By Shinan Barclay
My riches consist not in the extent of my possessions, but in the fewness of my wants.
~J. Brotherton
I awoke to a silent chill. In my cottage, no clocks blinked, no refrigerator hummed. In this rural Oregon coast area, power pauses are frequent: a minute, an hour, sometimes three. Then, eventually there's that cascade of welcome sound -- buzz, blink, hum and whirr -- as radio, refrigerator, clock, computer, TV, heater and answering machine snap back to life.
My riches consist not in the extent of my possessions, but in the fewness of my wants.
~J. Brotherton
I awoke to a silent chill. In my cottage, no clocks blinked, no refrigerator hummed. In this rural Oregon coast area, power pauses are frequent: a minute, an hour, sometimes three. Then, eventually there's that cascade of welcome sound -- buzz, blink, hum and whirr -- as radio, refrigerator, clock, computer, TV, heater and answering machine snap back to life.
I've made it through numerous power failures. No light, no heat, no sound -- all that I can handle. But I can't function without morning coffee. I could have built a fire on the stone patio outside my back door and heated water. But it was pouring rain. I could have hiked up the hill to my neighbor's, to see if Jenn had coffee perking on her camp stove. But wind whipped through tree branches. At least the phone was working.
I telephoned my boss. "It's going to be a long time before the lines are repaired," she said. "Hunker down. Work's cancelled. There's emergency food and shelter in town at the Methodist Church." Groping in the dim morning light, I excavated a lantern and my down sleeping bag from the back of my closet. I set the lantern on the kitchen counter, reread the instructions, struck a match and lit the mantle.
Blessings to Coleman for inventing this marvel. The metal top heated quickly. Maybe coffee was possible after all. But what balances on a conical lantern lid? I attempted to heat water by balancing a thick-bottomed saucepan, then discovered a tomato sauce can from my recycling bin worked best. After rinsing and filling the can with clean water, I put on potholder mitts and steadied the tin with two plastic chopsticks. Soon a mini-cup of instant coffee steamed fragrantly. Four tins later, I'd enjoyed a jolt of caffeine and even had a half-cup of hot water for a spit bath. I relished the simple pleasure of a warm washrag on my face. It would ready me to cope with the powerless day.
I put on an old feather parka and sheepskin booties. Gathering several books from my bedside stand, I zipped up the parka, tied the hood tight and crawled into my sleeping bag. I adjusted the lantern and snuggled in to read. Descriptive passages from Under the Tuscan Sun transported me to sunny Cortona with Frances Mayes while outside my window the thermometer read thirty-four degrees. Poorly insulated, my old cottage was chilly and damp. Turning pages, my fingertips grew numb. I wiggled out of my down bag to search for wool gloves. I was mentally listing friends with wood stoves, yet I relished the thought of some solitude. Then my neighbor Jenn drove up. "I'm going to my boyfriend's," she said, poking her head inside my door.
"That's seventy miles and mud slides along the road." I was concerned.
"Lucky man has power. Lucky me. You're welcome to stay in my house, use the wood stove, except I'm out of wood. Keep company with my Lab and kitty. They'll keep you warm."
Walking back toward her vehicle, she added, "Oh, there's brandy left from the party. Help yourself to anything." My vision of a warm wood stove was about to become a reality.
I assumed there would be no problem finding wood. We live in a forest. Branches and twigs litter the ground. I scoured the yard, gullies and roadside, but found only water-soaked wood. Chopping branches kept me sweating for hours.
That night the temperature plummeted to well below freezing. With a barely smoldering fire, I needed multiple layers of clothing and three sleeping bags to keep me warm. The cat and dog curled up with me. We survived. The next day was much like the first: hunting for wood, chopping branches, feeding the fire torn cardboard and scrunched up newspapers -- anything to get the wet wood to burn. Outside the window, fir trees thrashed in the wind. While I watched the storm, the aroma of spicy lentil soup simmering on the stove wafted in the air.
On the third morning without electricity, I was desperate for dry wood that could fit into the stove without hours of chopping. I walked back to my cottage and hunted in closets, in cupboards and under the bed for wooden objects to burn. I scanned the walls, shelves and tables. In desperation I grabbed the engraved plaques from Toastmasters, the wooden clock my ex-husband had made, a redwood jewelry box, garage sale picture frames waiting for family photos, knickknack shelves that needed glue.
At first, it seemed like a crime to burn my teakwood tongs and salad bowls, but I rarely used them. Torching Grandma's rolling pin struck me as taboo, but it was moldy and missing one handle. I wrestled with the idea of burning my walnut bookshelf. No way! Instead, I stacked wet branches on Jenn's porch, getting them out of the rain, then sawed them into stove lengths and brought them in to dry near the fire. Who knew how long the power would be out?
I'd always intended to purge my cottage. Now, desperation pushed me past intention into action. For each wooden item, I quizzed myself: "Do I love this? Do I need this?" Soon objects were heaped by the door: the driftwood lamp, the myrtle wood breadbox, the dilapidated three-legged plant stand. As I whacked each item apart with a hammer, I began to feel a sense of inner strength. I hauled the wooden pieces up to Jenn's house. After I shoved the forlorn keepsakes and family artifacts into the wood stove, I realized the power outage had filled me with intent and courage -- a ritual release of my past.
