I was at the hardware store last week picking up some weather stripping for the chicken coop door, which keeps blowing open every time the wind shifts out of the north. While I was there, I overheard a fella bragging to the cashier about his brand new generator. Said he felt “fully prepped” now. I nearly choked on my coffee. Not to be rude, but that’s like saying you’re ready for winter because you bought a snow shovel. It’s a good start, sure, but it’s not a plan.

The Sound of False Security

Now don’t get me wrong. I own a generator. Actually, I own two. One's a small inverter model that’ll run my freezer and a lamp, the other’s a big ol’ noisy beast that sits out in the shed smelling like gasoline and old regrets. But here’s the thing. Neither of those machines will do you a lick of good if you don’t know what to do before, during, and after you fire them up.

First off, fuel. Most folks don’t think past filling it up once and calling it good. Trouble is, gasoline goes bad. Ask me how I know. A few years back, I went to fire up my backup unit during an ice storm and she coughed like an old smoker and quit. Gas had turned to varnish. Now I keep a stash of stabilized fuel in proper containers and I rotate it every six months. I even label them with duct tape like some kind of overly organized raccoon.

Where Will the Juice Go

Even if your generator runs like a dream, you gotta have a plan for where that electricity is going. Are you running extension cords out the window like a possum burglar? Or do you have a proper transfer switch installed by someone who knows what they’re doing and doesn’t watch how-to videos with the volume off?

At our place, I’ve got certain outlets wired into the panel with a manual transfer switch. That way, when I flip it, I can run the fridge, the well pump, a few lights, and Darlene’s electric kettle which she will not live without. I had to make choices. You can’t just power up everything like normal. You gotta prioritize.

Noise, Neighbors, and Nighttime

Here’s another thing folks don’t think about. Sound travels. Especially when it’s quiet and your neighbor’s huddled up with a flashlight and no coffee while your house is lit up like a Cracker Barrel. I always say, if you’re the only one on the block making noise and smelling like warm soup, you better be ready for some unexpected visitors.

We keep blackout curtains in the kitchen and main room and I try not to run the generator at night unless it’s absolutely necessary. I also keep a smaller, quieter unit that I can run discreetly if I just need to keep the freezer from thawing or the sump pump going in the basement.

Maintenance Is a Prepper’s Love Language

Running a generator is like owning a chainsaw or a pickup truck. You’ve got to treat it right or it’ll let you down at the worst possible moment. Once a month, I take mine out and give it a little run. I check the oil, tighten anything that feels loose, and start it up just long enough to make sure it still hums like it’s supposed to.

I even have a laminated checklist that I keep taped to the inside of the shed door. Darlene says it’s overkill but she also said that the first time I bought 42 pounds of salt and now she uses it to brine everything short of the dish towels. I like having a routine. It makes the unknown feel a little more manageable.

Fuel Storage and a Little Trick I Learned

If you’re storing gasoline, and I mean more than just a can or two, you need to be smart about it. I use metal NATO cans with proper seals. I keep them in a vented box I built behind the shed away from anything that sparks or gets hot. I treat every drop with fuel stabilizer and I keep a small log in the garage that tells me when I filled each can.

Here’s a little trick I picked up from an old mechanic named Russ, may he rest in peace. When you fill your gas cans, write the month and year on a strip of masking tape and slap it right on the handle. That way, when your memory’s a little fuzzy, and let’s be honest it gets that way once you hit 60, you don’t have to guess which can is freshest.

Power Is Not the Problem

The real thing I want folks to understand is this. A generator can keep your fridge cold or your lights on but it won’t tell you how to cook without power. It won’t help you if your septic backs up or if your neighbor needs insulin kept cold and you never talked to them about it. Preparedness is people, plans, and practice. Tools help but they’re just one part of the puzzle.

I tell my daughter Wendy this all the time. She and Steve are raising Luke and Charlotte out in Oregon and their place is a bit off the beaten path. They’ve got a fancy solar setup but I remind them that batteries go bad and sometimes the sun doesn’t shine for three days. So she bakes extra bread and stores it in the freezer and keeps a Dutch oven ready just in case.

Let It Be Boring

That’s my advice. Make your generator plan so thorough that it’s boring. Know how to start it in the dark. Know how long it’ll run on a tank. Know which extension cord goes where. Teach the people in your house what it sounds like when it’s running right and when it’s not. You don’t need a thrill. You need something that works when everything else doesn’t.

