Outage...

 The forecast for Saturday promised a Nor'easter. High winds and heavy rain followed by dropping temperatures, ice and snow. It came as promised. We had planned dinner out with friends, a rare event these days, and were enjoying a lovely evening when the restaurant lost its electrical power. They added more candles to our table and served our food. It was delicious. Chris went to his car and fetched a flashlight. The chef took it to the kitchen and continued his work. 

Driving home the roads were littered with wind blown branches and the rain pelted down. We noted which houses had lights glowing, and were sad when ours did not. We had left the wood stove burning, so it was warm inside, if dark. We went to bed early and woke to find the power was still out. About an inch of icy snow had fallen, and the wind had plastered it to the sides of buildings, trees, and shrubs. 

I go into a strange funk when we have an outage. Living where we do, it means that we can't run water because the well pump runs by electricity. This means no washing hands or dishes, no flushing toilets, and most importantly, no watering the animals. Knowing we could lose power any time, I keep 10 or 15 gallons of animal water at the ready in the house, and fill the goat and donkeys big, heated water tub to the brim every day, but if we are without power for long, things get dicey. It also means that our chest freezers, full of lovely chicken we raised right here, lamb, beef and pork from friends farms, are in peril. The thought of wasting all that wonderful meat makes me fret. Every year we plan to buy a generator to run crucial things like the well pump, furnace and the freezers for a few hours at a time, but we never do.

As Chris and I rattle around the house, staying close to the wood stove, unable to operate our lives normally, I read and knit, make notes for an upcoming article, feed the fire and gaze at the flames. I think about how glad I am to live in a time where most days heat and light and water are available at the turning of a dial, flick of a switch, lift of a faucet. I miss the sounds of the washing machine chugging, the dryer whirring, the whoosh of the furnace as it pumps warm air through the house. It seems eerily quiet. We watch the road for power company trucks that do not come and go to bed early, snuggled under handmade quilts and a fluffy feather duvet. 

Before dawn on Monday the bedroom light came on and Chris muttered a sleepy, "Yay." My hot shower felt extra good, and I rejoiced as I washed dishes, filled water tubs and listened to the normal sounds of my refrigerator motor kicking on and ice cubes thudding into the waiting tray. 

I'm moving "buy generator," up on the "to do" list.