Category: ice on the road

Praise the Blessings of Light, Heat, and Internet

What a luxury it is to touch a switch and make light. To turn a knob and make heat. To keep food safe in a refrigerator for days, weeks or even months. To type a question on my computer and have an immediate answer.

We forget how blessed we are, but many Oregonians got a terse reminder over the past few days as an ice storm sent temperatures plummeting into the 20s. Trees fell, transformers blew, and power lines dangled in the wind as ice coated everything, making the roads impassable, even as it etched beautiful designs on plants, puddles and windowpanes.

Some people were without power for four or five days. Schools and businesses closed. The recreation center was turned into an emergency shelter for those living with no heat or lights. Garbage pickup and mail were delayed. Government officials declared a state of emergency and begged people to stay home.

I was relatively lucky. Everything was working at my house in South Beach last weekend, but at St. Anthony’s church in Waldport, where I play piano and lead the choir on Saturdays, the lights went out just before Mass, taking the electric piano with it. We lit candles and carried on. I led with a borrowed guitar, and the people in the pews sang more boisterously than usual, perhaps feeling more confident in the dark. It was beautiful. But I kept thinking about the homemade clam chowder I had waiting for me back in South Beach and hoping I had electricity to heat it up.

I did. It was delicious. Mom’s recipe.

My power went out for a few hours during the night but returned in time for me to carry on my usual Sunday chores.

I was watching “Ugly Betty” on Netflix Monday night when the internet quit. Suddenly I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was so used to going from one screen to another—computer, tablet, TV, phone—that I didn’t know what to do with myself. I moped for a few minutes and went to bed.

I still had no Internet yesterday morning. I could not check my bank account, answer my emails, work on book promotion, or post on Facebook. I would miss my weekly poetry workshop. But I still had electricity. I could write and I did. I could play music and I did. I could bake muffins and I did. I could satisfy my craving for eggs and bacon by cooking them for lunch. I ate them with a warm pepper jelly muffin dripping with butter.

And then, while I was sitting by the fireplace reading emails after lunch, the great silence and darkness fell. No internet, no stove, no TV, no lights, no way to know who else was sitting in the dark. I went for a walk. It was 36 degrees plus wind chill but not as dark as it was in my house. On the street, everything looked the same as usual except for the ice designs in the puddles.

Back home, huddling by the fire again, I pulled my guitar over and started playing through my list of instrumentals. Coming to the ones I had written, I got an urge to look at all of my original songs. I haven’t written many songs lately, but some of these older ones were really good. I came upon a song I had never played in public because it didn’t quite work. I spent the next couple hours rewriting it, struggling to see, groaning in frustration when I couldn’t quite get it right. By dusk, the song and I were happy with each other.

I decided to wash my baking dishes while I could still see by the light from the window. As I sponged batter and jelly off the muffin pans, I planned my evening. Forget the Zoom poetry reading and open mic that had been on my calendar for weeks. I would eat a cheese or tuna sandwich for dinner, with my melting ice cream for dessert. I could call a friend or relative on the old princess phone I still keep plugged in. I could write by candlelight, do yoga, play some more music, and go to bed early.

But then, the stove clock squeaked and the lights came on. The internet soon followed. I felt teary with gratitude. I could cook real food, attend the poetry reading, watch TV, or do anything I wanted. I was so lucky. Some of my friends had been without power for four days. Some were trapped in their houses by ice and fallen trees. But here, the lights were on, and the temperature was rising. It would go up to 52 by bedtime.

The schools are still closed today. It’s going to take a while for things to get back to normal. I’m just hoping to buy groceries and make a dent in my to-do list. There’s also that song waiting for me on my piano. I need to make sense of my scrawls and scratch-outs and get comfortable singing it. The title: “Save This Moment.”

I think of the people suffering from the weather everywhere–some places have seen temperatures way below zero with many feet of snow. I think of the people living in war-torn countries where they can’t even get food or medical care, where they don’t know if their loved ones are still alive. That I can’t get on the internet or heat my tea is such a tiny inconvenience. Be grateful, friends, and treasure the moment.

How has this stormy time affected you? Have you lost trees, power, or heat? Did you have to evacuate? What has been the hardest part? What are you grateful for now that the rain is melting the ice here and things may be improving elsewhere, too?

I welcome your comments.   

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Snow? I didn’t sign up for this


I should be at church playing the piano right now. Instead, I’m at a motel in Corvallis, looking out the window at a world coated with snow. The temperature is 12 degrees. Fahrenheit, not Celsius. The view is gorgeous. Beyond the snow and trees, the Willamette River sparkles in the early morning sun. Beyond that lie miles of snow-coated fields. I’ve always wanted to spend some time in Corvallis, to walk the streets, enjoy the stores and restaurants and stroll along the river, but this wasn’t quite how I pictured it.

I definitely didn’t imagine this when we moved to Oregon 17 ½ years ago. I came from a place where it doesn’t snow. It barely rains. When the thermometer dips below 70, folks complain that it’s too cold. I had heard that it rains a lot in Oregon. I thought okay, I’ll get a raincoat. I had no idea what 80 inches a year is like. But I learned. We Oregonians are taught to never carry an umbrella and never complain about the rain. It’s what keeps everything green.
But snow? Wait! I didn’t sign on for snow or for temperatures so low that it doesn’t melt for days and the roads are so slick I don’t know how to drive on them. One slide-around yesterday on Highway 34 on my way home from the airport convinced me to park as soon as possible. People who are used to snow are unfazed. I overheard my waiter at McMenaman’s brewpub last night telling a customer that he was comfortable driving in the snow but worried about those folks who don’t know what they’re doing. I wanted to set my Hammerhead beer down and raise my hand. Me!
My dogsitter is from the Midwest. She laughed when I asked if she had any trouble driving to my house on Friday night. I mean, come on. Everything in Newport was closed. They closed the schools and City Hall, stopped all the buses, and cancelled all the Christmas events. But Jo didn’t mind the snow and she knew how to turn on my faucets so they don’t freeze. Thank God. 
The good news is that the snow stopped falling two days ago, and the sun is shining. We just need everything to defrost. I was in San Francisco during the worst of it. There, it got down to the high 20s and just a few drops of rain fell on me as I walked back to my hotel from the hospital. (Dad’s doing great, by the way. He went home yesterday. He’s the rock star of the cardiac unit.)
Before our plane turned toward Portland, the pilot took us on a tour of San Francisco Bay. Blue sky, green water, sailboats, the Golden Gate Bridge, beautiful. I kept asking myself why I was going back to the black-and-white land of rain and snow. If I wanted to live in the snow, I’d move to Alaska. But it sure is pretty.
Way back in February 1996, Fred and I came to the Oregon Coast for the annual Seafood and Wine Festival. It snowed. Nothing like this, but it did snow. Does it do this often, we asked the locals. Nah! They said. And we believed them. Silly us.
               
You’ll find me at the Super 8 in Corvallis until the ice thaws.