I’ll leave it there for now. I’ve got to go scrape some candle wax out of the cabinet drawer because Darlene says I put a melted one in there and now it’s glued to the matches. But next time we’ll talk about water storage, including how not to end up with a basement full of slimy green jugs that smell like pond scum and bad decisions.

Now this here is a staple in our house when the power’s out and the weather’s mean. It uses all shelf-stable ingredients, tastes like something that took all day, and it’ll fill your belly without needing a fridge or a microwave. Darlene swears by it and I’ve learned not to argue with a woman holding a wooden spoon.

What You’ll Need:

Optional add-ins if your pantry’s friendly:

How to Make It:
If you’ve got a camp stove or even one of those old Sterno cans, heat everything together in a pot. Bring it to a good bubble, then let it simmer a bit. If you’ve got no heat source, you can still mix it cold in a big bowl and let it sit covered for 20 to 30 minutes. It won’t be piping hot, but the flavors still meld just fine and it’s better than cold SpaghettiOs, I’ll tell you that.

Serve it with crackers, cornbread if you’ve got some made ahead, or scoop it with corn chips. One pot feeds two hungry folks or four if you’re rationing and someone ate the last granola bar behind your back. Luke once called it “storm stew” and now we all do.

Tastes better by lantern light and even better the next day if there’s any left.

I never lived in Paradise, California, and I don’t know anyone who did. But I’ve read more about what happened there than just about any other modern disaster. The Camp Fire in 2018 taught me more about evacuation than any prepping book I ever read, and I’ve read a fair number of those with covers that look like a Hollywood movie poster.

Paradise wasn’t some rundown little outpost in the middle of nowhere. It was a normal town. Grocery stores, schools, cul-de-sacs, the whole thing. And in a matter of hours it was gone. That fire moved faster than most folks could react. Eighty five people died. Many of them were older folks, some were disabled, and most were trapped in traffic trying to get out.

Lesson One: You Might Not Have Time

One of the hardest lessons that came out of Paradise was this. You can be packed and ready to go, but if you wait too long, you’re already behind. That fire moved at an average of eighty football fields a minute. Let that settle in. People were stuck in gridlock while flames came up behind them. Some had bug-out bags, some didn’t. Some had plans, some froze. And it didn’t matter what kind of gear you had if you couldn’t move fast enough.

Ever since I dug into what happened there, I’ve kept a set of maps in the glovebox of both trucks and I’ve marked more than one route out of town. I’ve also learned that you need to think about when you’ll leave, not just how. If you're watching the sky turn orange and wondering if you should go, you’ve already waited too long.

Lesson Two: Paperwork Saves Real Pain

One of the things that struck me was how many people lost everything and didn’t have their insurance paperwork, IDs, or medical info with them. Imagine trying to get help at a shelter and not being able to prove who you are or that you even lived where you said you did.

Now I keep photocopies of our important documents in a waterproof folder, and there's a digital copy on an old USB drive stashed in a bag that never leaves the truck. It’s not fancy but it would sure help if we had to start over from scratch. And I put a copy of our dog’s rabies records in there too because some shelters won’t let animals in without it. Jasper might be a saint but rules are rules.

Lesson Three: Don't Count on the System to Save You

Paradise had an emergency alert system but a lot of folks didn’t get notified in time. Cell towers went down fast. Power was out before anyone really knew what was happening. Sirens failed in some places and there were reports of 911 calls going unanswered. That’s not to knock the first responders. They did what they could with what they had. But it wasn’t enough. And that’s the point.

You can’t lean on the assumption that someone’s coming. If they do, thank the Lord. But plan like no one is.

After reading about Paradise, I picked up a battery-powered NOAA weather radio and added it to our bedroom. It’s one of those little things that can wake you up while there’s still time to act. I also made sure Wendy and Steve out in Oregon know how to set up their phones for emergency alerts, even out past the tree line where service gets dodgy.

Lesson Four: Community Is Everything

One of the few bright spots in that disaster was how neighbors helped neighbors. There were stories of folks knocking on doors to wake up elderly residents. Others gave strangers rides out of town. One guy loaded a dozen people into his pickup and drove through fire just to get them clear. That kind of courage isn’t something you can buy in bulk or stick in a backpack.

It reminded me that preparedness isn’t about going it alone. I know the stereotype is some loner in a bunker eating beans, but real prepping means knowing who lives on your street. I know which of my neighbors need extra time or help. There’s a widow down the road who uses a walker and a couple with three small kids. If something ever hits the fan here, I know who I’m checking on first.

