Let me tell you a quick story about the Great Ice Storm of ‘07.

It basically hit southern Missouri like a hammer.

Power lines snapped like cooked spaghetti and we were without electricity for nine full days. That’s nine days without a faucet that worked. You don’t think much about how much water you use until your wife’s melting snow in the turkey roaster just to flush the toilet.

Darlene still talks about that week like we were on some pioneer reality show. I swore then and there that we’d never be caught off guard again when it came to water.

Why I Don’t Trust the Tap

Here’s the thing. I don’t care how good your municipal water tastes. If you’re relying on the city or county or whoever to bring it to your sink, you’re betting the farm on a system that’s fragile as a house of cards in a windstorm. One hiccup in the power grid and the pumps stop pushing.

Our well pump runs off electricity too. So if the grid’s down, our well’s about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. That’s why I keep a serious water plan that doesn’t involve waiting on the county to fix a transformer.

My Water Storage Setup (and Why the Garage Smells Like Plastic in July)

Right now I’ve got 14 of those big blue 55-gallon barrels stacked on cinder blocks in the back of my garage. You know the ones. Food-grade, BPA-free, and they weigh about 450 pounds apiece when full, so don’t plan on moving them around unless you’re Paul Bunyan.

I rotate 'em out every 18 months. Not because the water goes bad, but because I like to keep things fresh. I fill them with a food-grade hose (don’t use your garden hose unless you enjoy the taste of rubber band stew). I toss in a little bleach for good measure. About 1 teaspoon per 5 gallons does the trick.

And yes, the garage smells like a pool party all summer. Darlene hates it. I tell her it’s the smell of safety. She tells me it’s the smell of my hobbies taking over her car space.

Why I Keep Cases of Bottled Water in the Linen Closet

We’ve got 8 cases of bottled water stacked behind the towels in the linen closet. Each case has 40 bottles. That’s 320 little insurance policies. Darlene wasn’t thrilled when I started stacking water where the extra pillowcases used to live, but after the boil notice last fall, she told me I was “right for once.” I considered framing that sentence.

Those bottles are for grab-and-go situations. Throw a few in the truck, toss a couple in the bug-out bag, send some with Wendy when she visits. And yes, I drink ‘em too. I just make sure to rotate ‘em out by date. First in, first out. Just like when we canned tomatoes back in the day.

My Secret Weapon: The Bathtub Bladder

Now I’m gonna tell you about something that sounds ridiculous until it saves your bacon. It’s called a waterBOB. No, I didn’t name it. It’s a giant food-safe plastic bladder that goes in your bathtub and holds 100 gallons of water. You unfold it, set it in the tub, fill it with the tub faucet, and seal it up.

I’ve got two. One in our master bath and one in the hallway bathroom. I keep ‘em under the sink with the spare toilet paper and Darlene’s emergency crossword books.

If we get a storm warning and it looks like power might go out, I fill both. It takes maybe 20 minutes. Then I’ve got 200 gallons of clean water sitting there just in case. We can drink it, cook with it, wash up with it, and yes, flush with it.

What I Learned From Luke and Charlotte's Visit

Last summer, Wendy and Steve came in from Oregon with the kids. Little Luke is nine now and obsessed with “survival skills” which basically means he wants to start a fire with every rock he finds. Charlotte’s seven and she’s the one who reminded me we didn’t have a step stool by the handwashing station I set up in the garage.

See, I rigged up a five-gallon water jug with a spigot on a folding table, a little soap pump, and some paper towels. It’s our backup washing station if the taps go dry. Works like a charm. But I forgot the little folks can’t reach it.

So now I keep a folding step stool next to it. Charlotte calls it “the water throne.”

Don’t Overcomplicate It, But Don’t Get Lazy Either

You don’t need to build an underground cistern or learn to dig a spring box to get started. Just grab a couple cases of bottled water and shove ‘em somewhere inconvenient. Your future self will thank you. Then get a big barrel or two. Pick up a waterBOB. Heck, start with a five-gallon jug and a pump spout.

Water’s boring until you don’t have it. Then it becomes the most important thing in the world. You can live without Wi-Fi. You cannot live without water. Believe me, I’ve tried both.

Last March when that twister came tearing through Taney County, we hunkered down in the basement with the dog, a lantern, and a radio older than my first truck. Power was out, trees were down, and the only thing in our bellies was nerves and black coffee.

I fired up the little butane camp stove Darlene got me for Father’s Day two years ago and threw together this skillet meal with what we had on the storm shelf.

