With the sudden heavy snowfall we almost expected a power failure. When it came it was in the middle of a standing-room-only memorial service at our community hall. "Thanks be to God, who gives us life ... " said the pastor. The lights went out. Silence.
"Did she say 'God who gives us light?'" quipped someone from the middle of the crowd. People laughed.
In a minute a flashlight showed up. "Thanks be to God, who gives us life ... and light, we hope, soon," continued the pastor. The crowd chuckled.
Within 20 minutes the local dentist had showed up with a generator. Our cool MPP went out into the snow to help us heft equipment around and hook up a make-shift electrical supply. The handful of plugs were used to power a halogen utility light, the powerpoint slideshow apparatus, the electronic piano and the giant coffee percolator. All was good again.
The kids were home alone during the service. It shouldn't surprise me any more that my computer addicts somehow found opportunity in the power failure. Among other things they held a screaming contest, attempted to pop corn on the woodstove, sneaked a snowball into their mother's winter boot which had been left outside the front door. And they re-arranged the chaotic living room bookshelves. "Look!" Sophie pointed gleefully when I got home.
Well, I don't think a career in Library and Information Science is awaiting them any time soon. Fully cognisant of the quirky nature of their approach, they had arranged the books according to colour. It was weird. I took a picture. We speculated about someone coming into a library asking for a book "in a nice off-white, with pink lettering, please." In a library like ours that would be a simple request.
But the crowning moment was half an hour later. I'd had bread ready to go into the [electric] oven when I'd left for the memorial service and it had languished in doughy repose on the kitchen counter. We were speculating on whether it would be possible to bake our now-terribly-overproofed bread loaves inside the wood heatstove. I was wondering aloud how long they'd take to cook at whatever infernal temperature the woodstove was at. Recalling the book I'd bought a few years ago about cooking in adobe ovens, I said "now where the heck is my earth oven book?"
"Well," said Erin, "I'm not sure, but I know it's red!"
And then she proceeded to pull it off the shelf in half an instant. Oh my gosh, we laughed. What a fortuitous filing system.
We baked the bread too. The outer 5 mm was black, but once we carved that off it was quite delicious.
Power came back on a few minutes ago, meaning it was out for about 7 hours. We had Noah's quartet rehearsal in the dark again. We're getting quite used to that.