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Twenty-eight Quiet Hours
Lewis
Goldberg
05/19/2003
This
is a follow-on column to my 3 June column of last year entitled Twenty
Minutes of Sheer Terror, in which I experienced the dread and panic
of one-third of an hour of no internet access. Not that I spend every
waking moment on the net - it's just that I like to know that I could get
on at any time if I wanted to.
Anyway,
the previous event being a simple phone outage, the twenty-eight hours
refers to the length of time my house was without power in the wake of
recent storms that produced tornadoes all over the Midwest. And being in
the country, when we have no power, we also have no water, either.
Ironically, the phone line still hummed - in a rather taunting way, knowing
that I could not turn on the computer.
The
first night of storms produced a stifling darkness, in which we sweltered
in humidity under dim candlelight. The pressure in the water tank held out
only as long as it took about four kids to decide they just had to pee
right after the power went out [only because during the high winds, they
were banned from the upstairs - unless they had to use the potty.] We were
more concerned with our house not blowing away than whether we could check
e-mail at that time, but as the storm subsided and it became clear enough
to venture upstairs to put the kids to bed, the lack of power began to
present its inconveniences: how do we clean up the dishes from supper; how
do we brush teeth; how do we keep lights on for the kids who are still
afraid to go to sleep in the dark; how do I wake up in the morning; how do
I shave [with a Norelco]; and how are we going to keep the food cold?
That
first night was the most restful night's sleep I have had in a long while.
We all slept in the living room with the candles burning on high shelves
and one flashlight left turned on in case the candles failed [my autistic
daughter would scream bloody murder if she woke up in the dark.] I woke up
a couple of times, but went right back to sleep, comforted by the still
quiet night.
Morning
came just as quietly as night, with still no electricity flowing. I quickly
realised that I would need to go out and find a store with a) power, b)
open, and c) that still had bottled water to sell. I found all three in one
market, and returned with jugs of water, orange juice, and - to make
breakfast easier - a box of donuts. I work an hour away from home, where
the storm had not done such damage, and the family came and spent the day
in the city where we could all go to lunch together. They went to the
library, the mall, and just basically enjoyed civilisation for a while.
I
returned home in the evening to still no electricity. For just such an
event, I had stopped at the store to purchase a propane lantern, some more
batteries and another flashlight. That evening was much better than the
first, as the rain had stopped, the ground dried, and we were able to sit
and play in the yard. I sacrificed a couple of jugs of water for floor
mopping and dish washing, so with all the eating out and convenience food,
the house stayed remarkably clean.
Later
that evening, we read stories, prayed, and went to bed - again in a very
quiet house. My wife and I turned in early enough that I should wake up in
time to go to work, and scarcely had my head hit the pillow the hallway
light shot a bright beam right through my eye and out the back of my skull
[okay - slight exaggeration.] Refrigerator and freezers rattled back to
life, the fax machine beeped, and the filters on the aquariums made that
one noise they make when running without any water in them. Things were
back to normal, but somehow it wasn't so exciting as I thought it should
be. In the article from last year to which I referred earlier, the main
frustration was caused by being denied one convenience while all the other
conveniences remained active. Somehow that seemed teasingly unfair, and
created contention. This latest technology breakdown was complete enough to
take away all the noise that civilisation creates, even if only briefly.
I
got out of bed, rebooted the computers, watered the aquarium filters, and
checked all the switches and devices in the house. Once the world was again
in order, I settled down at my desk to check mail. Even though I was once
again connected to the world, I didn't feel as relieved as I thought I
ought to. Quiet simplicity has a lot of benefits, and the benefits of
technology seem overrated.
Your comments and questions are encouraged. [editor@patriotist.com]
Patriotist
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