Ingredients:

Step-by-Step:

This meal will stick to your ribs and keep you warm when the wind’s howling and your nerves are shot. Charlotte called it “bean stew with hot dogs,” which isn’t far off.

It was a Thursday evening last May. I remember because Darlene had just made her lemon chess pie and we hadn’t even had a chance to cut into it. I was out in the shed messing with the backup generator I’d been meaning to service since winter. That’s when my weather radio—one of those crank-powered ones with the loudest beep known to man—let out a screech like a dying goat.

“Tornado warning. Christian County. Rotation confirmed. Take cover immediately.”

Now, I’ve heard plenty of tornado warnings in my life. Growing up in southern Missouri, if you panicked every time the sirens went off, you’d never get the lawn mowed. But something about this one didn’t sit right. Maybe it was the look in Darlene’s eyes when she yelled from the back porch. Maybe it was the stillness in the air, like the sky was holding its breath.

We Had Five Minutes to Get Downstairs

I grabbed the dog, she grabbed the weather bag, and we both yelled at each other over whether the propane was off. The wind picked up fast. Trees were bent sideways. The air had that electric smell, like the time Wendy stuck a fork in the outlet when she was four.

We got down to the basement just before the wind really hit. I swear the windows on the ground floor rattled like they were about to give. Jasper the dog was shaking worse than my cousin Dale’s hands at a fish fry.

And then, silence.

No roar, no freight train sound like they always say. Just silence.

We stayed down there a solid thirty minutes before coming back up. And when we did, the whole west side of our property was covered in branches. Our neighbor’s shed was gone—just a concrete slab and some lonely garden tools. The tornado had touched down two miles west of us, taken out part of a mobile home park, and kept right on going north.

What I Got Right (and What I Didn’t)

Right: That weather bag Darlene packed? Absolute lifesaver. It had:

She also keeps a zippered pouch in there with all our insurance info. I’d forgotten we even had flood coverage until she pulled that thing out like a magician’s rabbit.

Wrong: The generator. I’d meant to run it monthly. I hadn’t touched it since deer season. When I finally tried to fire it up that night after the storm passed, it sputtered twice and died like it had given up on life.

Also, I had no idea where the dog’s leash was. Spent three minutes looking for it while the wind howled. Now it hangs by the basement stairs. Always.

Lesson: You Will Forget Something Unless You Practice It

Here’s the deal. You can have every prepper gadget in the catalog. You can have barrels of rice and enough iodine tablets to clean a swimming pool. But if you don’t run a little drill every once in a while, you’re going to forget something stupid when it counts.

It doesn’t have to be a military-style operation. But you and your family should know exactly what to grab, where to go, and what’s expected.

We’ve started doing a little five-minute “tornado dash” once a season. I yell “DRILL” and Darlene rolls her eyes and plays along. Wendy even got the kids in Oregon doing it for earthquakes.

You’re Not Overreacting. You’re Practicing Common Sense.

We weren’t hit that night, but plenty of folks nearby were. Some of ‘em lost everything but the boots on their feet. You know what they said over and over? They all thought they had more time.

Nobody thinks it’ll happen to them until the sky goes green and your house starts sounding like it’s breathing.

I don’t sleep on warnings anymore. If the radio screams, I move. And I check that generator once a month now. I even put it on the calendar next to Darlene’s hair appointment so I don’t forget.

Turns out a close call is a better teacher than any book I ever read.

Now before you wrinkle your nose or mutter something about composting toilets being for hippies in Colorado, let me tell you something straight: when your toilet doesn’t flush for two days and your wife has to “go” behind the shed with a flashlight and a grudge, you’ll be real motivated to make yourself one of these.

Happened to us three winters ago. Power went out during an ice storm, and since we’re on a well, that meant no running water. Generator decided it was tired of being helpful. Our regular toilet needed about two gallons of water per flush, and we didn’t have enough melt snow for that kind of luxury. After one day of trying to use a bucket without a seat, I went out to the garage and got to work.

What You’ll Need:

Optional upgrades:

How to Build It:

Why It Works

It’s simple. It’s cheap. It doesn’t rely on plumbing or power. Darlene gave it the “not awful” stamp of approval which, if you’ve ever met her, is about the highest honor anything in our house can receive.

Luke actually asked if we could keep it in the treehouse, so clearly the novelty factor is high with the under-ten crowd.

Real World Use

We’ve used this setup twice during outages and once during a septic backup (don’t ask). I keep the whole thing in a tote with the lid seat, a sealed bag of shavings, and a couple rolls of TP. It lives in the basement next to our camp stove and lanterns.

You don’t need to be a carpenter or a backwoods hermit to make one. You just need to accept one very simple truth: when it comes to preparedness, dignity is part of survival.

