When our well pump tripped last weekend, it was about seven o’clock on a Saturday night. Darlene was in the kitchen working on her chili, which in our house is about as sacred as Sunday service. She hollered from the sink that the water pressure was acting funny, and by the time I got there, the faucet was sputtering like an old man trying to blow out birthday candles. I went out to the well house in my slippers, flashlight in hand, muttering under my breath. Sure enough, breaker was tripped. Easy enough fix, but it got me thinking. What if it hadn’t been?

How Much Water You Really Need

Most folks have no clue how much water they actually use in a day. I sure didn’t until I started tracking it a few years back. Between drinking, cooking, washing, and flushing, we go through about two gallons a person per day when we’re being careful, and closer to five when we’re not. If the power goes out or the well pump gives up, that adds up fast. I keep fifty-five gallon drums in the garage for emergencies. That’s 220 gallons, enough for Darlene and me for about three weeks if we’re smart.

But I’ll tell you something I learned the hard way. Water doesn’t like to sit still. It grows things. Funky things. You can’t just fill a barrel, screw on the lid, and forget about it. I rotate ours every six months, and I treat it with a little bleach before refilling. One teaspoon per five gallons does the trick. Don’t overdo it unless you enjoy drinking something that tastes like a swimming pool.

Keeping It From Freezing

Here in Missouri, the winters sneak up on you. One day you’re raking leaves, the next day your water barrels are frozen solid and you’re smacking them with a hammer like an idiot. I learned to wrap mine in insulation and keep them off the concrete floor with some scrap lumber. The ground sucks the heat right out of them otherwise. If you’ve got barrels outside, tuck them against the house on the south side where they catch a little sun.

Wendy and Steve out in Oregon have it easier, though they get their fair share of freezing nights. Steve rigged up a simple system that keeps a slow trickle moving through his barrels whenever the temperature drops below freezing. Says it keeps the water fresh too. That man’s got a knack for solving problems with twenty dollars worth of hardware store parts.

Collecting Rainwater Without Breaking the Law or Your Gutters

Now, some of you might be thinking about rainwater. Good on you. It’s free, and it keeps your independence sharp. Around here, it’s perfectly legal to collect rainwater as long as you’re not diverting a stream or blocking drainage. I put in two downspout diverters that feed into my storage barrels. The first five minutes of rain wash the grit off the roof, then the clean stuff fills the tanks.

One word of advice, don’t skip the screen filter. I did that once, and by midsummer I had a mosquito convention buzzing around back there. I also learned that not all roofing materials are friendly for collecting water you plan to drink. Asphalt shingles leach a mess of chemicals. Metal roofs are best, though they make a racket when it hails.

Purifying It When You Need To Use It

When you go to use stored water, don’t assume it’s safe just because it looks clear. If it’s been sitting for more than a month, I run it through a ceramic filter or boil it for ten minutes. Darlene rolls her eyes at me for boiling water that came from our own well, but I tell her it’s better than rolling the dice with bacteria.

I also keep a couple of those Sawyer filters in the truck and one in the barn. They’re cheap insurance and weigh next to nothing. A little common sense goes a long way too. Never use the same hose you water your garden with to fill your drinking barrels unless it’s rated for potable water. You’d be surprised how many folks make that mistake.

Lessons From a Dry Sink

When the water came back on that night, Darlene gave me that look only a wife of forty years can give, the one that says, you fixed it but don’t think you’re getting out of doing the dishes. We laughed, and I went back out later to check the well house again. It hit me how quick our comfort can slip away when something simple stops working. You don’t need to be paranoid to prepare, just practical.

Next time you turn on the faucet, think about what you’d do if nothing came out. Then go do something about it before that day comes.

This one’s been in our family for a long time. Darlene can make it on the stove, over the fire pit, or on the little camp stove I keep for power outages. It’s hearty, keeps you full, and doesn’t rely on anything fancy. I’ve watched her make it so many times I can do it blindfolded, though she’d tell you I still don’t chop the onions right.

You’ll need:

If you’re cooking indoors, brown the meat and onion together until the onions start to look soft. Add the garlic and give it another minute. Then toss in the beans, tomatoes, and tomato paste. Stir in the seasonings and let it simmer twenty minutes or so, stirring when you think of it.

