Scenes from a blackout
You may have heard that a million or so of us Northwestern types have experienced recent lapses in our power grid.
This is our story.
THURSDAY
5:00 p.m.
Driving home from work. Talk radio guys yammering about some apparent storm. "Make sure you have batteries." Bla bla bla. Tell me another one.
8:30 p.m.
Hmm. Massive Douglas fir in front yard waving like a drunk Yankees fan. Forty pound outdoor grill bodyslammed off backyard deck into the mud. Uh, where are those batteries again?
10:30 p.m.
Power fails. Guess I'll sleep it off.
FRIDAY
7:30 a.m.
It's cold. Um, the power is still off, people. What gives? Eat stale, 7-month-old granola bar for breakfast to avoid opening the fridge. Wrap infant up in three layers of clothes, so she can't move her arms. Creep around freezing house with dirty hair. Power should come on at any second.
10:00 a.m.
Highly organized neighbors with chain saws in hand fall upon massive downed tree like bugs on a carcass, and turn it into firewood before we figure out how to light our gas stove. They're probably militia dudes.
2:00 p.m.
Reality sets in: stale cupboard dregs will not yield lunch. Inch through backed-up intersections with no working traffic lights toward local Safeway. Inside, dim post-apocalyptic generator lights burn like cave fires. Mildly panicked people stuff carts with Doritos and matches. We buy some stuff in cans.
4:30 p.m.
Make fortuitous discovery that hot water heater still functions after spending all day with dirty hair.
6:30 p.m.
Infant-related incident requiring full-scale bathtub hose-down, preferably in high-light conditions. Make do with flashlights.
9:00 p.m.
KIRO talk show hosts on battery-operated radio say that Puget Sound Energy workers are out there doing "God's work" tonight. Husband and I roll eyes, but it is too dark to tell.
SATURDAY:
8:00 a.m.
This is the part in the story where the power is supposed to come back on, except that it doesn't.
12:00 p.m.
Apparently, the power company responsible for Seattle proper is actually fixing people's power, unlike the company serving the random million of us living in neighboring towns. We cross the bridge into The Big City. Urban busybodies stop dutifully at their working streetlights, totally unaware that Mad Max conditions are forming in the dark and lawless suburbs across the lake. Seattle friend gives us fortuitous gift of gummy lightening bugs. At least we'll have light tonight.
2:30 p.m.
With heavy hearts, we cross back over to the apocalypse. From the freeway, a grim haze of burning Presto Log effluvia rises over great swaths of darkened, cookie cutter housing developments. We keep our eyes peeled for burning cars and gunplay.
4:00 p.m.
Night falls. Only 16 hours until we can see our hands in front of our faces again. KIRO talk radio hosts tell of fistfights in long gas station lines.
6:00 p.m.
Dinner: Cans of soup from generator Safeway, chased with lightening bugs and warm champagne. It's 56 degrees indoors, that is, in the room containing the fireplace.
11:00 p.m.
Family sleeps in shifts by the fireplace, to keep from burning down the house. KIRO talk show hosts field calls from freezing old widows in dilapidated mobile home parks. Infant cries out feebly in the inky darkness, as she is swaddled half to death, like the Sta-Puft man.
SUNDAY:
8:00 A.M.
There will be no power, ever again. KIRO talk radio hosts repeatedly admonish us to Not Be Like That Guy Who Brought a Generator into His Living Room and Died.
10:00 a.m.
We decide to shed the vestiges of our old life on the grid and move boldly into the 18th century. We throw away 37 lbs of barely-used condiments and full containers of orange juice from our entirely defrosted refrigerator freezer unit, working quickly in the precious daylight hours, as our forbearers did on the prairie.
1:00 p.m.
We head out to supply our new post-power reality with more D batteries and camping supplies from a gutted local Target. Our cell phones bleat their final dying signals from long-past battery charges, and fall silent.
4:00 p.m.
Neighbors begin to decamp for Canada, stuffing their SUV's with Hefty sacks of warm clothing. Stammering energy representatives tell KIRO talk show hosts that "some of you in the, uh, outer areas might need to make alternative arrangements in the next week to ten days." Husband begins frantic flashlight search for missing land line telephone stored away somewhere in recent cleaning frenzy before the last dying embers of twilight flicker out.
5:00 p.m.
Blink! The power is restored to our part of town. Within 90 seconds, we learn that some basketball dudes spit on each other over the weekend, and that everyone who posts crap to the Internet has been collectively declared Time's "person of the year."
Welcome back, sweet power grid.
This is our story.
THURSDAY
5:00 p.m.
Driving home from work. Talk radio guys yammering about some apparent storm. "Make sure you have batteries." Bla bla bla. Tell me another one.
8:30 p.m.
Hmm. Massive Douglas fir in front yard waving like a drunk Yankees fan. Forty pound outdoor grill bodyslammed off backyard deck into the mud. Uh, where are those batteries again?
10:30 p.m.
Power fails. Guess I'll sleep it off.
FRIDAY
7:30 a.m.
