It's a rural, rural world out here.

One minute, you're happily picking apples from the tree on a sunny afternoon and the next you're sitting in darkness, wondering when the lights will come back on.

Recently, we attended the monthly parents' meeting at our son's pre-school. Each meeting starts off with a guest speaker, followed by pre-school business and class meetings. Sounds tedious? For us, though, it's almost as good as a night out. We line up a baby sitter and get to spend two hours in the company of other adults. When we're finished, we come home to two sleeping boys and a quiet house.

So imagine my displeasure when, at the last meeting, the speaker, who was the head of the local volunteer fire hall, actually had the nerve to speak of such weighty topics as safety in the home and emergency preparedness, topics that demanded my utmost serious attention.  This was not the light social night out I had anticipated. Where were the chocolate chip cookies? Where was the coffee?

What did I learn? That we need to check all of our smoke detectors to ensure that they work. That our windows are a safety hazard because they open only about 45 degrees, not enough to allow an escape route. That in this backwater location, we should be prepared to fend for ourselves for up to six or seven days in the event of a large scale emergency, not the three days as the province advises. That every room should be equipped with a fire safety kit that includes a hammer (to break said window that doesn't open wide enough for a person to climb out) a rope ladder (so that one doesn't end up with broken limbs after break the above noted window and making a timely escape) towels (to stuff under the bottom of the close door to prevent smoke from seeping into the room). There might have been other items, but at this point my brain was getting rather full as our new digs morphed from a home with potential into a death trap.

At this point in the discussion, the topic of household fire safety kits came up. Someone mentioned fire extinguishers and the need to have them checked regularly.  Someone else mentioned white flags to extend on poles out of windows to alert firefighters to the rooms in which we might be trapped. Someone else asked where in the house we should keep our fire safety kits (as if we all have them at home, sitting on the kitchen table just waiting for that perfect storage spot). Answer? How about next to the emergency preparedness kit.

I confess: at that point I broke down in slightly hysterical giggles. Emergency preparedness kit?What a good idea. The way the answer was tossed off and everyone around me nodded their heads sagely, it seems that we are the only ones in the community who will be fighting with the cat over the kibbles in the event of a disaster.

Really, though, I have no excuse for being so woefully unprepared. Years ago, in my former big city, pre-kids life, I worked for a large department of the provincial government. As part of my job, I participated in a mock province-wide emergency response. I got a clear view of what could happen if the big one (or even a not-so-big one) hits and it wasn't good. I know that I should have food, water and blankets in my backpack and in my car. I know that I should have a stash of batteries and flashlights in every room of the house. I know that I should sleep with my hiking boots under my bed. I know that I should always sleep in a full complement of clothing (otherwise I'd look pretty silly running around naked in my hiking boots trying to find the kibbles) I know these things. Truly. I have no excuse beyond laziness and optimistic disbelief.

So, we have some work ahead of us. Hammers in each room and a case of canned salmon by the basement door. And perhaps one in the back of the car. And maybe an extra bag of kibbles for Rudi.

For next month's meeting, in an effort to preserve my state of optimistic denial, I volunteered to be on snack duty. I think I can already smell the chocolate chip cookies baking.