Back in 2013, I thought I had this whole fuel storage thing licked. I’d picked up four red plastic gas cans from the big-box store down in Lebanon. They were on sale, had them stacked right up at the front with a “Storm Season Essentials” sign. I figured if it said “gasoline” on the label, that was good enough for me.

Now here’s where I went wrong. Those cans were cheap and flimsy, and I stored them in the far corner of the barn, right next to the woodpile and under a little window that caught afternoon sun like a magnifying glass. Come July, I opened that barn door and just about passed out from the fumes. Darlene wouldn’t let me touch her clothes washer for two weeks because I came back to the house smelling like I’d been bathing in unleaded.

What I Learned About Vapor and Plastics
Gasoline breathes, if you didn’t know. Especially in heat. The pressure builds and those cheap cans swell up like a tick on a coonhound. Then you get vapor leaks around the caps, and suddenly your whole outbuilding smells like a truck stop. I talked to an old timer down at the feed store who used to work refineries in Oklahoma, and he told me right plain: use proper containers and never store fuel in sunlight unless you want to end up with a barn that smells like a NASCAR pit crew locker room.

The Day I Found Out About Jerry Cans
I went home that night and ordered four NATO-style steel jerry cans from a surplus dealer out of Texas. Cost me more than I wanted to spend, but I tell you what, those cans are worth every penny. Thick steel, tight seal, and they’ve got that spout system that actually works without sloshing gas all over your boots.

I painted mine tan with oil-based Rust-Oleum, so they don’t stick out like a sore thumb, and I stenciled the month and year I filled them on the side with a black paint pen. One of the best ideas I ever had. Makes rotation a breeze. I keep them stored off the ground on a wooden pallet in the shade, behind the barn, chained to the wall so they don’t walk off.

Rotation and Stabilizers That Actually Work
Now, here’s the part most folks skip: gasoline doesn’t keep forever. I use PRI-G fuel stabilizer in every can. Not Sta-Bil. That stuff’s fine for your mower, but PRI-G’s the real deal. I put in one ounce per gallon and shake the can like a cocktail shaker before I seal it up. I label each can with the treated date and I rotate them every six months.

Every April and October, I pour the oldest fuel into my truck, then refill that can with fresh gas from town. I treat it, label it, and put it at the back of the rotation. Simple as that. Keeps me with 20 gallons of good gas year-round and I never have to worry about pulling out a sour-smelling can when the power goes out.

Don’t Store It Where You Sleep
One more thing. Never store gas in your garage or basement. Not even for a night. I don’t care what kind of fancy fume-proof container you’ve got, fumes still creep. I had a buddy up near Cabool who stored two plastic jugs in his mudroom during a snowstorm thinking it’d be temporary. They tipped over somehow and he ended up replacing the whole floor. Insurance called it “negligence.” That’s what they do when they want to weasel out of paying.

My cans stay outside in a vented box I built myself. It’s just some treated plywood, a slanted tin roof, a padlock, and plenty of airflow. Even put a little solar-powered motion light on it so I don’t fumble around in the dark. Darlene calls it my gas hut. Says it looks like a chicken coop for flammable birds.

Don’t Forget the Siphon Hose
A proper siphon hose with a brass fitting is worth its weight in jerky. I’ve got one with a jiggle-start that’ll empty a five-gallon can in under a minute. Beats spilling gas all over your tailgate. Keep it coiled and clean in a gallon Ziploc with a little baking soda to absorb the smell. I keep that in a plastic ammo can on the shelf above the fuel stash.

Most folks forget how critical gasoline becomes when things go sideways. Your generator, your truck, your chainsaw, your tiller. Heck, even your backup water pump if you're on a well. It’s not about hoarding. It’s about access. And access comes from thinking ahead, doing it right, and not cutting corners with bargain-bin plastic.

If it smells like trouble and looks like trouble, it probably belongs in a better can. That’s what I always say.

This one’s been in Darlene’s recipe box since before Wendy was born. We make it in a cast iron skillet that’s older than our marriage, and it’s got just enough heat to make you sip your sweet tea a little faster.

Ingredients

Instructions

Let it cool ten minutes if you’ve got the patience. I don’t. Slather on butter, eat with chili, stew, or just a cold glass of milk. We’ve taken this to church potlucks and it disappears before Darlene can even get a second piece.

It was May 22, 2019. The sirens went off around 9:40 p.m., and I remember it clear because Darlene had just sat down with her bowl of peach cobbler and was halfway through her episode of “Call the Midwife.” I looked out the back window and saw the sky go that sick green color it gets when the world’s about to rearrange itself.

The power flicked off right about then. No warning. Just pop and black. I had flashlights but not all of them had good batteries. The weather radio had dead AA's. My go-bag was half-packed, sitting open on the garage workbench like a suitcase in a hotel room I never finished checking into.

The Tornado Hit South of Town
It didn’t hit us straight on. It chewed up a section of Highway 32 and took out four houses near Falcon. We were lucky, but we weren’t ready. That’s the part that ate at me later.

Darlene was calm as a cucumber, but I was stomping around in the dark looking for extra batteries like a raccoon in a dumpster. Wendy called from Oregon while the wind was howling and asked if we were safe. I told her yes, but I didn’t tell her the truth. I didn’t have a clue where the backup charger for the phone was.

What I Fixed Afterwards
The next morning, I started a list. I walked through the house and barn with a notebook and wrote down everything I didn’t have, didn’t know, or couldn’t find in the dark.

Lessons You Don’t Forget
You don’t need a direct hit to be shaken loose. That tornado missed us by a mile, but we still spent half the night in the crawl space with two dogs and a cobbler bowl.

