We used to call it “winter.” It is a season of extremes and, as far as the weather is concerned, a time of uncertainty. Most of you will read this after the long‑predicted ice storm has passed. This morning it hasn’t happened yet. The lights are on here and the house is warm. It’s a balmy 37 degrees outside, and I can walk to the barn without sliding on ice.
Almost a week out from the predicted storm, bread and milk disappeared from store shelves. Our friend at the local farm store ran out of propane. On Tuesday the 20th, we made our regular visit to the grocery and found a logjam of heavily laden shopping carts piloted by glassy‑eyed consumers somewhere along the continuum toward panic, cutting each other off to reach for the eggs like commuters changing lanes on the interstate. I miss the calm before the storm. We are not allowed that anymore.
“Storm stocks”—Walmart, Kroger, Home Depot, Lowe’s, and Costco—trended up all week as we followed catastrophe headlines and Facebook weather posts. Today, Thursday, they are all down, suggesting that investors believe the storm has been overhyped. I pray that this is true, but I make no predictions concerning the weather. Or the market.
Back home in the holler, I checked the battery and serviced the generator. The propane tank was filled long before the price shot up. There’s dry firewood under the shed. We keep the freezer full because it’s cheaper to operate that way and because, well, it’s winter. In fact, almost all the preparations suggested by the oracle of social media were already done here for that reason. This is not our first rodeo.
It’s probably not your first either, so you already know that a milk jug of frozen water fills any gaps in your freezer and creates a cooling buffer when the power goes out. If you didn’t know, you only have to run your generator for about two hours a day to keep the food in your freezer safe. And the predicted temperatures mean you can put food outside on the porch. Use a cooler and a concrete block if you have raccoons.
Basking in the warmth of our spinning electric meter—my toes warmed by a well‑fed puppy, coffee steaming in a cup preheated by the dishwasher—I’m not only counting our blessings; I’m considering all the energy we will depend on to stay warm for the rest of this winter. The infrastructure that spins that meter is vast and complex, and so is the network that transfers the pixel‑fiat money to pay the bill.
What is vast and complex is also fragile. One winter storm can disrupt the whole thing. When our power goes down, since we don’t have cell service, we are eventually cut off from the world. Internet connectivity, which enables our VOIP, usually lasts about an hour until the battery backup at the DSLAM runs out. If we have to make a call, I can drive to the little church on “cell phone hill”—unless, of course, the roads are covered with ice.
When the power goes out here, propane, wood, wool, and puppies will keep us warm, and there is an old Kerosun heater in the basement with a jerry can of kerosene just in case. We have books—real ones—and candles. Survival comes down pretty much to common sense. But almost everything else we have built our lives on—our communications, our money, our distractions, hobbies, and entertainment—are luxuries dependent on an abundant supply of cheap energy.
Even our ideals, liberties, philosophies, and political dramas are luxury items that are energy‑dependent. Occam’s Razor is the problem‑solving principle that recommends searching for explanations constructed with the smallest possible set of elements. Today I offer you “Occam’s Butcher Knife,” which carves away the fat of all the sound and fury surrounding that understanding.
When the storm finally arrives—or doesn’t—we’ll go on doing what people in the hills have always done: prepare, endure, and adapt. Winter reminds us that comfort is borrowed, not guaranteed, and that resilience depends on what we do long before the ice forms. If the lights stay on, we’ll be grateful. If they go out, we’ll manage. Either way, the lesson is the same: simplicity is not weakness, and self‑reliance is not nostalgia. It’s survival.
Strip away the noise, the forecasts, the panic buying, the market chatter, and what remains is the simple truth that winter has always taught: we are small, and nature is not moved by our needs or our opinions. A winter storm can cut away everything but the essentials. Maybe that’s the gift hidden in all this anxiety.
Outside The Box 