Who Dad?!

As it Happens

"I long for something that might bring us all together. Not a disaster, but a temporary reality ceasing crisis that brought daily life to a halt."

I wrote that a while ago, but it's where I was going to begin this part of Who Dad?!

Last night, for the second night in a row, and the third time in the last five days, violent storms knocked out power for large sections of town. Intense winds bending and breaking trees and utility poles. Garbage bins, patio furniture, and umbrellas tossed this way and that. And, hail, again! How does it hail when it's 110 degrees? What kind of science fiction movie are we living in?

We expected things to come smashing through our windows at any time in the hurricane-like fury. I admit, I was scared.

In the sunset aftermath, we walked down our street, met up with neighbors assessing the damage. We kidded a bit about what it took to get us all out of our houses to talk. One guy had a TEP app that suggested the power would only be out for a few hours. It was getting dark. There was nothing for us to do. Clean-up would begin in the morning. We reluctantly went back into our hot homes to wait it out.

The power did not come back on. It was a long night. No cool breeze from open windows and doors, just heavy post-storm humidity. Susan and I picked up conversations we often visit: What about the homeless? On a night such as this, our sweat empathy was all the greater. And, Where else would we live? Once, such a topic would be about places that intrigued us, but now it's about where might it be safer to be. First off, eliminate areas subject to hurricanes, tornadoes, flooding, earthquakes, volcanoes, and tsunamis. Next, eliminate the once coveted forested areas due to increasing wildfires. Oh, and Susan really doesn't like cold weather, so what's left? I suppose, the ever hotter weather and droughts of our desert climate.

I gave up trying to sleep sometime in the middle of the night, went out again to wander the silent darkened streets. Nothing, nobody was moving. I hoped to see utility trucks and workers out doing something, but there were none. And then I had a sense of being watched. It added a supernatural frightening edge to this surreal moment. I went home and locked the doors.

When the sky was just beginning to lighten, I thought I'd take a flashlight and search the garage for my camping stove to wrangle up some kind of breakfast. That's when the power came back on. I wanted to go out and hug someone who worked all night to accomplish that, but we are so separate and removed even from those we depend so much upon.

And so I long for something that might bring us all together.

Growing up in Chicago, the 1967 Big Snow did just that.

We woke up to mountains of fallen snow so high our doors couldn't be opened. We were trapped in our house with snow drifts up to the windows. Twelve year old me was the hero who jumped from a 2nd floor window into a snow bank below, then shoveled the snow blocking the front door.

My father and sister then joined me in the shoveling. Normally, we would shovel the driveway and sidewalk clean, but there was so much snow we could only make a one shovel wide path down to the street, where we began digging out my father's car.

The snow was so high, we had to shovel in layers — three shovels full before reaching the concrete below. The snow on either side of our narrow path was taller than I was. I thought it grand.

We joined teams of neighbors in the street pushing a car one foot at a time to make a two-track path down to the end of the block. One group shoveled ahead. Another shoveling sand under spinning tires, while the rest of us were rocking and rolling the car, back and forth, back and forth.

The spinning tires would whine, then scream, then burn. The smell of the burning rubber was the signal to let up on the accelerator and to shovel some more.

The first car was always Big Abe's, probably because he was a car dealer and could afford to have his vehicle messed up, but also because he drove a Cadillac, which was heavier and would compress the snow more.

Along the way, houses were open for anyone to use a bathroom. And, hot drinks and sweets would show up from both sides of the street. It was magical. Everyone pulling together, laughing, kidding, and turning hard work into something joyful.

My memories of those days are still vibrant and alive. I've often thought of them. They were times when I felt like I truly belonged to a community of people. On normal days, neighbors were friendly but always on their way somewhere. It was rare for more than just a few to gather unless there were a car accident in the neighborhood.

Snow days were different. No one was hurt, and we weren't powerless. Unlike the helpless feeling of waiting for an ambulance while trying to comfort a twisted body in a wreck; with big snow, we worked together, on our own territory, for our own collective good.

When it was happening, it felt familiar and right, as if it were something people had always done, something we were meant to do. And, it was always sad when the street became passable, the sleds and shovels were put away, and the grown-ups got in their automobiles to go their separate ways.

This morning, I've already cleaned up around our house. I know the HOA will have professionals coming soon, but perhaps before it gets too hot, I'll take my pole saw out and see if anyone in the neighborhood could use some help.