger brother would learn this too when he turned thirteen.

I can remember my grandfather grumbling about we should have learned how to shoot when my sister had turned eight.

When I was fifteen my father started teaching me how to drive. He taught me how to replace a flat tire, steer out of a skid, drive real fast, and talk to the police if I was ever stopped.

At about seventeen, my father would send me to collect rent money from his apartment tenants. He taught me how to ask nicely for the rent and be respectful, but also how to watch my back.

After I joined the military, both my father and mother roles in my life changed. They became mentors to me. My mother taught me how to 'see' the invisible messages of corporations, and my father taught me how to trasistion to  the corprate culture.

I have to go but I want to leave you one last thought about my survivalist parents.

When I was fortyish both my mother and father taught me how to die, kicking, scratching, and struggling to survive one more day.

So,

Where's the rant in all this?

No matter what others say, each of us are survivors, and we can learn how to survive the tough times ahead.