If the power’s out, use a cast iron pot over the fire or a propane camp stove. Just remember to stir more often so it doesn’t burn on the bottom. The trick Darlene swears by is to drop in a few chunks of cornbread dough right before it’s done. They soak up the flavor and turn into little dumplings.

It’ll feed four hungry people, or two with leftovers for lunch the next day. Darlene likes to top hers with shredded cheddar and a dollop of sour cream if we’ve still got some cold in the cooler. Me, I eat mine straight from the pot with a spoon and a satisfied heart.

Now here’s a story that sounds made up until you see the photos. In January of 1919, up in Boston, a giant storage tank holding over two million gallons of molasses burst wide open. The thing was fifty feet tall and ninety feet across, and when it let go, that syrup came roaring through the streets like a brown tidal wave. Folks said it moved as fast as thirty-five miles an hour. It leveled buildings, snapped beams, and even tossed a streetcar off its tracks. Twenty-one people died, and a hundred and fifty got hurt. By the time they finished cleaning it up, the harbor was stained brown for months.

I remember the first time I read about it in an old issue of Popular Mechanics. I thought it was a joke, but the more I looked into it, the more it hit me just how fast normal life can turn upside down. One moment you’re walking home from lunch, the next you’re knee-deep in sticky chaos. The thing that caused it wasn’t an earthquake or a tornado. It was a bad tank. A few rivets that didn’t hold. A company that ignored the warning signs because they were in a hurry to make a buck.

What gets me is that there were people who noticed the tank leaking weeks before it failed. Kids used to scrape molasses off the sides for snacks. The foreman even had it painted brown to hide the leaks. That part right there always sticks with me, because that’s what complacency looks like. Folks see a little problem and figure they’ll deal with it later.

I see the same mindset today, just in different clothes. People put off fixing that weak spot in the roof or checking their generator because nothing bad’s happened yet. They figure they’ll get around to it when the weather settles or when they have more time. But problems don’t wait for a convenient day to blow up.

I once had a rain barrel start to bulge in the middle, the same way that molasses tank did in the pictures. The metal band around it had loosened, and I almost ignored it because it wasn’t leaking. Something about that story in Boston came back to me, though, and I drained it right then and there. Sure enough, the seam split when I took the pressure off. If I’d waited another day, I’d have had fifty gallons of water rolling through the garage.

That’s the kind of lesson those poor folks in 1919 left behind for the rest of us. Disasters aren’t always acts of nature. Sometimes they’re just ordinary things we forget to pay attention to. A cracked tank, a frayed wire, a warning we talk ourselves out of heeding. The smallest details can save you if you bother to notice them.

Every time I walk through my shed or check the propane tanks, I think of that wave of molasses tearing through the streets. It reminds me to look twice, listen close, and never assume a little leak is just a little problem.

You can spend a pile of money on fancy filtration systems, but the truth is you can build a reliable one yourself with stuff you can find at the hardware store and maybe your own shed. I’ve built half a dozen of these over the years, and I’ve got one tucked in the corner of the garage right now just in case the power goes out again. It’s not flashy, but it’ll turn muddy pond water into something you can drink without worrying about what critters have been swimming in it.

You’ll need:

Start with the bottom bucket. That’s your clean water collector. Drill a small hole a couple inches from the bottom and install the spigot. Use the sealant around both sides of the hole so it doesn’t leak. Tighten it up but don’t overtighten or you’ll crack the plastic.

Now grab the second bucket. This one goes on top and holds your unfiltered water. Drill a hole dead center in the bottom that matches the size of your filter’s threaded stem. Insert the filter from inside the bucket so it hangs down into the bottom bucket when stacked. Tighten the nut underneath and seal it with a little silicone.

Stack the buckets, dirty on top and clean on the bottom. Fill the top with your water source, snap on the lid to keep debris out, and give it time to work. Depending on your filter, you’ll get about a quart every ten to fifteen minutes. Slow is good here, because slow means the water is really passing through the filter material and not just seeping around the edges.

I tested mine one summer using pond water from behind the barn. I ran it through the filter and boiled a cup just to be sure. Crystal clear and no smell. Darlene thought I was crazy, but even she admitted it tasted better than what came out of our tap that week.

A couple tips I’ve learned. Always clean the filter after use with a soft brush and a little vinegar water. Don’t use soap, it clogs the pores. Keep spare filters sealed in a zip bag in a cool place. If you’re planning to store the setup long term, dry it completely before packing it away.

