Post-storm power outages are different in Florida. Sure, they
begin with the familiar crackle, pop and plunge into darkness. In other parts
of the country this would be a signal to light that nice candle your aunt Adelaide gave you for
Christmas. In Florida
– there’s no sense in sugar coating it – the power going out is a signal to
kiss life as you know it goodbye and prepare yourself for a slow but steady
descent into madness.
First,
you will have to renounce all worldly possessions and creature comforts – even
the small ones like clean underwear and cornflakes with milk. Then, you will be
forced out of your home and onto the streets where you will join other disaster
zombies forming lines the length of several football fields for a bag of ice, a
tank of gas or a flight to San Diego. I
was once on a line so long, I kept a journal of it.
Dear Diary,
It’s day three and we seem to lack the forward motion one
hopes to experience on a line. I suspect it has stopped completely or is even
moving backwards. I’ve made a commitment to follow this through to the end, but
if it’s going backwards is the end really the end, or is it the beginning of a
line I’ve lived through on my way to yesterday?
Most
people (me included) are troopers for a few days. We help neighbors, join the
hunt for food and water, pull old books and board games out of retirement to fill
the powerless hours. But there comes a point, even for the best of us, when our
built-in, shock-proof stress detector calculates that we’ve endured way more than our fair share of
hardship.
“I
can’t believe those condos out at the beach have power and we don’t,” I grumble
to my wife, insinuating conspiracies at the highest levels.
“They’re
on a different power grid,” Sherry explains sketchily, no doubt conserving
energy.
I’m
tired of conserving energy. I’m ready to storm the palace gates.
“Can
someone explain to me how we can live in the richest, most
technologically-advanced society in the history of the world and still be without power seven days after
a storm?”
“It
is starting to get aggravating,” Sherry concedes, hinting that her limitless
patience may have an expiration date after all.
For
the record, my patience ended three days before when we reheated two cold
turkey franks over some sterno and pronounced then “dinner.” (In a blind taste
test, Sherry and I both picked a flashlight over the turkey franks as having
superior flavor and visual appeal.)
Somewhere
along the line, when I least expected it, something revitalizing happened. I
discovered how resourceful, unselfish and compassionate I could be – a real
leader of the masses in times of adversity. Had you been by my side during
those difficult days, you would have heard me say this:
“Here’s another 60 gallons of bottled water
Mrs. Obermann. I’ll have fresh batteries for your portable TV within the hour –
I make them myself from a kit I got off the Internet.”
And
this:
“Out of gas, Sean? You drive, I’ll push –
there’s a station about a mile up the road.”
And
this:
"Hey Tommy, stop crying. Climb up on my
shoulders and let’s see if we can get you closer to that breeze that’s passing
through.”
Around
the same time – give or take an hour – I also discovered how cranky,
self-pitying and sarcastic I can be: the Child King with a craving for pizza rolls
and cable TV.
Had
you been there in my weaker moments, you would have heard me say this:
“Are air conditioners, TVs, stereos and
household appliances now simply novelty items to be enjoyed on those rare
occasions when the Power & Light gods are feeling benevolent?”
And
this:
“Who’s going to reimburse me for the
episodes of ‘Hollywood Game Nights,’ and ‘American Ninja Warrior’ I’ve missed?”
And this:
“I’ll start shaving and bathing again when
this neighborhood is lit up like a Vegas casino!”
Like
I’ve been saying, prolonged power outages are a uniquely transforming
experience. They bring out the best and the worst in people – often
simultaneously. As for me, I’d much rather turn on a light than curse the
darkness. In Florida
after a storm, your best bet is to reach for the flashlight first. I keep mine
handy next to the turkey franks.
