The silence woke me before the cold did. It was one of those Missouri nights where the wind hits the siding just right and rattles the downspouts like they are trying to send a message. I was already half listening for something, though I could not have told you what until the furnace shut off and that soft hum of electricity went away.

There is a certain sound to a house when everything is running right. The refrigerator clicks on now and then. The furnace sighs. The well pump kicks for a heartbeat. When it all stops, your ears do not know what to do with themselves. I blinked in the dark, waiting for something to happen, and it did not. I nudged Darlene, though she was already awake and staring at the ceiling. She said, very matter of fact, Well there it is.

Now, in our place, February means cold hardwood floors and air that sinks down over the lake like a heavy wool coat. So that quiet hits a little different. I sat up, reached for the flashlight I keep clipped to the bed frame, and clicked it on. Not bright, just enough to see my own feet. I always say that light is not about brightness, it is about direction and purpose.

Those First Ten Minutes
Some folks treat preparedness like it is only about grand gestures and giant budget items. They accumulate generators the size of small tractors or dehydrated food that could feed a football team. Nothing wrong with gear, but the thing that matters most is those first ten minutes.

In those first ten minutes I:

I did not, and this is important, jump into action like I was in a movie. No sprinting. No dramatic statements. No panic. Because panic is loud and preparation is quiet.

I walked through the house checking the kids rooms when they were younger, and now that they are grown, I still find myself checking empty rooms. Habit is a powerful thing. The temperature was holding at 64 degrees which gave us some time. Cold sinks slow when the insulation is doing its job.

The Generator and the Memory of Forgetting
I kept the generator in the shed, and I knew the fuel was stabilized because I had done the fall maintenance like I always do. I keep a little notebook that answers the question my future self always seems to ask which is Did I already do that. It saves a lot of arguments with myself.

Now, here is the part nobody talks about. I almost forgot to open the shed vent. Last year I forgot entirely and nearly smoked myself out. It was my neighbor Kenny who saw the little plume and came banging on the door to tell me I was trying to turn the shed into a cautionary tale. He said something along the lines of Buddy, I am too old to call the volunteer fire department at this hour. I tell you that so you know this is not perfection. This is practice.

So I took a breath in those first moments and pictured the steps. That is what readiness is. Not memorization. Familiarity.

Calling Wendy the Next Morning
By morning the house was warm again and the fridge was humming like it had never stopped. I called Wendy out in Oregon while pouring my first cup of coffee. She lives out east of the Cascades where the trees get tall and the winters get real serious. They lose power more often than we do, and she and Steve have their own rhythm for these situations.

She answered and said, Heard Missouri had some wind last night. I said, Well we had some wind and some darkness but it was alright. Then she told me that Luke had insisted on practicing fire starting in the backyard the day before and had charred three good sticks into something that resembled modern art. Charlotte apparently said it looked like a dragon’s toe. Jasper probably tried to eat it.

I like hearing how they handle these things. They are not preparing for the end of the world. They are just living life with a little more awareness that things change and sometimes the lights go out.

A Small Trick With Heat
I learned something years ago from an old coworker who grew up in a farmhouse built just after the first World War. He said if the heat goes out and you need to conserve what you have, choose one room to live in. Close the doors, hang blankets over doorways if you need to, and stay in the smallest space that still feels comfortable. The body heat of a couple of people can add more warmth than you might think.

We do that when we need to. We gather in the den because it gets southwest light and the wood stove is right there. I have two folding cots tucked behind the old bookshelf and a thick wool blanket from my grandfather’s army trunk. There is a calm that comes from knowing you have a place to retreat to.

What I Want Folks to Know
Most preparedness is not dramatic. It is not the stuff of television specials. It is quiet decisions made long before anything happens. It is checking the flashlight batteries. It is filling the fuel can before the forecast calls for ice. It is labeling the shelves in the pantry because you already know that future you will forget where the beans are.

And sometimes it is just waking up at 2 AM, listening to the wind, and deciding you have everything you need to handle the night.

I have made this one more times than I can count. We grew up eating pork in every season, but when I reached my fifties I realized that half the trick to a good roast is not speed, it is patience and the right kind of heat. My grandmother used to say pork needs encouragement. Not force. Encouragement. So this is a slow one. If you try to rush it, it will let you know.

