I married a Boy Scout

“By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.” Benjamin Franklin, American founding father

One recent afternoon, I not-so-innocently remarked that our crock pot lid was not long for this world. My husband slowed, glanced toward the appliance and moved on without saying a word. I was in no way surprised, however, when I opened the cabinet a couple of days later to find the cracking plastic lid had been upgraded to a glass one that fit perfectly.

It’s true. I am married to a Boy Scout. If my husband had a tattoo — which he wouldn’t — it would read, “Be prepared.” Our eldest daughter, adolescent wag to be sure, once suggested his basement “stock room” could produce a kit that would serve us well if a giraffe somehow became stranded on the roof. “Actually, it could handle any African land mammal,” she concluded.

My husband grinned. I rolled my eyes, wondering if such a thing might actually be true. The past would suggest it very well could be. Need sections of drain pipe for a science project? He’s got them. Sandpaper to cover diorama pueblo models. The same. Miniature strips of oak flooring for an equally miniature scene from an Edgar Allen Poe poem? Twenty embroidery hoops for a craft class? Fifteen feet of Velcro? Ping-pong balls? Poster frames? A hand-cranked camping lantern? A tool for punching holes in a belt that’s too big or too small? He’s got us covered.

I sometimes wonder if he lays awake at night, pondering what we could possibly need and figuring out where he could get it. I know I sometimes lay awake at night worrying about where he will put it. One basement can only hold so much.

That’s the part of his preparedness that requires a delicate dance. His “stockroom” is my “hot mess.” At least until we need something. And, he’s miraculously prepared. And, I’m smiling and holding the item in question in my hot little hands.

You know, overall, we both sleep pretty well. Perhaps we should leave it at that.