Every house keeps a quiet ledger of its own weaknesses, and the season of storms is the auditor that comes to collect. Long before the first great blow of summer rolls in off the water, the prudent household does well to walk the property with an unhurried eye, looking upward and outward for the small failures that a heavy rain will find on its own. An hour spent so, on a fair afternoon, is worth a great deal more than the same hour spent later in the dark with a bucket and a rising temper.

The work asks no special learning. It asks only attention, a steady ladder, and the willingness to see a thing as it truly is rather than as one wishes it to be.

Begin at the Top

The roof is the first line of defense and the last, and it earns the first look. From the ground, and again from a safe vantage, study the field of shingles for any that have lifted at the edge, curled in the heat, cracked along the grain, or gone missing altogether. A single displaced shingle is an open door, and water is a patient guest. Look with particular care at the flashing, the thin metal that seals the joints where the roof meets a chimney, a vent, or a change of plane. Flashing that has pulled loose or rusted through will admit water long before the shingles themselves fail, and it is the most common quiet leak in an otherwise sound house.

Where the trouble sits plainly within reach of a homeowner of ordinary confidence, a fresh bead of sealant or a reseated shingle may answer. But a steep pitch, a slick surface, a great height, or damage that runs deeper than the eye can follow is no place for pride. Work that lies beyond your reach, in the plain and literal sense, is best entrusted to a roofing contractor, who brings the footing, the harness, and the trained judgment the task requires. There is no economy in a fall.

Follow the Water Down

Having read the roof, follow the path the rain will take. Gutters choked with last autumn's leaves cannot carry a summer deluge; they overflow, and the water they ought to have carried off instead spills against the wall and pools at the foundation. Clear the troughs by hand or by hose, and send a good flow through each downspout to be certain it runs free. See that every downspout discharges well away from the house, onto a splash block or an extension that carries the water off, and not into a quiet corner where it can soak downward and find the cellar.

While the ladder is out, turn an eye to the limbs overhead. A branch that overhangs the roof is a battering ram in a high wind and a bridge for water and vermin in any weather. Trim back what leans too close, and take down the dead wood that a gust would otherwise take down for you, at a time and place of its own choosing. Then walk the walls, going slowly past the windows and doors and pressing a finger to the caulk; where it has cracked, shrunk, or crumbled, water and wind will follow, and a modest tube of fresh sealant closes the gap for a season and more.

A short, ordered list keeps the walk honest:

• Shingles: lifted, curled, cracked, or missing, and the flashing at every seam.
• Gutters and downspouts: cleared, and draining well away from the foundation.
• Overhanging limbs: trimmed back, with the dead wood taken down.
• Windows and doors: caulk and weatherstripping sound and unbroken.
• The yard: furniture, tools, and light objects a strong wind could carry.

Secure the Ground and Know the Water

A storm turns a peaceful yard into an armory. Loose furniture, planters, waste bins, and garden tools become missiles in a strong wind, and the tidy household brings them in or lashes them down before the sky darkens. Give the same thought to sheds and other outbuildings, whose doors and light roofs take the wind hardest, and secure them accordingly.

Last, learn your own ground. Watch, during an ordinary heavy rain, where the water gathers and where it runs, which corner of the yard holds a puddle and which doorway sits lowest to the grade. A household that knows the natural drainage of its own lot knows where to lay a sandbag and where it must never store what cannot be replaced. Preparation of this kind is not fear; it is the plain good sense of a family that means to weather the season dry, and to meet the first great blow already ready for it.