Last October, while Sarah was sleeping off a long night shift, I dragged Leo out into my driveway. It was a crisp, chilly autumn afternoon.

Leo had groaned and complained the entire time. He just wanted to go back inside and finish his game.

“Grandpa, this is stupid,” he had argued. “Mom has an app on her phone. They’ll just send a guy.”

“Apps crash, Leo,” I told him, dropping the heavy chains at his feet. “Service drops. People get busy. The only person you can truly rely on to save you, is you.”

I made him put those chains on my truck. Then I made him take them off. Then I made him do it again on his mother’s car.

I made him lay on the cold concrete until his hands were dirty and he knew exactly how the tension hooks felt without having to look at them.

He rolled his eyes at me the whole afternoon. But he learned it.

We are so quick to write off the younger generation. We see them staring at screens and assume they are incapable of surviving reality.

But judging a book by its cover is a dangerous mistake. These kids aren’t broken. They just live in a world that has made things entirely too easy for them.

When the easy way vanishes, when the screens go dark and the apps fail, they still have the capacity for incredible bravery and resilience.

But they can’t use tools they were never taught how to hold.

We can’t just cross our fingers and hope technology will always be there to rescue our families. It is our duty to pass down the practical, analog skills that keep people alive.

Teach your kids how to change a tire. Teach them how to jump a battery. Teach them how to put on snow chains.

They will complain. They will roll their eyes. They will tell you it’s a waste of time.

Do it anyway.

Because one day, the battery will die, the rescue won’t come, and the only thing standing between them and a tragedy will be the lessons you refused to let them ignore.