I have been witness to much handiness over the years. There is a diploma in my closet that belies a thorough understanding of physics. The spectacular nature in which I can fail at simple tasks, however, can sometimes baffle all comers. If we’re self-analyzing, I would pin much of my failure on the desire to do things without assistance. Such stubborn resolve tends to get hella dangerous when heavy, sharp or moveable (bonus if you have all 3!) implements are involved.

I wonder how much of this hubris can be chalked up to genetics. The Chapman men, while being noted do-it-yourselfers, have a long history of getting in over our heads. Impressive failure is quite effective as a primary teaching method, plus the stories are lit. Fireworks, believe it or not, can set your cousin on fire if used incorrectly. If there is a tornado in the area, don’t leave shelter to “go have a look.” When sharing a boat with another fishing enthusiast, it’s best to hook the fish instead of your compatriot's face. Sure you could simply be told this, or you could be witness to the barb stuck in uncle Pat. Tell me what method is more impactful.

With so many memorable life lessons stored away, you’d think I would simply know better by now.

Over lunch on Tuesday, I had the pleasure of catching up with two long-time friends. They asked how I fill my days since taking a break from work. Instead of listing out things, I instead opted for the weighted priorities. Number one: keep my family happy. For this week, completing that directive meant that I would be renting a trailer from U-Haul and trucking some cargo for our Labor Day vacation. This was a perfectly reasonable request.

Vehicle purchases are an area where I devote oodles of thought. I hear people say they are not car people, and that’s a perfectly fine way to be. Especially with younger children, that thing in the driveway can seem like a rolling trash can simply delivering utility. The default in my neck of the woods for any red-blooded male is a big ass truck or truck-adjacent SUV. Because I wear a lot of Patagonia hats and prefer something sportier, this season of life finds me in a Subaru Ascent. My tow hitch is such a de-prioritized feature that it lives hidden behind a piece of plastic that masks as bumper. Subaru people are, by and large, more apt to use it as a way to attach assorted racks for carrying all of their outdoorsy paraphernalia.

Someone once told me that the largest U-Haul location, by size, happens to be the one closest to my house. The acres of pavement abut a Red Lobster, which my firefighter friend has seen the kitchen of and accordingly refuses to eat there. This is not a block we are eager to put on the poster. Yet such convenience does afford ample opportunity to fill one’s American belly with unlimited shrimp while figuring out what to do with all your extra stuff. When I pulled out of the U-Haul Store successfully attached to my five by nine-foot rig, there was a fury of rattling metal at every transition, but otherwise smooth sailing until the final stretch.

My mother spent over forty years in the insurance industry and regularly reminds us that almost 80% of car accidents happen within 15 miles of home. Statistically, we spend most of our time in that range, so it makes sense. The familiarity of everything can also cause us to put our guard down. I am constantly dodging walkers, scooter children, a cat named Mowgli who occasionally pops out of drains and (notably) some very hazardous bumps down the stretch. We like to say that if you can make it out of the neighborhood, then the rest of your adventure should be a piece of cake.

If you are unfamiliar with the City of Vestavia Hills, where we live, the name is a solid clue what you are in for topographically. There is not a flat place in which to park a trailer. But I had to immediately turn the ship around and pick up the kids from school, so I thought it best to drop it in the driveway real quick. First mistake.

I hopped out and disconnected, figuring I could make short work of it by simply walking twelve hundred rolling pounds into place on our flat-ish parking pad out front. It instantly started building speed when loosened and I knew where things were quickly headed. Our steep yard would only assist in adding momentum and from there it was full speed ahead all the way down to our minister’s house.

At the last possible moment, I lunged forward and pushed the tongue as hard as I could in a perpendicular direction to the hill. Mercifully, the trailer turned back uphill and came to a precarious stop in the front yard. I said some things that my mother wouldn’t be proud of as I surveyed the scene. Sweat rolled down across a pair of dusty scraped hands. The whole front of my big toe had been skinned and that was starting to bleed like crazy, because of course I had sandals on for this adventure. Side note - I’m the guy who will happily point out every knucklehead pressure washing, lifting things or chopping with open-toed footwear, but I’m just as dumb. The skinned toe was a nice compliment to the one on my other foot that I had broken doing laundry a week previous. Dear reader, I live an extreme life.

After some further salty language, a little bit of ingenuity and a change of clothes, the trailer was parked somewhat safely on the street and loaded with a dining room table I really should have asked for help with.

Early the next morning, I loaded in the last of our items then lined up to reconnect the Subaru. Not surprisingly, this did not go well. With a full load and no handy jack in place to steady the tongue, it started rolling on me again. For sure I was ready this time with a few well-placed wheel chocks, but the dance of moving them a little, then repositioning the hitch was maddening. When I finally succeeded, I was once again drenched in sweat. For some reason, the clamp didn’t seem to be screwing down as far as it had previously. After some furious attempts at tightening it as much as possible, I attached the chains, connected lights and started off down the hill.

I was still descending when one wheel hit a deep rut and the other caught a different one. In one of the more terrifying things I’ve witnessed in my rearview mirror, the trailer removed itself from the hitch and took a course independent of the vehicle. In a panic and with pedestrians on the road ahead of me, I stopped. The trailer slammed into the Subaru with a sickening thud.

Believe it or not, my driving record is impeccable. I’ve never been in an accident while behind the wheel. The sound and force that came through the chassis, however, sounded expensive. I stepped out to survey the damage. One of the walkers who had witnessed the scene asked “Do you need help!?” before qualifying with “I wouldn’t know what to do here but I can call someone for you.” I must have looked a treat, sweat-dampening the third shirt that morning with assorted cuts on my hands.

Through some miracle of miracles, the front of the trailer had dropped right before impact, missing the bodywork entirely. It had glanced off the connection hardware before ramming into, get this, the spare tire. There were some superfluous plastic pieces up underneath that had seen better days, but they would all be hidden from view when I eventually reattached the bumper cover. Instead of using my still shaking hands to call Allison, I instead put it all back together (correctly this time) and carried on my way as if nothing had happened.

The rest of my cautious and solitary trip provided plenty of time for introspection. I’m not one to live life with regrets, but yeesh the previous twenty-four hours had been an unnecessarily wild ride. Certainly, my age requires that more patience and thoughtfulness be employed in dangerous situations. How lucky am I that disaster struck within walking distance of my house and with no lasting damage? What if this had all played out on the interstate just a few miles later?

As my journey came to a close, The Grateful Dead’s “Touch of Grey” fittingly was the last song to play. When Jerry Garcia sings “Every silver linings got a touch of grey” I instinctively stroke my sideburns, which are starting to betray the future color of my mostly brown hair, knowing I’ve probably just accelerated the process a bit. I continue on, dear reader - not particularly wiser but possibly better prepared against my own future stupidity.