When the

lights went out for a few hours last week, I discovered

that things have changed since March 1958.

At least I

have - changed, I mean. I remember that

"crisis" as a bit of a lark.

We lived in

New Jersey, and an ice storm plunged us into darkness for

nearly a week. I had a new baby, my first, and Dave was

on the evening shift, leaving for work about 3:30 and

getting home about 11:30.

That far

north, darkness fell soon after he left. It was a long

and rather lonely time for a young mom coping with

household chores, with only a Coleman lantern for light

and a gas oven to keep us from freezing.

But I

scoffed at a neighbor, who tucked tail and moved back in

with her folks in Philadelphia. I felt like a pioneer

overcoming the rigors of primitive life, resourceful

enough to share hot drinks with linemen who had come from

as far away as Massachusetts to put our wires back up.

baby girl kicked bare legs in the sun streaming through

our picture window; at night she slept, wrapped snugly,

in room temperatures in the 50s - a concept I

espoused even when our furnace was functional.

Since I

breast-fed, her meals were no problem, and with a gas

range, neither were Dave's.

Daytime

highs in the low 40s meant we could keep perishables in a

milk box on the stoop (remember milk boxes?) -

although some food for which there was no room in the box

fell prey to neighborhood dogs, bad luck for a couple on

a grocery budget of $10 a week.

But that

and loneliness during the long dark evenings were the

worst problems I had to deal with. I could even continue

my endless sewing projects by lamp light, since the

sewing machine had a treadle.

I remember

feeling vaguely disappointed when the lights came on

again. A week is long enough to appreciate solitude and

challenge; having light and TV to all hours again seemed

intrusive.

Not so when

last week's storm took out power for nearly ten hours. It

quit in the middle of Tom Brokaw and the sad recovery of

three bodies from the Atlantic, and stayed off until 4:30

next morning.

My first

thought - "Oh well, we can see all this on

Peter Jennings in a few minutes" - soon

became, "I guess I'll have to go on-line to find out

the latest." Then a petulant, "Whoa. No power

for the computer either, and the lap top is not fully

charged."

That led

to, "But what will I do all evening?"

Fine

reaction from one who likes to think of herself as able

to cope under any circumstances. Who sniffs at

survivalists panicking over Y2K fantasies. Who is

confident the generator in the motor home will get her

through any exigency (that is, if she didn't care about

the neighbors' open windows).

It was

light enough to clean up after supper - one big

difference between a summer and a winter outage -

but instead of loading the dishwasher for who-knew-when,

I emptied it and hand-washed the lot.

Dave spent

the rest of the evening on the couch with a Braves game

on portable radio, rather his usual evening agenda. I

missed my computer sorely, but did enjoy reading a Jan

Karon "Mitford" book under the greenhouse

glass.

As the

light waned, I pulled a couple of candlesticks through

the cobwebs that had swathed them since they were last

used for the holidays. They gave enough light to read

surprisingly easily, then lit our showers and

teeth-brushing. But they made a warm evening warmer.

After 10,

however, it was cool enough outside to open the doors and

let in air and the frogs' evensong. Refreshed by our

showers, we slept well in utter darkness, absent even the

soft whir of the ceiling fan.

Earlier,

feeling somehow that a walk up the street might solve our

plight, I had a revelation.

It's the

vogue now among city planners to blame our loss of

community on the lack of porches and sidewalks where

neighbors can interact.

On a torrid

summer night, porches and sidewalks aren't going to

provide community. But a lack of air conditioning might.

Walking

toward the former home of a friend gone two years now

- an old habit from days when we leaned on each

other in "crises" - I was pleased to

encounter no fewer than eight neighbors. A family was

heading out for a golf cart ride, two men paced their

driveways as though they were cooler out than in, and Ann

Collins rocked on the porch next door with her elderly

father.

Roy Rotz

said he and Jack Williams had conferred by phone,

dismayed that EMC does not publicize an emergency number.

They checked with the police, and still had no number to

call.

Ann

commented that this was the longest we had been without

power since construction was completed in the area. We

chatted about her recent trip to Hawaii and her upcoming

plans to visit her daughter now living in Texas.

I hate to

admit it, but the night the lights went out on Terrace

Tay, we had more sense of neighborhood than we'd had

since the water main broke and flooded the cul de sac.

And that

was a long time ago.

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