Seeing the Light After Week of Irene

The power came back Saturday, marking seven long days of doing without. During that week, time and life stood still in East Haddam, or so it seemed. One day was much like the one before. At one point, I didn't know what day it was;  I was not alone. Neither did my wife Lyn and several other people I know.

In some ways we all had been cast back into, say, 1882, where life was very very small, narrowed to a sliver of its 2011 pace.

Quickly, we fell into a routine centering on basic needs: sleeping (going to bed early and sleeping longer), washing up (quickly and with minimal water), eating (whatever survived without power). It was impressive how small our footprint became. We used virtually no electric power, of course, and our water use amounted to a fraction of what was normal before the blackout. Meals were spare and anything but expensive. We drove Lyn's Prius or my Toyota pickup only in pursuit of whatever basics we needed, including a generator lent for an afternoon by friend Rob Smith. I charged my cell, laptop and a couple of gadgets before casting us back into darkness.

Our week of Irene-induced darkness could hardly be called roughing it, especially compared to countless people in myriad war-torn and disaster-ravaged countries around the world who not only are powerless but hungry and thirsty as well.

That knowledge certainly did not prevent us from missing our electricity that's available most of the time. As one man put it, "I've gone without so much in my life, I just don't want to do without electricity."

The night before power was restored, Lyn and I treated ourselves to a small dinner out, marveling at how strange it felt to walk into a place that was all lit up. The luxury of it all made us long for normal times, course.

At the same time, the absence of power and all that it controls showed us how adaptable we can be.

Lyn even adapted to my indifference to the crisis planning she does so well. I attributed my tolerance for quick moves and long waits to my days as a boy soldier. She attributed it to a gender difference: Men just never believe the worst will happen, she said. True, I repeatedly assured her that even without help we'd get through this in good shape.

Not taking any chances, our son-in-law John Foley and his sons Nick and Alex, drove down from Springfield, Massachusetts, Saturday, bringing food, water, a charged battery to replenish gadgets – and a huge helping of good cheer.

Naturally, we all knew that had they not brought all that help, the power would not have returned as soon.

When it did, everybody immediately felt better. Spirits rose high, as Lyn and I looked forward to lights, refrigeration and running water. For the first time since Irene left, I felt like cleaning up my garden, something I had let go while in survival mode and post-storm funk.

As I began collecting and composting fallen leaves and branches, anticipating purple fruit on the beautyberry, the blooming of goldenrod, I felt that, after a week of living in 1882 – the year Thomas Edison's electric company began selling power in Manhattan – we had finally come back to where we once belonged.

To celebrate our return, we raised a glass, watched the sun go down. And, lit a candle.

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