Currier and Ives
Last night I wandered from window to window watching the snow fall. Between the moon and streetlights I could plainly see how snow had covered the pine trees in the backyard. Each green needle was delicately tipped in sparkling white as if a fairy had dusted them with glitter.
Out the front window, I admired the way snow had drifted into mounds. The piles had almost obscured the neighborhood light displays of Christmas cheer. Not a single tire track was visible in the smooth white blanket that coated the cul-de-sac.
Outside everything was still. The only movement was the steady fall of big, fat snowflakes. It reminded me of an old Currier and Ives print, one of those outdoor Christmas scenes where they'd captured a perfect moment and frozen it in time.
So lovely. So picturesque. Surreal.
Inside the house was a different story. I could hear my sons down in their basement mancave as plainly as if they stood next to me. They were almost shouting to be heard over the competing noises of TV and iPod music. One yelled up the stairs and said they planned to watch a movie. I had been invited to join them.
I had left the window with its serene (and quiet) view, and had just gotten to the stairs when suddenly I was startled by a loud clunking noise. With a thud, everything in the house clicked off and it was very, very dark.
For a moment there had been absolute silence. We needed a second to adjust to the unrelieved blackness. To register the fact technology had failed us: no lights, no TV, no music.
Then I heard it. A voice called up from the basement. I held held a wonderful blend of puzzlement and accusation,
"Mom! What did you do this time?"
I admit, for a second I stood there and suffered a moment of mother's guilt. But then I realized it couldn't have been me. I hadn't touched anything. In fact, when everything had gone out I'd been standing on the top of the steps. One hand innocently placed on the railing and the other had gripped a glass of water.
Below a match scraped, a candle was lit. By the soft glow I was able to proceed safely down the steps. One son had, rationally, headed to the window. He reported back the entire street was dark. The other whipped out his cell phone to call the electric company. He set the phone on speaker.
A voice answered and at the sound, we breathed a collective sigh of relief. We had managed contact. It calmed me to know we were still connected. There was life in outside world.
But though pleasantly calibrated to reassure, the voice was automated. However, it confirmed the power outage (like we hadn't already figured it out) but it also informed us 1700 homes were involved. Maybe only a small portion of the city but I still felt it substantial enough to get the company's immediate attention. The voice further stated they were working on the problem but no estimated time for restoration of power was known.
Then the disembodied voice kindly offered to contact us the next day between the hours of 8am and 5pm to let us know IF power had been restored. All we had to do was press #1 for this service.
The three of us stood there, it took a little time to think that one over. The way it was worded made it a ludicrous and yet hysterical offer.
Did the power company really want to wait until business hours the next day to let us know IF our electricity had been restored?
Didn't whoever had made the recording think we'd be able to figure out if the lights were back on for ourselves?
Out the front window, I admired the way snow had drifted into mounds. The piles had almost obscured the neighborhood light displays of Christmas cheer. Not a single tire track was visible in the smooth white blanket that coated the cul-de-sac.
Outside everything was still. The only movement was the steady fall of big, fat snowflakes. It reminded me of an old Currier and Ives print, one of those outdoor Christmas scenes where they'd captured a perfect moment and frozen it in time.
So lovely. So picturesque. Surreal.
Inside the house was a different story. I could hear my sons down in their basement mancave as plainly as if they stood next to me. They were almost shouting to be heard over the competing noises of TV and iPod music. One yelled up the stairs and said they planned to watch a movie. I had been invited to join them.
I had left the window with its serene (and quiet) view, and had just gotten to the stairs when suddenly I was startled by a loud clunking noise. With a thud, everything in the house clicked off and it was very, very dark.
For a moment there had been absolute silence. We needed a second to adjust to the unrelieved blackness. To register the fact technology had failed us: no lights, no TV, no music.
Then I heard it. A voice called up from the basement. I held held a wonderful blend of puzzlement and accusation,
"Mom! What did you do this time?"
I admit, for a second I stood there and suffered a moment of mother's guilt. But then I realized it couldn't have been me. I hadn't touched anything. In fact, when everything had gone out I'd been standing on the top of the steps. One hand innocently placed on the railing and the other had gripped a glass of water.
Below a match scraped, a candle was lit. By the soft glow I was able to proceed safely down the steps. One son had, rationally, headed to the window. He reported back the entire street was dark. The other whipped out his cell phone to call the electric company. He set the phone on speaker.
A voice answered and at the sound, we breathed a collective sigh of relief. We had managed contact. It calmed me to know we were still connected. There was life in outside world.
But though pleasantly calibrated to reassure, the voice was automated. However, it confirmed the power outage (like we hadn't already figured it out) but it also informed us 1700 homes were involved. Maybe only a small portion of the city but I still felt it substantial enough to get the company's immediate attention. The voice further stated they were working on the problem but no estimated time for restoration of power was known.
Then the disembodied voice kindly offered to contact us the next day between the hours of 8am and 5pm to let us know IF power had been restored. All we had to do was press #1 for this service.
The three of us stood there, it took a little time to think that one over. The way it was worded made it a ludicrous and yet hysterical offer.
Did the power company really want to wait until business hours the next day to let us know IF our electricity had been restored?
Didn't whoever had made the recording think we'd be able to figure out if the lights were back on for ourselves?
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