As the wind howled and the first waves of sleet fell, we were comfortable and unaffected. On the agenda for the day was going out to a nearby brewpub, where we were to meet up with another family for pizza and hoppy beverages.
The trees roared and thrummed, and the roads were strewn with branches, but it wasn't a big deal. We gathered at the brewery, chatting and reconnecting, ordering appetizers and meals and insulated from the storm, as bitter winds drove the temperature to below freezing.
Then the pub lights flickered, flickered again, and went out. The restaurant was without power, which meant no heat and no light. The pizza ovens were still going, though, and overhead skylights meant we could see, so we continued with our pleasant lunch. Things did cool down a bit, and new patrons were turned away, but it was still enjoyable. Paying was a bit more of a challenge, but the battery powered card readers had an emergency offline mode, so that proved surmountable.
We returned to the houses, the one we own and the one we were renting nearby, and discovered some challenges. The wind had blown open a door in our house, the one where the family dogs were awaiting our return. None had scarpered it, because they prefer warm and cozy to cold driving winds, rain, and sleet. But the house was colder. The rental house had an electronic door lock, which wasn't working.
One dark cold house, one dark inaccessible house.
The colder house has a woodburning fireplace, and I set about getting a fire going. It's got a terrible draw, and is a bit finicky to get roaring, but once it's going, it'll heat the entire house up. Folks gathered around the hearth, and I tended the fire until it had enough ember and fuel to be left for a little while. I set myself to the next task: water.
Not for drinking, but for flushing. Being off of municipal water, the house has a well, and that well relies on a pump to pressurize the system. No power means no pressure, and that means each toilet has one flush only. Which, given the meal, the libations, and the eleven souls in one house, was not going to be enough. I mean, one could squat in the woods, I suppose, but that seemed a bit unpleasant with sleet and sixty mile and hour gusts.
So water had to be secured, and I knew where to get it. Up the street from the house is a fire pond. Down I went with two buckets, which I filled with pondwater. Back to the house I went, a bucket in each hand. I filled the tank in one of the bathrooms, and then refilled it as folks did their business. That proved enough for three flushes. On the third fill in the darkened bathroom, I considered the possibility this could yet take several more hours, and began the ten minute process of water gathering again.
Trudging back, I noticed lights in other homes flickering for a moment, then powering off, then flickering again and remaining on.
By the time I returned to the house, I was greeted with cheery affirmations that yes, the power was back. My buckets, unnecessary. Lights and Wifi and all the comforts had returned.
As I dumped the buckets, I thought: how many millions live like this, all of the time? Find water. Make fire. Find water. Tend fire. Walks down to rivers and streams or a common well. Collecting fuel for the fire, whatever can be found. All day, every day, that's the task, if life is to be sustained.
There is so much that we take for granted.
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