The Bad Times

Prior to his suicide, my maternal grandfather was totally obsessed with a vague apocolyptic happening called The Bad Times which were perpetually around the corner and which govered his decisions to build seven sheds on his half-acre property (for the family to live in), add a deep freeze of game to the house, melt down various metals into ingots, buy numerous plots of worthless land in Arkansas, and never open a bank account. "When the Bad Times come, they'll be eating each other," he'd say gloomily. I've long thought that the failure of the Bad Times to materialize hastened his demise.

Slim is very much a man after my grandfather's heart, down to his affection for man-made diamonds and apocalyptic scenarios. He has instructed me to lay in the following:

-Large sack rice
-Various dried beans
-Powdered milk
-Bottled water
-Camp stove
-Canned tuna

(He wants to join the CostCo in order to acquired the provisions in sufficient quantity.)

He also gifted me, in addition to my knife, with a book called Wilderness Know-How.