It's cold. Um, the power is still off, people. What gives? Eat stale, 7-month-old granola bar for breakfast to avoid opening the fridge. Wrap infant up in three layers of clothes, so she can't move her arms. Creep around freezing house with dirty hair. Power should come on at any second.
10:00 a.m.
Highly organized neighbors with chain saws in hand fall upon massive downed tree like bugs on a carcass, and turn it into firewood before we figure out how to light our gas stove. They're probably militia dudes. 2:00 p.m.
Reality sets in: stale cupboard dregs will not yield lunch. Inch through backed-up intersections with no working traffic lights toward local Safeway. Inside, dim post-apocalyptic generator lights burn like cave fires. Mildly panicked people stuff carts with Doritos and matches. We buy some stuff in cans.
4:30 p.m.
Make fortuitous discovery that hot water heater still functions after spending all day with dirty hair.
6:30 p.m.
Infant-related incident requiring full-scale bathtub hose-down, preferably in high-light conditions. Make do with flashlights.
9:00 p.m.
KIRO talk show hosts on battery-operated radio say that Puget Sound Energy workers are out there doing "God's work" tonight. Husband and I roll eyes, but it is too dark to tell.
SATURDAY:
8:00 a.m.
This is the part in the story where the power is supposed to come back on, except that it doesn't.
12:00 p.m.
Apparently, the power company responsible for Seattle proper is actually fixing people's power, unlike the company serving the random million of us living in neighboring towns. We cross the bridge into The Big City. Urban busybodies stop dutifully at their working streetlights, totally unaware that Mad Max conditions are forming in the dark and lawless suburbs across the lake. Seattle friend gives us fortuitous gift of gummy lightening bugs. At least we'll have light tonight.
2:30 p.m.
With heavy hearts, we cross back over to the apocalypse. From the freeway, a grim haze of burning Presto Log effluvia rises over great swaths of darkened, cookie cutter housing developments. We keep our eyes peeled for burning cars and gunplay.
4:00 p.m.
Night falls. Only 16 hours until we can see our hands in front of our faces again. KIRO talk radio hosts tell of fistfights in long gas station lines.
6:00 p.m.
Dinner: Cans of soup from generator Safeway, chased with lightening bugs and warm champagne. It's 56 degrees indoors, that is, in the room containing the fireplace. 11:00 p.m.
Family sleeps in shifts by the fireplace, to keep from burning down the house. KIRO talk show hosts field calls from freezing old widows in dilapidated mobile home parks. Infant cries out feebly in the inky darkness, as she is swaddled half to death, like the Sta-Puft man.
SUNDAY:
8:00 A.M.
There will be no power, ever again. KIRO talk radio hosts repeatedly admonish us to Not Be Like That Guy Who Brought a Generator into His Living Room and Died.
10:00 a.m.
We decide to shed the vestiges of our old life on the grid and move boldly into the 18th century. We throw away 37 lbs of barely-used condiments and full containers of orange juice from our entirely defrosted refrigerator freezer unit, working quickly in the precious daylight hours, as our forbearers did on the prairie. 1:00 p.m.
We head out to supply our new post-power reality with more D batteries and camping supplies from a gutted local Target. Our cell phones bleat their final dying signals from long-past battery charges, and fall silent.
4:00 p.m.
Neighbors begin to decamp for Canada, stuffing their SUV's with Hefty sacks of warm clothing. Stammering energy representatives tell KIRO talk show hosts that "some of you in the, uh, outer areas might need to make alternative arrangements in the next week to ten days." Husband begins frantic flashlight search for missing land line telephone stored away somewhere in recent cleaning frenzy before the last dying embers of twilight flicker out.
5:00 p.m.
Blink! The power is restored to our part of town. Within 90 seconds, we learn that some basketball dudes spit on each other over the weekend, and that everyone who posts crap to the Internet has been collectively declared Time's "person of the year."
Welcome back, sweet power grid.
posted by Strikethru at
9:30 PM
5 Comments:
I should note that I found the phone. About an hour before the power came back.
Holy #$@*! I haven't been keeping up with the news over the last few days so I had no idea it was that bad up there. That sounds like a majorly awful experience. The infant was probably wondering what the hell was going on, and why she was being kept wrapped up like a baby burrito. I'm just glad you're all OK.
There was a really bad storm in San Francisco back in the winter of '96, and our house had no power for five days. I've blocked most of that experience out, but it was definitely one of the worst weeks of my life. You guys have my sincerest sympathies.
Yeah, big deal. What a bunch of sissy whiners you are. Remember the Loma Prieta, I say. '89. Were you there? Probably traipsing around in Birkenstocks in the Arkansas wilderness with some beauty queen wannabe cousins. Am I right?
That is terrible. Glad you're through it (spoken like a true California sissy). I hate to say this, but it seems like we're all going to have to start getting used to this scenario now that global warming is hastening our advancement into the Mad Max era.
Very good thing you've decided not to jump on the unblogging wagon (at least while you have power). Where else can we get this kind of in-the-trenches reporting and "biting" commentary?
We meet again, S.B., my old nemesis!
I hear that you have a blog of your own these days. I am going to check it out!
And yes, it's true, I am a member of the Loma Prieta Deniers Society. It never happened. It never happened!!!
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