Preparedness isn’t about fear. It’s about respect. Respect for nature, respect for your family, and respect for the real possibility that someday, things are going to go sideways, and you’ll be standing there holding a flashlight with dead batteries wondering what else you forgot.

I don’t want to wonder anymore. I want to know.

I got tired of hauling buckets from the creek during dry spells. We’ve got a decent well, but it’s electric, and when the power goes out, so does the pump. That ice storm in ‘07 taught me that real fast. So I started thinking about a backup water source that didn’t depend on the grid or on me hauling five gallons at a time like I was working on the Oregon Trail.

This rainwater system started as a weekend project. Took me two Saturdays and a couple trips to the hardware store because I kept forgetting elbows and PVC cement. But now it works like a charm and gives me over 300 gallons of clean, usable water without lifting a finger.

What You’ll Need

Step One: Prep the Barrels
Make sure your barrels are food grade. Mine used to hold soy sauce. I rinsed them out with vinegar and left them open in the sun for two days. Don’t skip that step unless you want your garden to smell like a Chinese buffet.

Drill a hole about two inches from the bottom of the barrel for the spigot. Insert the spigot kit and seal it tight with the rubber washers and a bead of silicone inside and out. Let it cure overnight.

Cut a six-inch hole in the lid. This is where the rain comes in. Cover that hole with screen and zip tie it in place so mosquitoes and gunk stay out.

Step Two: Build the Base
Stack your cinder blocks three high in a triangle pattern. This gets your barrels about 18 inches off the ground, which is just right for filling buckets or running a hose downhill. Make sure it’s level. Water’s picky like that.

Place your barrel on top. If it wobbles, shim it with a cedar shingle or something similar. You don’t want it tipping over mid-storm.

Step Three: Add the Gutter and Diverter
If you’ve got an outbuilding or even a shed with a decent roofline, that’s all you need. I ran a short piece of gutter off the back of the barn and attached a downspout diverter. These are clever little things. When the rain comes, they fill your barrel first, then overflow back into the downspout once the barrel’s full.

I ran some PVC from the diverter to the screened hole on top. Sealed the connection with silicone and duct tape just to be extra ornery.

Step Four: Link Multiple Barrels
Here’s where it gets fun. Drill a hole about four inches from the top on the side of the first barrel. Run a short piece of PVC pipe to the second barrel at the same height. Now when the first fills up, the second one starts catching overflow. You can link as many as you’ve got room and patience for. I’ve got two but I’ve seen setups with eight.

How I Use It
This isn’t drinking water unless you’ve got a filter. I use mine for flushing toilets when the power’s out, watering the garden, rinsing off boots, even washing the dog when he’s rolled in something foul.

I marked the barrels with painter’s tape at the 10, 25, and 50-gallon levels so I can eyeball what I’ve got. There’s something mighty comforting about seeing them full after a good thunderstorm.

It’s simple, quiet, and gravity never needs a battery. And the whole setup cost me about 80 bucks. Way cheaper than a fancy rain catchment system, and it works just as well. Maybe better, because I built it myself and I know every inch of it.

Last week we had one of those classic high desert windstorms out here in Oregon. The kind that rattles the windows and makes the dog hide under the kitchen table. A big cottonwood came down across the road about half a mile from the house, and in the process, it managed to take out both the power lines and our cell signal.

Luke and Charlotte looked at me like I’d just told them Christmas was canceled. No Wi-Fi, no cartoons, no online math games. Luke was so distraught I half expected him to faint like one of those fainting goats Steve’s uncle used to raise.

How We Filled the Time
First, I dug out the stack of board games that lives on top of the pantry. We played “Sorry” three times and Charlotte won every single game. Luke was convinced the board was “rigged,” which made her giggle so hard she nearly fell off her chair.

After that, I had them help me make Dutch oven chili on the camp stove out on the porch. Charlotte chopped bell peppers with a butter knife like she was on a cooking show. Luke stirred the pot so enthusiastically that I was sure he’d fling half the beans onto the lawn. The smell of that chili cooking in the cold air almost made me forget we were living like pioneers.

The Magic of Candlelight
By evening, Steve set up a few lanterns and candles around the living room. The kids sat on the floor and listened while I read them one of my favorite books, “Where the Red Fern Grows.” I think Charlotte might have cried a little, though she claims it was just “smoke in her eyes.”

Funny thing, they forgot all about their screens after a couple hours. They were too busy arguing over who got the last biscuit from dinner.

What I Learned
I realized the kids need to see that life doesn’t fall apart when the internet goes down. In fact, I think they went to bed that night happier than usual, all worn out from the day and smelling like campfire chili. Jasper, our black lab, curled up with them on the floor like he was soaking up the quiet.

We’ve decided to make one night a month “no screens” night. Just lanterns, old books, and maybe chili if Luke is willing to chop onions without whining about it.

This week, I want you to build a real-deal 72-hour kit that doesn’t just sit in your closet gathering dust but can actually go with you when it needs to. No fifteen-pound bags of rice, no family heirloom cast iron skillet. We’re talking lean, mean, grab-it-and-go.

Your Challenge:
Pack a backpack that can keep you alive for 3 days if you had to walk out your front door and not come back for a while.

Your Kit Should Include:

Bonus Points:

Once you’ve packed it, take it for a walk. Seriously. Strap it on and walk a mile around your neighborhood. If your shoulders start screaming or your back’s soaked with sweat by block two, go home and rethink what you’re carrying.

Remember, a 72-hour kit is not a mobile bug-out bunker. It’s a short-term survival tool. Keep it simple. Keep it light. And keep it where you can grab it in the middle of the night if the sirens start howling.