I like to use a three to four pound pork shoulder or butt roast. Bone in if I can get it, because the bone adds flavor and helps everything stay tender. If all you can find is boneless, do not let that stop you. You just need to watch the liquid level a little more.

Set the roast out on the counter for about twenty or thirty minutes so it does not go from ice cold to heat too fast. While it sits there getting used to the room, I slice up one large yellow onion, two carrots, and two parsnips if I have them. Parsnips are optional but they add this quiet sweetness that shows up right at the end when you are not expecting it. I quarter about six small red potatoes too. They hold their shape better than russets.

For seasoning, I use a mix of:
1 tablespoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon black pepper
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
1 teaspoon dried thyme
1 teaspoon garlic powder
And if I am feeling like showing off a little, a very small pinch of ground clove. Not enough to taste like holiday baking. Just enough to make people wonder what is making it taste warm.

I rub this seasoning all over the pork roast like I am politely convincing it to relax. Then I heat a heavy Dutch oven on the stove with just a splash of oil. Not a puddle. Just enough to keep things from sticking. When the pot is warm, I brown the roast on all sides. Do not rush this. Browning is not just for color. It makes the flavor deeper, like the pork suddenly remembers its own character.

When it is browned, I pull the roast out for a second and throw the onions into the pot. They go soft and translucent and smell like the start of every good meal I have ever had. Then I nestle the roast back in and pile the other vegetables around it.

Now for the liquid. You have options here. You can use a cup of chicken broth or a cup of apple cider. I prefer half and half. The cider gives a little sweetness but the broth keeps it grounded. Pour just enough to come halfway up the roast. Not higher. You want the top to sit proud of the liquid so it braises rather than boils.

Put the lid on, slide the whole thing into a 275 degree oven, and forget about it for four hours. Not totally forget, but pretend you are not thinking about it. The house will start smelling like a Sunday afternoon that has nowhere to be. You will know it is ready when a fork slides into the roast with no argument.

When you pull it out, take a minute before serving. The roast needs a breath. It has had a long journey. Slice or shred it, whichever mood strikes you, and scoop the vegetables beneath. The broth will have turned silky and rich. Spoon that over the top.

Darlene likes hers with a little extra salt at the table. I like mine as is. If by some miracle you have leftovers, they make excellent sandwiches the next day. Warm the pork and layer it on bread with a bit of mustard. Do not overthink it.

This is a meal that rewards time and patience. The house feels different when it is cooking. Warmer. Quieter. Like everybody is leaning in.

Back in the spring of 2008 we had a tornado skim past our little part of Missouri, close enough that the sky went the color of a bruise and the air got that stillness that makes you feel like you are in a church. I remember standing on the porch with Darlene while the sirens were still trying to decide if they were going to commit to going off or not. The wind smelled like fresh dirt and aluminum, which is not a good combination if you ask me.

Folks in town still talk about that night like it was just last week. It did not hit us directly. It took out a cattle barn about three miles south and a section of fencing so long that the farmers spent two days trying to track down wandering beef. But the part that stayed with me was not the damage. It was what the first five minutes felt like.

Knowing When to Move
I had always assumed I would know the right moment to move toward shelter. That something in my bones would say, alright, get everybody downstairs. But I learned that you do not get a grand signal. You get confusion. You get the neighbor texting that his radio says one thing, your brother calling saying something else, and the weather app trying to be helpful without knowing where your house sits between two old hills.

In that moment hesitation is a decision. I made everyone go downstairs to the basement, even though at the time it felt dramatic. I am grateful I did. The tornado passed, but I remember seeing the trees bending in ways that trees should not bend, and hearing the wind carry things I could not see.

The Basement Kit Was Wrong
We had supplies in the basement but they were not placed where they needed to be. Everything was stored in a big plastic bin behind the water heater because at the time I assumed I would have plenty of time to get to it. Turns out when the wind is howling and the siren is testing the upper end of what your ears can tolerate, bending behind a water heater becomes a whole lot harder than you would think.

Since then I keep our basement kit on a waist-high shelf near the wall with the workbench. It is simply easier to access when nerves are high and the flashlight in your hand is shaking a little because your heart is trying to outrun the rest of your body.