While the crackling fire in the stove cranked out heat, I peeled off parka, sweater and turtleneck, rocked in an overstuffed easy chair and sipped apricot brandy, while snuggling with the pets. A pot of Swiss fondue bubbled on the stove and my cup steamed with hot coffee. Looking around, I appreciated Jenn's simple décor and reflected on how her energetic spirit seemed rarely weighted down. I picked up my pen and wrote Jenn a thank-you poem and decided that next Christmas I'd tell her boyfriend to buy her a mini chain saw.
Having to survive without electricity for eighty-four hours I developed a new appreciation for light, heat and an electric stove. I was also grateful for the experience. I'd burned relics that had cluttered my life. Thanks to the blackout, to Jenn, and to fire, the great purifier, I felt empowered and warm all over. My possessions were fewer, my blessings greater.
I telephoned my boss. "It's going to be a long time before the lines are repaired," she said. "Hunker down. Work's cancelled. There's emergency food and shelter in town at the Methodist Church." Groping in the dim morning light, I excavated a lantern and my down sleeping bag from the back of my closet. I set the lantern on the kitchen counter, reread the instructions, struck a match and lit the mantle.
Blessings to Coleman for inventing this marvel. The metal top heated quickly. Maybe coffee was possible after all. But what balances on a conical lantern lid? I attempted to heat water by balancing a thick-bottomed saucepan, then discovered a tomato sauce can from my recycling bin worked best. After rinsing and filling the can with clean water, I put on potholder mitts and steadied the tin with two plastic chopsticks. Soon a mini-cup of instant coffee steamed fragrantly. Four tins later, I'd enjoyed a jolt of caffeine and even had a half-cup of hot water for a spit bath. I relished the simple pleasure of a warm washrag on my face. It would ready me to cope with the powerless day.
I put on an old feather parka and sheepskin booties. Gathering several books from my bedside stand, I zipped up the parka, tied the hood tight and crawled into my sleeping bag. I adjusted the lantern and snuggled in to read. Descriptive passages from Under the Tuscan Sun transported me to sunny Cortona with Frances Mayes while outside my window the thermometer read thirty-four degrees. Poorly insulated, my old cottage was chilly and damp. Turning pages, my fingertips grew numb. I wiggled out of my down bag to search for wool gloves. I was mentally listing friends with wood stoves, yet I relished the thought of some solitude. Then my neighbor Jenn drove up. "I'm going to my boyfriend's," she said, poking her head inside my door.
"That's seventy miles and mud slides along the road." I was concerned.
"Lucky man has power. Lucky me. You're welcome to stay in my house, use the wood stove, except I'm out of wood. Keep company with my Lab and kitty. They'll keep you warm."
Walking back toward her vehicle, she added, "Oh, there's brandy left from the party. Help yourself to anything." My vision of a warm wood stove was about to become a reality.
I assumed there would be no problem finding wood. We live in a forest. Branches and twigs litter the ground. I scoured the yard, gullies and roadside, but found only water-soaked wood. Chopping branches kept me sweating for hours.
That night the temperature plummeted to well below freezing. With a barely smoldering fire, I needed multiple layers of clothing and three sleeping bags to keep me warm. The cat and dog curled up with me. We survived. The next day was much like the first: hunting for wood, chopping branches, feeding the fire torn cardboard and scrunched up newspapers -- anything to get the wet wood to burn. Outside the window, fir trees thrashed in the wind. While I watched the storm, the aroma of spicy lentil soup simmering on the stove wafted in the air.
On the third morning without electricity, I was desperate for dry wood that could fit into the stove without hours of chopping. I walked back to my cottage and hunted in closets, in cupboards and under the bed for wooden objects to burn. I scanned the walls, shelves and tables. In desperation I grabbed the engraved plaques from Toastmasters, the wooden clock my ex-husband had made, a redwood jewelry box, garage sale picture frames waiting for family photos, knickknack shelves that needed glue.
At first, it seemed like a crime to burn my teakwood tongs and salad bowls, but I rarely used them. Torching Grandma's rolling pin struck me as taboo, but it was moldy and missing one handle. I wrestled with the idea of burning my walnut bookshelf. No way! Instead, I stacked wet branches on Jenn's porch, getting them out of the rain, then sawed them into stove lengths and brought them in to dry near the fire. Who knew how long the power would be out?
I'd always intended to purge my cottage. Now, desperation pushed me past intention into action. For each wooden item, I quizzed myself: "Do I love this? Do I need this?" Soon objects were heaped by the door: the driftwood lamp, the myrtle wood breadbox, the dilapidated three-legged plant stand. As I whacked each item apart with a hammer, I began to feel a sense of inner strength. I hauled the wooden pieces up to Jenn's house. After I shoved the forlorn keepsakes and family artifacts into the wood stove, I realized the power outage had filled me with intent and courage -- a ritual release of my past.
While the crackling fire in the stove cranked out heat, I peeled off parka, sweater and turtleneck, rocked in an overstuffed easy chair and sipped apricot brandy, while snuggling with the pets. A pot of Swiss fondue bubbled on the stove and my cup steamed with hot coffee. Looking around, I appreciated Jenn's simple décor and reflected on how her energetic spirit seemed rarely weighted down. I picked up my pen and wrote Jenn a thank-you poem and decided that next Christmas I'd tell her boyfriend to buy her a mini chain saw.
Having to survive without electricity for eighty-four hours I developed a new appreciation for light, heat and an electric stove. I was also grateful for the experience. I'd burned relics that had cluttered my life. Thanks to the blackout, to Jenn, and to fire, the great purifier, I felt empowered and warm all over. My possessions were fewer, my blessings greater.
http://www.chickensoup.com
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