January 18, 1979

The clock on the wall said 12:00 midnight. The wind was pounding against the north wall and, although the blowing snow made it impossible to see beyond the front porch, it was obviously morning. There was no electricity, the temperature inside the house was 54 degrees, and the only thing warm was the milk in the refrigerator. The burners on the gas stove were turned on and the vigil began.
Sensing that something extraordinary was going on, the short people were crazy with energy. Their actions resulted in louder spoken words.
"Keep the door closed so it stays warm in the kitchen!" "You put your hands any closer to that burner and you're on fire!" "No, it's too cold to go outside and play!" "The kitchen is no place to play tag!" The clock on the wall said 12:00 midnight.
A quick trip was made to Kuhn's store for batteries and other necessities. The wind literally took your breath away and, even with four layers of clothing, the cold was penetrating. The voice on the radio said the wind chill factor was 45 degrees below zero. Suddenly, it seemed colder.
After a meal of soup and optimistic conversation, ("The power will come on shortly, it can't stay off much longer, the new Governor won't allow it.") the afternoon is spent gazing out the window, playing backgammon, and periodically thawing out hands over the burner.
Evening comes. Dinner is prepared and eaten by candlelight. It now becomes apparent that we will have to sleep on the floor near the kitchen. The short people are ecstatic, "We don't have to take baths and we get to sleep with all our clothes on!"
Parents are not quite so moved. Water barely drips from the faucet and all the little folks decide they are intolerably thirsty. Now they all have to use the bathroom. The stool is no longer functioning. It is time for rationing. It is 12:00 midnight.
Morning comes cold and the big people plan to stay in bed; the short people plan differently. Another day begins without a bath. The air in the kitchen gets heavier. The milk, placed on the porch the night before, is frozen solid. More than once someone says, "This is ridiculous."
The phone rings with confirmation that there are others in a similar state. A certain delight comes from explaining how bad things are. "Did you hear the chill factor was 45 below? We're all sitting in the kitchen. Our toilet won't flush."
Time begins to drag. After losing four consecutive games of backgammon, the thrill is gone. A walk around the block relieves cabin fever slightly, but it pains the toes and the face. And that clock, that disgusting clock, still has both hands straight up.
The short people are preparing for prayer before the evening meal. "Put in a plug for the electricity while you're at it" they are prompted. No one is laughing. Candles flicker throughout the meal and yet one must look closely to see if it's a green bean or a piece of meat you're eating. The ice cream planned for desert is in a puddle in the now-warm freezer.
After dinner, recalling that Abe Lincoln became President by reading by candlelight, we sought similar results. A headache was our reward.
Snow is scooped from a porch, melted in a pot, and poured into the stool. "Hey," yells the short person, "We can flush the toilet!" After forty-six hours in the dark, flushing the toilet has become exciting. As the toilet flushes, the clock says 12:00 midnight.
And then, abruptly, the siege is over. Lights flash on, the furnace blows warm air, and the clock changes position. Never have light, water, and warmth been so appreciated. Never again will they be taken for granted.... ~T.Stucky