Contents now include:
A battery lantern instead of a pile of loose flashlights
A radio with a hand crank because battery hope is not a strategy
A pair of old sneakers in case anyone comes downstairs barefoot
Two blankets
A deck of cards because waiting can feel like forever

Checking on Neighbors
After the storm passed, the first thing I remember is how quiet everything became. That strange quiet like the world takes a breath and waits to see how you react. I walked outside and saw our neighbor Kenny doing the same. We made eye contact across the yards and just nodded. No shouting. No waving. Just two men acknowledging that something could have happened but did not.

We walked house to house, checking on folks. Not making a big production out of it. Just a knock and a short exchange. Everyone was a little shaky but fine. There is something grounding in that. Being seen and seeing others.

The Part That Stuck With Me
Days later I asked Darlene what she remembered most from that night. She said it was how fast the regular world stopped being regular. One minute she was folding laundry and the next she was sitting on a basement step with a blanket around her shoulders listening to the house shift in the wind. She said it reminded her that comfort is temporary and preparation is something you do before you think you need it.

That is what I took from that tornado that missed by three miles. Not fear. Not drama. Just a reminder that the distance between normal and not normal is thinner than most of us like to believe.

I like this one because it costs nearly nothing and it teaches you how fire behaves. I first made one of these when I was around twelve with my uncle Jerry who believed that every useful skill should come from something found in the garage. You can cook on this little stove, boil water, or just have a warm spot to heat your hands if you are out back and do not want to fuss with the big firepit.

You will need:
One large coffee can
One regular soup can
A sturdy pair of tin snips
A hammer and a thick nail
A handful of small sticks about the width of a pencil
And a flat stone or brick to set everything on

Start by cleaning out both cans. Labels off if you can. If not, the labels will burn off anyway but it will smell like a craft store dumpster for a minute so I suggest removing them if your patience allows.

Take the soup can and carefully remove the bottom with the tin snips so it becomes a hollow tube. Then take the coffee can and use the tin snips to cut a square opening near the base. This opening needs to be just large enough for the soup can to slide into at a slight angle. Think of it like a little fire slide that feeds into the main chamber.

Slide the soup can into the opening so it angles upward into the coffee can. This becomes your feed tube where you will insert your twigs and airflow will move nicely. You may need to crimp the sides of the soup can a bit to get it to fit snug. Do not worry if it looks a little rough. Ugly is functional in these projects.

Use the hammer and nail to punch about ten holes around the top rim of the coffee can. These holes let the heat escape evenly and prevent the flame from choking. Then punch another small ring of holes around the lower portion of the coffee can but above the feed tube. These lower holes help draw air in so the fire breathes rather than smolders.

Set the whole thing on your flat stone or brick outside. Do not put it on a plastic table. I am not speaking from imagination here. I lost a perfectly good patio table one summer because I thought I could just put down a cookie sheet and call it good.

Gather your sticks. I like sticks that snap cleanly and sound dry. No thicker than your finger. Lay a small handful inside the main chamber through the top and light them. The fire will catch and start pulling air through the feed tube. That is when you start adding sticks through the angled soup can opening. Do not jam them in. Let the tips burn and feed them in slowly as they shorten.

Once the flame has some height to it you can put a small pan on top. I have fried eggs and heated stew and warmed coffee this way. I have even toasted bread by holding it upright next to the flame while Darlene stood there looking unimpressed. She prefers her toast from a toaster like a civilized person.

The point of this project is not perfection. It is learning how fire and airflow work together. It is building something with your hands that turns a cold night into warm food. If you can do this with a couple of cans, imagine what you can do with a little more time and a garage full of forgotten bits and pieces.

I once showed this to Luke when we visited Oregon and he spent the next hour seeing what else could burn. We had to make a rule about what counts as fair kindling. Charlotte suggested we write it down and stick it to the fridge. She drew a little picture of Jasper next to the words Do not burn the dog. I kept that drawing.

Hi everyone, Wendy here. Dad asked if I would share a little something from out our way this week. We had our first real cold snap here east of the Cascades and it always seems to catch us mid chore. The mountains were white by morning and Steve said it felt like the year was suddenly serious again. The kids were thrilled because snow means cocoa and cocoa means marshmallows and marshmallows mean whatever game they invent where Jasper tries to catch them midair and misses entirely every time.

