Storm

Inside Shaw’s it was dim and spooky. A handful of customers browsed the aisles. Employees loaded meats and cheeses and other perishables from the display cases onto carts, trundling them into the back to be scanned and destroyed. The only lights on were those in the center of the store. Seeing all the empty shelves was perversely comforting, as Dave and I had put most of our refrigerated food in the trash that morning. I prowled for stuff in cans and jars that could be spread on bread or cooked on a stovetop.  

We had lost power the previous morning, along with most of the town. Right during a local news update about power outages from the nor’easter there was a great bang, then darkness. Probably my fault, as I’d been feeling a bit too self-congratulatory about having escaped the worst effects of the storm. I’d thought, Oh, those poor people in Hull and Scituate, but not as sincerely as I might have. The gods noticed, of course, and we joined the nearly half a million customers in our state without electricity.

Nor’easters are beastly storms with lots of wind and rain that typically hit the upper East Coast throughout the fall and winter. The moniker reflects the storm’s direction. The weather systems originate in the south, in the area from New Jersey to Georgia, and then move up the coast, intensifying as they go. By the time a genteel Georgia storm hits New England, it’s a bundle of rage.  

On the first day I figured the power would be restored within a few hours, as usually happens. The wind had other ideas. There were gusts of 70s-80s (mph) throughout most of the day, taking down trees and power lines and making it impossible for repair crews to operate. Beyond keeping an eye on the five oak trees in our yard—they were losing leaves and branches, and swaying but not toppling—I felt almost happy. There was an elemental joy in watching the storm, in the loud windy whooshes that shook the house. Very few cars out and about, and no hum of lights, refrigerators, and furnaces. It was a taste of a different time, devoid of the creature comforts of the internet age. A day calling for a Pioneer Girl spirit. 

I had been a Pioneer Girl, which is a Christian version of the Girl Scouts, from fifth to eighth grade. Like the Girl Scouts, the Pioneer Girls had sashes and badges. Unlike the Girl Scouts, Pioneer Girls and/or their parents didn’t have to sell cookies. I liked the name of the group; it reminded me of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s novels. All that dipping of candles, churning of butter, and best of all, making maple candy in the snow. Lakes, woods, and prairies. Can-do girls who could make things. Pioneer Girls pursued badges in sewing, cooking, hiking, gardening, swimming, air riflery, etc.  My sash accumulated none of those, but there were also a few pity badges for clumsy girls. Memorization and books, for example. The overall point, I was sometimes reminded by the group leaders, was to develop skills and qualities that would be helpful in everyday and extraordinary situations. Not to saunter into meetings with a sash full of buttons, pins, and badges. 

Fortunately being a Pioneer Girl in 2021 didn’t require me to acquire an air rifle or nurture a seedling. I stayed useful by sorting out candles, flashlights, and fire-starters. I distributed power packs to get our devices through the day. Made spaghetti on the stovetop. Set up a candlelight Scrabble tournament that even Sonny enjoyed. Put extra blankets on the beds and couches.

The house got chilly fast. The wind died down, and without the hum of the lights and appliances it was noisy for a quiet night. Every mrrwl and thump of Capone the cat (a 14-pound cat makes a mighty thump) startled me awake as he made his rounds upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady’s chambers.

 The next day dawned, colder and still gray. A can-do Pioneer Girl would remind herself that at least we had hot water and a stovetop. I found a place with working electrical outlets so that we could charge our devices—the library had power, along with hot coffee and pastries!—and foraged at Shaw’s for soup, chili, and peanut butter.  Back home, stacking chili cans, I tried to ignore the chill and the lengthening shadows. We’d get through the evening one way or the other and have fun doing it, by gum!

Then the house filled with beeps and whines and buzzes as the lights and appliances turned themselves back on. I was overcome with relief and shame. Relief that I wouldn’t have to smile through another frosty night and shame that the smiles so far had been forced, or at least not full-hearted. My Pioneer Girldom had disappeared the moment the clock on the microwave began blinking 12:00. “I don’t care,” I told Dave. “I’m turning up all the thermostats.”

Dave had been an indifferent Cub Scout and learned many of the same lessons. He was already online, immersed in a cycling video. “Go right ahead,” he said.