Lesson Five: If You Can’t Leave, Shelter Smart

Some people in Paradise couldn’t get out in time and had to shelter in place. A few made it by staying in cleared parking lots or open ballfields. One group took refuge behind a metal gate while fire rolled over the area. What saved them was space and non-flammable surroundings. Not luck.

So I’ve taken a good look at our property. We cleared out brush within thirty feet of the house. Trimmed low limbs. Stored firewood away from the siding instead of stacking it up like a beaver hotel. I even replaced a few of our old vent covers with metal ones. Embers can fly for miles and all it takes is one to get inside.

What It All Boils Down To

Paradise taught me that disaster doesn’t care about your zip code or how many gadgets you’ve stockpiled. It moves fast, it doesn’t wait, and it rarely announces itself politely. I keep that fire in mind every time I look at my go-bags or think about what’s missing from the truck kit. Because those folks weren’t reckless. They were just living their lives until the world flipped upside down in one morning.

That’s why I prep. Not for zombies or asteroids or some made-up panic. I prep because a small town full of regular people got burned to the ground before they ever saw it coming.

Now I know what you’re thinking. Kyle, why on earth are we talking about toilets in polite company? Well let me ask you this. If the power goes out, the water stops running, or you find yourself stuck in your house for a week after a blizzard like the one we had in ‘09, what exactly is your plan for the porcelain throne? Because I promise you, your flush toilet is only as reliable as your water supply. And septic tanks? They don’t love it when you try to flush without pressure behind it.

So today I’m going to show you how to make a five-gallon bucket toilet that’s simple, cheap, doesn’t smell like a dead possum after two days, and yes, even Darlene approved of it during last spring’s pipe freeze. She called it “functional,” which, if you know her, is high praise.

What You’ll Need

How to Make It Work

Line your bucket with a trash bag or liner. That’s your inner chamber. Once that’s in, toss in a handful of sawdust or whatever dry material you’ve got. This helps absorb moisture and cuts down on smells. Trust me, it matters.

Do your business. Number one, number two, or a combination as nature intends. Then sprinkle another handful of dry material over the top like you’re feeding chickens. The key here is cover everything. The material acts like a lid between each use. You’re not trying to make a sculpture, you’re just trying to keep it dry and breathable.

When the bag gets about halfway full, remove it, tie it off, and either bury it properly (away from water sources and at least 6 to 8 inches deep) or store it in a sealed container until waste services return to normal.

How We Store Ours

I keep ours in the corner of the garage, stacked clean and dry with the lid on. Inside the bucket is a smaller container holding bags, sawdust in a freezer bag, a roll of toilet paper, and a laminated card with the instructions written in thick black Sharpie. That way if I’m not home and someone needs to use it, they won’t be yelling into the wind looking for help.

I’ve got a second setup in the truck kit with a collapsible bucket and a foldable seat because, let me tell you, trying to go behind a bush in February with a stiff back and snow on the ground is not something I care to repeat.

A Word on Squeamishness

Yes, it’s weird the first time. No one wants to sit on a bucket like they’re in a kindergarten craft circle. But let me tell you something. When the plumbing fails, or the roads close, or the power’s out for three days and you’re eating canned beans and drinking bottled water, you’ll gladly sit on that bucket like it’s a La-Z-Boy. And you’ll be glad you practiced, even if it was just once out back behind the shed.

Luke helped me paint one of ours camouflage green last summer. He called it “The Stealth Potty.” That kid’s got a bright future. Charlotte glued a plastic flower to the lid. Jasper tried to eat the sawdust. It was a whole family affair.

So if you haven’t put together an emergency toilet, now’s the time. And if you already have, go check on it. Make sure the bags haven’t cracked from age and the sawdust hasn’t molded.

Because in the world of preparedness, a little dignity goes a long way. Especially when nature calls and the modern world isn’t picking up.

Hi y’all, it’s Wendy. Dad asked if I’d write a little something from out here in eastern Oregon, and I said sure, as long as I don’t have to talk about tactical flashlights again. I love him, but that man has a flashlight in every drawer and one in the chicken coop and I still don’t know why.

Anyway, I wanted to talk about teaching kids to be prepared. Not in a doomsday, stockpile-the-canned-peas kind of way, but in a gentle, everyday way that doesn’t make them worry the sky is falling. I’ve got two—Luke is 9 and Charlotte is 7—and if you’ve got kids or grandkids, you know they’re always watching. Always. That means you can turn normal daily stuff into preparedness lessons without sounding like a survivalist cartoon character.