We have a small wood stove in the living room. Not a big grand one like some folks have. Ours is shaped a little like a stout black lunchbox. It came with the house when we bought it. I remember the first winter we lived here I was scared to use it because I thought I would fill the house with smoke and trigger some kind of alarm we did not yet understand. Now I can stack and light it half asleep, which is convenient because the mornings here think 5 AM is perfectly reasonable.

I have been teaching the kids how to set the fire. Not light it, just set it. I told them that fire starts before the match ever touches a thing. It starts with understanding how to build it. Charlotte is careful and thoughtful. She lays each piece like she is building a tiny cathedral. Luke is enthusiastic, which is its own kind of useful, but we have had to talk about not shoving half the wood pile in there at once. I told him fire needs space to think. He nodded very seriously and said he understood. Then he immediately tried to add three more sticks.

We had a moment last week where the power went out for about an hour. Nothing dramatic. Just one of those little reminders that the grid is doing its best but the wind is doing better. We lit two beeswax candles and boiled water on the stove for tea. The house felt gentler somehow. Softer. You could hear the snow outside like a blanket being dragged slowly down the roof.

Jasper, for his part, thinks any power outage is simply an opportunity to reposition himself directly in front of the stove, ideally with all four paws extended like he is sunbathing on a tropical beach. He is aging a little now. His muzzle is starting to go gray. Charlotte says he looks wise. Luke says he looks like a wizard dog. Steve says we should start calling him Professor.

When I called Dad later that afternoon just to say hello, he said something like, It is funny how quiet teaches us more than noise ever does. I know exactly what he means. When everything is working and humming and rushing we tend to forget how capable we are. But give us a little dark and a little cold and suddenly we remember how to make warmth. How to make light. How to be resourceful without making it a big performance.

I do not think preparedness has to be dramatic. It can be just learning how to stack kindling with your kids. It can be knowing where the extra blankets are. It can be teaching your dog not to lean against the stove even though he absolutely will.

Anyway that is what it looked like here this week. If you could see the snow right now you would understand why I made a second cup of tea.

This week I want us to do something small, quiet, and incredibly useful. We are going to make a five minute grab list. Not a bug out bag. Not a fully optimized tactical solution. Just a handwritten list of items you would want to grab if you had five minutes to leave the house because of a fire, chemical spill, burst pipe, or any of the things that tend to happen on a Tuesday when you least expect them.

Here is why this matters. In stress the brain gets foggy. Fine motor skills go weird. Decision making becomes something like trying to pick your favorite spoon in the dark. I have seen perfectly capable people run back into a house to grab a single shoe and then stand there trying to remember why they did that. If you write it down now, you will not be relying on future you who might be a little rattled.

Take ten minutes today. Sit at the kitchen table. Have a cup of coffee or whatever warms your thinking. Write down no more than twelve items. That is the limit and it forces clarity. Think in order of importance, not sentiment alone.

Here are some categories to help nudge the thinking:
Wallets and IDs
Prescription medications
Important documents folder if you have one
A change of socks for each person
A small comfort item for kids if you have them around
Phones and chargers
Leash for the dog if the dog is not great at cooperating under pressure

And here is the key part. Once you write the list, tape it inside a cabinet door near your exit. Not on the fridge where papers go to disappear under grocery coupons and dentist appointment reminders. Put it where you will see it only when you mean to look and where it will be waiting on a hard day.

My list lives inside the broom closet door. That is the door closest to the back exit. Darlene teased me at first but the day the neighbor’s water heater burst and filled half their house before they could stop it, she looked at that list and said, I am glad we did that.

If you feel ambitious, walk through your house and look at where those listed items are stored. If half of them are upstairs in a drawer behind winter scarves and spare batteries, consider gathering the important ones so they are within easy reach. Again, nothing dramatic. Just thoughtful rearranging.

If you want extra credit, time yourself. Start at the exit, grab your list, move through the sequence, and see how long it actually takes. It might surprise you. And if you find yourself wandering or thinking too long, adjust the list.

Preparedness is just making the future a little easier on whoever you happen to be on the day life gets loud. Here we’re focusing on quiet steps, made today, that whisper we are ready.