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.

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