And nothing makes you appreciate indoor plumbing more than building your own version of it in a five-gallon bucket with a flashlight clamped to your forehead.

Hi y’all. It’s Wendy, Kyle’s daughter. The one who ran off to Oregon with Steve, two kids, and a black lab who thinks he’s a mountain goat. I grew up with a dad who stored batteries like most people store soup. I used to roll my eyes at his gear bins and laminated maps and that old Coleman stove that somehow still works better than the fancy one we got for our wedding registry.

But then we moved out here east of the Cascades where the power lines are lazy, the winters are long, and help isn’t exactly around the corner. And wouldn’t you know it—turns out Dad wasn’t so crazy after all.

How I Learned to Keep My Car Packed Like a Covered Wagon

Three winters ago, Charlotte was still in diapers, Luke was five, and we decided to drive out to Crater Lake for a weekend getaway. Weather forecast said "light flurries." What we got was three feet of snow and a Subaru that slid right off the shoulder and into a ditch.

We had no cell service. No food except a sleeve of graham crackers. No warm gear except a baby blanket and Steve’s hoodie. I spent two hours trying to keep two kids warm and calm while Steve walked a mile and a half in boots meant for running errands, not trekking through snowdrifts.

It was that night, after the tow truck and the thawed toes, that I called Dad and asked him to walk me through a proper car kit. Now I don’t drive five minutes without the essentials:

And yes, I also keep dog treats for Jasper. Because if he goes feral, we’re all in trouble.

What We Keep By the Front Door Now

Back when I was a teenager, I used to tease Dad about his “go bag” in the front closet. I think I even drew a label that said Kyle’s Bag o’ Paranoia. Well. We’ve got our own now. It’s a backpack by the mudroom door and it’s got everything we’d need for a fast evacuation. We had wildfires come within ten miles last August and let me tell you—evacuation orders don’t come with a lot of heads-up.

In ours we keep:

Steve added one of those Lifestraw water filters. He also stuck in a jar of peanut butter and four plastic spoons because, in his words, “no one is cranky with peanut butter.” I married well.

What I Used to Think Was Overkill

I used to think Dad’s basement stash of batteries was overkill. Now I keep a shoebox of AAs, AAAs, and lithiums in my pantry.

I used to think his habit of writing down phone numbers in a little paper address book was cute in an old man sort of way. Then my phone died in a blackout and I couldn’t call my neighbor two houses down because I didn’t know her number. Now I’ve got a copy in my glove box.

I used to think keeping two weeks of food was excessive. Then the highway washed out and the shelves went empty for six days. Now I keep a pantry we can live off of for three weeks if we have to.

What I Still Don’t Do (Sorry Dad)

I haven’t dug a backyard rainwater catchment system. I’m not ready for that level of commitment. Yet.

I also haven’t laminated my neighborhood map. I know, I know. I’ll get to it.

But I have taught the kids how to pack a flashlight, how to boil water on our camping stove, and how to ask good questions in an emergency. Luke knows how to turn off the water main. Charlotte knows where the fire extinguisher is and how to yell “GO BAG” like she’s launching a rocket.

And me? I’ve stopped rolling my eyes.

Most days I call it “being prepared.”

But around here, we call it “pulling a Kyle.”

Alright folks, this week’s challenge is not for the faint of heart or the heavy microwave users. This is something I do once or twice a year just to shake the dust off and make sure all my prep work isn’t just for show. Darlene calls it “Kyle’s Weird Weekend” and goes along with it so long as I still make coffee and don’t involve the bathroom heater.

Here’s what you’re gonna do:

Live for 72 hours like the grid is down.
No electricity. No internet. No stove, no microwave, no central air, no water from the tap if you’re on a well. Just you, your home, and whatever you’ve got ready.

Rules of the Challenge:

What You’ll Learn (Trust Me on This)

What to Watch For:

Bonus Points:

If You’re Not Ready to Go All In:
Do a 24-hour version. Or just do 6 hours in the evening when it’s dark out and you’re all home. Sit around the lantern and pretend it’s the 1800s. Let the kids make shadow puppets. Eat cold SpaghettiOs and pretend they’re rustic.

This challenge isn’t about impressing anyone. It’s about learning what breaks, what’s missing, and what to fix while things are calm.

The power company might get the lights back on in a day. Or it might be a week. Best to find the holes in your plan now, before you’re discovering them at 3 a.m. with a scared dog and no coffee.

So go ahead. Pull the plug. See what happens.
Let me know how many hours in before you start bargaining with your Keurig.