It has been nine days. We have tossed perishables that became suspect by Day 3. We have not seen a single rerun of The Sopranos. And my 8-week dedication to a morning workout routine has been one of the most painful hits so far. Just when I was getting results, I was forced to surrender to a silenced BluRay player. No power, no Tony Horton.
The freak Nor’easter of October 29, 2011, that left hundreds of thousands of Connecticut residents without electricity has yet to be officially a “memory,” because for my husband, our dog, and me, life is still a camping adventure.
We keep our flashlights handy, and our coolers packed with snow and ice as we desperately try to preserve what perishables we have left. Our wood stove is burning from morning ‘til bedtime.
The routine tasks we have been living without include Internet access, television, hot showers, flushing toilets, and the ability to charge our cell phones or run the washing machine. But these are all things we can deal with. There is really nothing that you “need” in the way of modern conveniences that you cannot find a way to accommodate or do without, at least for a while. That’s what a storm can teach you. You adjust.
Yet, when the local hardware store called us on Day 5 to say they had gotten a shipment of generators, we broke the bank and snapped it up. It had been on our Wish List anyway, but I would have preferred to have a cushion in our checking account before draining it for this. We’ll be living on even more of a shoestring for a couple of weeks before the next paycheck, but it beats melting snow on the wood stove to fill buckets for flushing toilets.
It has been an interesting experience in recognizing how I spend my time. The effects of this early snowstorm have given me the opportunity to evaluate many things. For example, for years I have subscribed to the Writer’s Digest and Poets & Writers magazines. They consume a large portion of magazine holders in my home office. Today, I sat down and read a couple of issues, cover to cover, with a mindfulness that was ultimately inspiring.
Except for the constant hum of generators and chain saws in the neighborhood, I feel good in the silence. I have been able to read with focus -- something that a doctoral student (or any student) values. Since I am preparing this week to formally present my dissertation topic to my Committee, the silence is a blessing. I need to be ready to clearly articulate how literary grief has evolved, and I will need full focus to feel confident that I will sail through this next major hurdle on my Journey to Dissertation.
In all the challenge put forth by this latest storm’s wrath, there are some things I can acknowledge:
Most people are good. While many people were without electricity this week, I found those that “had” were thoughtful of those that were without. Neighbors who had generators offered the chance for a hot shower. Coworkers who had their power restored offered a loan of their generator. People who were unaffected by the outage brought hot food to those who couldn’t cook in their own homes - especially elderly who might be inclined to eat a less nutritious meal, for lack of a way to prepare it.
The elderly are resilient. My parents, in their early 80s, were an amazing example of strength in the face of crisis. Sure, they did their share of complaining about the inconveniences of being without electricity, but they are awesome survivors. They toughed it out in their own home, which, thankfully, has always had a cranking woodburning stove.
They pulled out an old tape cassette recorder and listened to a 1980s radio broadcast of a local high school basketball game, reliving that time when my youngest brother was a three-sport standout. They warmed up leftovers on the flat top of their woodburning stove. Like my husband and me and my visiting in-laws, they spent evenings after dinner chatting and reminiscing, and they went to bed early and prayed to have power restored the next day.
It felt like a kind of connecting was taking place. With so many distractions created by the technologies we cherish, we may take for granted the presence of real people in our lives. The storm gave me a chance to think about this in a new way. It also enlightened me to the idea that for many people, the outages delivered the opportunity to see what we are made of. How much can we take? The threshold is different for each of us. What are we willing to do to survive and what do we absolutely hate to be without?
The point really hit me the other evening at a family gathering when a loved one suggested that he was perfectly content to deal with the power outage but for one inconvenience that he had missed all week. “No Facebook!” Then he jokingly went off to chat up other guests, telling me that he “sees me on Facebook all the time.”
It was a striking thought: He had become so accustomed to socializing on the web, he preferred that to an in-person opportunity.
I understood that he was saying that he wanted to visit with people who are not connected to him electronically, but I couldn’t help feeling less friended than if I had posted a note to his Wall or tagged him in a photo.
Have we really come to this?
It made me think about all the disconnectedness in my life. While I employ social networking sites regularly, I don’t feel they keep me “close” to those I really wish to be close to. Email, for me, has become more of a chore -- just another thing to “clean out” regularly, with sporadic moments of genuine exchange.
Text messages and Facebook posts ensure that you always have your say, because even though the communication goes both ways, you don’t have to acknowledge the return posts and texts. For me, that just doesn’t cut it. I won’t be abandoning the social media lifestyle, but it will be easier to keep it in perspective.
For me, this week on the old frontier has reinforced one thing: The connections to those I love are not maintained by Internet networking. They are maintained by direct contact and genuine acts of caring.
Copyright 2011 By Marianne V. Heffernan
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