For the last four weeks I have had the pleasure of teaching a creative writing course for our local parks and recreation district and despite the heavy rains and driving wind’s most of them have appeared each Wednesday night to talk about the craft of writing.
The first week we met I asked my students, not a one of them under age 50, to write about the night the lights went out in Seaside, and the following, in my estimation, is the cream of the crop.
This is how 80 plus year old, retired, schoolteacher, Edith Schwartz responded to the five plus days in early December that we were all without power.
I am happy to say that for a short time The Student became the Teacher with her excellent perspective on what it’s like to live through a blackout.
February 6, 2008 BLACKOUT THOUGHTS
It was miserable, no communication, no heat or light, no hot water, and no coffee.
I dressed in my warmest clothes, wore them for days even to bed to keep warm. I also spent time looking out t he window huddled inside my coat, arms across my chest for warmth hating the dark and the cold. I watched as blustery winds howled across the beach causing an explosion of sand so thick, visibility was only a few yards. Tales of Sarahan sand storms came to mind. Through the clouds of sand, I imagined shadows of camels trudging along heads bent low to avoid the fury of the storm.
Both roads into Seaside were closed because of fallen trees. Even the largest spruce tree in the world had succumbed. When that tree fell, the boom must have been heard for miles. Foresters have decided to let it lie in the woods and become a nurse log.
Ham radio operators were trying to communicate with the outside world. The outside world---I loved that phrase. It told of a miraculous utopia with restaurants, movies, stores full of clothes, furniture and even coffee.
Rumors were flying through the air. The first bulletin announced men working on the electrical connections couldn’t find the break. Then we heard they had to quit working because the wind made the job too dangerous. They finally got electricity on across the river in Washington. They were working in Astoria. Oops, Gearhart was a terrible mess, it was going to take days. My neighbor triumphantly told me the traffic light at 12TH Avenue was on. They were coming our way and we would have electricity in a few hours. It didn’t happen.
Disappointed, I glared at the grey skies, the gray ocean, and thought my grey thoughts. So it was an exhilarating moment when a man in a bright red sweater came to the door.
“Nancy called,” he announced.
I searched my memory for some one named Nancy.
“Nancy in Albuquerque.”
“Of course, my daughter Sarah’s friend.”
“Your daughter couldn’t get through on the telephone so Nancy called me. I
don’t know her but she’s a real estate broker—so am I, that’s how she got my
number. Sarah is worried about you.”
“Tell Sarah and Nancy I’m fine, just waiting for the lights to come on again.”
After I said that, I remembered the song written during World War II. When the Lights Come on Again, All over the World. Many people had endured, not days, but years of darkness and cold, plus the danger of being bombed. Now that I had had a small taste of misfortune, I resolved I would feel more compassion for people caught up in wars, natural disasters, people living for years in evacuation camps, people who watched their children die of disease and starvation.
