It rained all night. Heavy, steady, ground-soaking rain. The kind of rain that loosens dirt and causes tree roots to lose their foothold and topple over onto electrical wires. That’s probably what happened during the night when I awoke to a no-electricity morning. This happens frequently in the country, and yet it is, somehow, always a big surprise to me. No lights? No morning radio? No shower? No coffee?
I stumbled around in the pre-dawn darkness, half-asleep, flipping on one uncooperative light switch after another. My husband had awakened before me and was already in the kitchen, dressed and in his right mind, when I shuffled in. Kerosene lamps were lit and sitting on the counter, giving our kitchen a golden glow. I opened the outside door, hoping to let in the first rays of dawn, and found it was warm outside, pleasant enough to sit on the porch and watch the sun come up.
Now it’s become just light enough to write the old-fashioned way—with pen and notebook while the rain plays against our tin roof. I almost wonder if there is something wrong with me to harbor a secret hope that the electricity stays off awhile longer. I enumerate the things I cannot do right at this moment. Without electricity, I have no stove, no washing machine, no vacuum, no TV, no computer. It is so quiet. There is no roar of an air conditioner or the hum of a refrigerator or florescent light fixture. Just this healing, peaceful sound of constant, gentle rain.
I needed this.