Wendy and Steve built one out in Oregon using the same idea, except they added a third bucket lined with sand and charcoal for pre-filtering the rainwater off their roof. Steve even built a wooden stand so they don’t have to stoop to fill their bottles. I told him he could sell those things if he wanted to, but he just laughed and said he’d rather keep his neighbors guessing.

You can build the whole thing in less than an hour, and once you’ve got it, you’ll never look at a bucket the same way again.

Dad asked me to share a few thoughts this week from out here in Oregon. We had a power outage last month that lasted a day and a half, thanks to one of those late-season windstorms that loves to knock trees across our lines. Steve handled the generator, and I was in charge of keeping Luke and Charlotte from going completely feral. If you’ve ever tried to entertain a nine-year-old and a seven-year-old without screens, you know what kind of adventure that is.

The first thing I learned is that kids take their cue from us. If we panic or start snapping, they’ll do the same. So even when the fridge started to sweat and the house got cold, I made it a game. We called it “pioneer time.” The kids got to light candles with supervision and we made dinner on the camp stove like we were on a wagon trail. Charlotte wore her bonnet from last Halloween and Luke tried to “hunt” hot dogs with a stick.

One trick that worked surprisingly well was putting together little “quiet kits” ahead of time. Each one has crayons, a small flashlight, a deck of cards, a notepad, and a few granola bars. When the lights went out, they already knew where to find them. It gave them some control and kept them busy while Steve and I handled the practical stuff.

We also made it a point to keep a small solar lantern in each kid’s room. They like the comfort of having their own light, and I like not tripping over Legos in the dark. Those lanterns charge during the day on the windowsill and last all night if you dim them a bit.

The hardest part came around bedtime. The kids aren’t used to such deep quiet, no hum from the fridge or the TV in the next room. Charlotte asked if something was wrong because the house “sounded empty.” So we pulled out the old battery-powered radio Dad gave me years ago and tuned in to a local station. A little soft music filled the house and suddenly it didn’t feel so strange.

When the power came back, Luke said he kind of missed “pioneer time.” I laughed, but part of me understood what he meant. It’s easy to forget how much we depend on all the noise and light until it’s gone. I’ll admit, it was nice sitting by candlelight with Steve, talking while the kids colored.

Dad always says preparedness isn’t about fear, it’s about comfort. Having a plan, even a small one, turns a stressful moment into a family memory. And sometimes the best thing you can prepare is your kids’ mindset.

Here’s one that’ll show you more about your household readiness than any checklist on the internet. I call it the 72-Hour Test, and it’s something Darlene and I do once a year, usually when the weather turns cool and we’re feeling a little too comfortable. The idea is simple. You go three days without relying on your normal conveniences. No grid power, no running to the store, no online orders to bail you out.

Start on a Friday evening when everyone’s home. Before you begin, flip the main breaker off if you’re brave, or just promise yourselves not to use anything that plugs into the wall. That means no microwave, no fridge, no coffee pot, and no fancy gadgets. Use the food you’ve got stored, the water you’ve set aside, and whatever backup lighting or cooking setup you’ve planned for emergencies.

The first time Darlene and I did it, we realized by the second morning that we’d completely forgotten about the well pump. No power meant no running water. We were glad to have those barrels in the garage. The next surprise came when I went to make breakfast and found out our matches were all damp. I now keep a pack in a sealed jar.

Make notes as you go. Every time you find yourself reaching for something that doesn’t work, write it down. By Sunday night, you’ll have a list of weak spots you never thought about. Maybe it’s batteries, maybe it’s clean socks, maybe it’s the fact that your flashlights are all sitting in the same drawer instead of spread around the house where you actually need them.

If you’ve got kids, make it a game like Wendy does. Have them help with tasks like lighting lanterns or keeping track of how long the candles burn. It teaches them that preparedness isn’t just about stuff, it’s about adapting.

When the three days are up, flip the lights back on and look around. You’ll know exactly what needs improving before a real emergency ever shows up. That’s the beauty of this challenge. It’s not about suffering, it’s about learning. Three days is long enough to show you what works and what doesn’t, without wrecking your week.

If you want to make it extra interesting, try doing the test once in summer and once in winter. What’s easy in July gets a whole lot harder in January. And if you’ve got a neighbor who’s curious about preparedness but doesn’t know where to start, invite them to try it too. Nothing builds confidence like figuring out you can handle three days without calling for help.