By SALLIE SATTERTHWAITE
sallies@juno.com

About halfway through early services Sunday, the lights dimmed momentarily.

Twice that happened, and twice ushers and musicians mentally considered contingency plans. The lights stayed on, and the congregation released its briefly held breath.

I bet I wasn't the only one to think, “Lucked out again.” I don't know why, I thought, but Peachtree City must be the only town in metro Atlanta that hasn't lost power. Leaving church, I met a couple coming in who said, “The power's out at our house. Since about an hour ago.” But they live north of Highway 54, so naturally I dismissed the notion that the south side might have lost power too.

The friend who gave me a ride home made a brief detour through one of the lake-side subdivisions and I noted gratefully that tree loss was not too severe. Trees and eaves were dripping and the streets were merely wet. I actually felt a pang of regret that the Great Y2K Snowless Non-Event was easing its grip. Some adventure, over already.

For days we'd been following the unrelenting storm news, snickering uncharitably at Georgians in panic mode. The reflexive clearing of grocery shelves always puzzles me — do storms cause a mass craving for milk toast? My idea of essentials runs more to garlic and pasta. As long as I have garlic and pasta in the house, I can make do for everything else, or raid the over-stuffed freezer or the boat and camper food bins.

Dave had gone to Ace Hardware for a routine refill of the propane bottle for the camper the day before the forecasters' promised doomsday. The place was in high gear. People from Stone Mountain and Decatur had come all this way to buy kerosene — everyone else was out — and I heard later that Reed had sold 300 sleds in just one week.

Our nomination for Most Embarrassing Media Reports goes to a couple of TV reporters who explained with perfectly straight faces how to wear coats and hats to keep warm, complete with demonstrations.

Well, I learned something about myself Sunday. When my ride dropped me at the house, Dave (who had stayed home ostensibly to pull back the red tips leaning across the driveway) greeted me from the couch: “The power's out.” My thoughts regrouped in an instant. The house was warm — he'd lit the fire — and the coffee he'd brewed earlier was waiting in a thermos for me to come and make Sunday breakfast. We cook with gas.

We were in good shape. It would be a treat just to sit in the quiet house and read. And alleluia, I wouldn't have to listen to Super Bowl hype all day. But after we'd eaten and Dave was napping, I read as much of the Sunday paper as I can in one sitting, and started fretting.

I'm afraid I've become one of those folks who don't feel quite able to deal with life unless there's a computer humming, ready to connect me with the rest of the world and the accumulated knowledge of the Internet. I couldn't run the desktop without power, and I knew the laptop battery would not run long. I have an inverter for use in the car.

Good, I thought; I can always go sit in the garage and type. Can't log on from out there, but once the battery is charged, I can come in and plug into the phone line. Then I began thinking about a sewing project I could be working on. Haven't touched it in weeks, but suddenly it seemed like exactly what I needed to do this afternoon. The sewing machine, however, requires electricity.

I remember that we bought oysters when we shopped Wednesday. Perfect weather today for oyster stew! But darn, I can't run the bread machine. Never mind that we've sworn off our overconsumption of bread and I haven't made any since Christmas — I want a crusty loaf with my oyster stew.

And look at the leaf-litter tracked in. All at once running the vacuum cleaner seems terribly important. I sublimate that urge by shoving the carpet sweeper around until the house looks presentable.

Sitting down to fret again, I'm momentarily distracted by the frenetic chasing of cardinals trying to gain exclusivity at the sunflower seeds. The daffodils, defiant last week, are squinched shut today. But the trees are releasing their coats of ice, twig by twig, and each falling chunk sets to bouncing those already on the leaves.

Then it dawns on me: As soon as I figure out that I can indeed power just about anything I really need to — by car battery or boat's generator or just plain pushing — it no longer seems so imperative. Dinner will be easy. We don't need the bread. I'm looking forward to eating by candlelight and an early bedtime, when — Click! Beep-beep! Hummmm. The slow movement of a Beethoven symphony swells from the bedroom.

The answering machine, the smoke alarm, the 'fridge have powered up again. Our machines are working and all's right with the world.

Relief is blended with regret. And a minor epiphany.

Back to the Top of the PageBack to the Weekend Home Page