The Backpack Trick

Each fall when we get their school bags ready, we quietly build in a little emergency pouch. Just a snack bar, a little note from me and Steve, a laminated card with our contact info, and a mini flashlight. Charlotte’s also has a small pack of stickers because she’s a worrier and those keep her calm. Luke’s has a compass because he insists he’s going to be a forest ranger someday and I am all for it.

The kids think of it as their “just-in-case pocket.” It’s not scary. It’s not even something we really talk about unless they bring it up. But it’s there, and it gives them a little confidence they don’t even realize they’re carrying.

Storm Drills Without the Drama

One Saturday a month, we have what Steve jokingly calls “Power Out Party.” We turn off the main breaker for an hour or two and the kids know it’s time to pretend there’s a storm. We make sandwiches, play card games by lantern light, and let them take turns using the emergency radio. We don’t call it a drill. It’s a game. But they’re learning how to move through the house in the dark, how to heat up soup without a stove, and how to keep calm when things don’t work like usual.

Charlotte once asked what we’d do if it was longer than a few hours, and I told her we’d light more candles and keep going. That was enough for her. She just wanted to know we had a plan.

Code Words and Calm Voices

Our family has a silly little code phrase for emergencies. If Steve or I say “time to switch to squirrel mode,” that means grab your shoes, jacket, go bag, and meet by the truck. The phrase is goofy on purpose. It makes it feel like a game and not a panic moment.

We’ve practiced it enough that both kids know what to do and they don’t freak out. The point isn’t to turn them into little soldiers. The point is to help them trust that we’ve got things handled. Because we do.

Let Them Help

We let the kids help pack our emergency kits. Luke always wants to add a slingshot and Charlotte tries to sneak in books about ponies, but they also remember to pack socks and granola bars and toothpaste. It gets them involved, and it makes them feel like they have a job, not just that something scary might happen.

We also have them help check the pantry each month. They don’t know we’re doing inventory. They just think we’re counting cans and deciding what to make for camping. But they’re learning about shelf life and supply rotation without even realizing it.

Grandpa’s Voice, Their Ears

Dad—Kyle to all of you but Grandpa to us—has been a huge influence. He sends Luke little projects to do, like fire starting with a magnifying glass or using a compass to find a hidden peanut butter jar in the yard. Charlotte got a packet of seeds and a kid-size trowel from him last spring and now she’s in charge of the herb garden, which she takes more seriously than Steve takes mowing the lawn.

It helps that they hear this stuff from someone besides us. Someone who makes it feel like a skill instead of a chore. Grandpa tells them they’re training to be helpers, not hiders. And I love that.

No Fear, Just Family

We try really hard not to make preparedness feel like something’s wrong. It’s just part of our life, like brushing teeth or buckling seatbelts. We go camping with the gear we keep in our emergency stash. We use our water filter on hikes. We let the kids carry a whistle on their lanyards when we’re at the state fair.

It doesn’t have to be dramatic. It just has to be consistent.

Alright, that’s it from our little cabin on the dry side of Oregon. Charlotte’s outside trying to teach Jasper to sit with a pinecone, and Luke just ran through the kitchen yelling something about thermal socks. So I guess we’re done here.

Till next time, from all of us squirrel-mode folks out West.

This week I want you to do something that sounds simple but usually turns into a real eye-opener. You’re going to take just ten minutes and figure out how long you’d last if the taps ran dry right now. Not tomorrow. Not after you go to the store. I mean right now.

Grab a notepad and a pen. Walk through your house and count every drop of drinkable water you’ve got. Bottled water in the pantry, jugs under the sink, sports bottles in the fridge, that half-used case of fizzy water in the garage. If it can hydrate you, it counts.

Now write it all down. Add it up. Figure one gallon of water per person per day, minimum. That’s for drinking and basic sanitation. Not showers. Not laundry. Just keeping your body running and your hands somewhat clean.

Got a family of four? You need 28 gallons to get through one week. That’s seven gallons per person. If you’ve got pets, add them in. Jasper, our daughter’s lab, drinks more than Charlotte sometimes and makes a mess doing it.

Once you’ve got your number, look at it real honest. If you come up short, don’t beat yourself up. Just make a plan. Add one gallon per grocery trip. Refill clean juice bottles and stash them in the closet. Set a goal to get to that 7-day mark by the end of the month.

If you’re already there, good. Now check the dates. Make sure nothing’s leaking. Rotate out the old stuff and make sure your water stash is in a cool spot, not baking in a sunbeam behind your washing machine.

Ten minutes. That’s all I’m asking. Just you, a pad of paper, and the truth about your thirst plan. You might be surprised what you find. I was.