After the derecho swept through the Baltimore area on Friday night, June 29th, the power was out at my house for more than five days. Here's how I spent them. (Do you have a story of your own to share?)
Friday, 11:30 p.m., high temperature 107°F: I’m standing at a window watching the wind whip through the neighborhood when the lights go out, along with the TV and the window air conditioners. We wait in the quiet and dark in the hope of a quick reprieve. An hour later we resign ourselves to a hot, humid night. I think thoughts the faulty logic of which will only become apparent later: that we won’t have milk for morning coffee, for example, not recognizing that the coffee maker, not just the refrigerator, is inoperative. In the eerie absence of the everyday hum of appliances, our two Chihuahuas bark out nervous warnings whenever they hear a sound. I toss, turn and perspire.
Saturday, high temperature 100°F: The sweltering crowd at Dunkin’ Donuts is irritable, but I take some comfort in the numbers: We’re not the only ones powerless. BGE forecasts restoration for my neighborhood by 2:30 p.m. I make a hotel reservation just in case. There’s not much to do but sit indoors, read, sweat, and resist the temptation to open the refrigerator for food. We snack on donuts and crackers. Heading to an air-conditioned mall or theater isn’t an option because of the dogs. 2:30 comes and goes. We’re groggy. We’re holding out hope. At 4:00 we load the car, figuring that doing so will magically cause the power to come back on. It doesn’t. We’ve packed an ice chest full of fridge and freezer food for cold storage at the hotel. We head to the Residence Inn, try not to think about the cost (the pet fee alone is $100), and eat take-out while watching the news. BGE is offering no further prediction about the time of restoration.
Sunday, high temperature 103°F: I make the 26-mile roundtrip home in the morning to confirm that the power is still off. Regardless, we can’t afford a second night’s hotel stay. At noon we’re at a grocery store, Sharon heading in for non-perishables while the dogs and I sit panting in the car. Our freshly charged smartphones allow us to monitor the restoration effort and access BGE’s Twitter feed, the content of which strikes my weary and overheated eyes as defensive and self-serving. We sit, we read novels, we sweat. As the sun sets I grill sausages (from the ice chest)—the grill being our only appliance that doesn’t work on electricity. After dark we continue to read by candlelight, accepting the additional heat in the room as the price of sight. The muggy warmth is affecting our appetites and our digestion. I’ll lose 5 pounds before the power comes back.
Monday, high temperature 95°F: I’m up at 6:00; who can sleep? I stumble out early to buy ice. The local grocery stores are cleared out, but at my third stop I find a few bags left in the freezer case. Sharon takes me to work at UMBC, partly so she can have the car for the day (a source of air conditioning and battery charging, if need be), partly so we can have a cup of coffee together in the cool comfort of The Commons. We both feel like zombies, like our sweaty sleeplessness must be highly visible to passers-by. I spend the day trying to focus (and charging up my laptop, so we can use its battery to charge the phones at night) while Sharon swelters at home. We’re both following the BGE numbers, waiting. After work we head to my morning ice store, but the case is empty now, so we drive on. When we find a store with ice we dawdle there, wandering the aisles, enjoying the air conditioning, imagining a future shopping run when we can buy perishable food. Dinner is leftovers from the night at the hotel, preserved in the ice chest and heated in aluminum foil on the grill. Later, reading by candlelight, I remember that I have a doctor’s appointment in the morning; too late to cancel, wish I could sleep. I keep seeing news via Facebook (on my phone) of locals getting their power back. I’m glad for them. I hate them. I’m glad for them. I hate them.
Tuesday, high temperature 99°F: Big news of the morning is that BGE finally has a new restoration time for our neighborhood: 5:30 p.m. that very day. I return from the doctor’s office with coffee from Starbucks and hope that this purgatory will end. It’s quiet on campus, the day before a holiday, and I savor the cooled air and dearth of meetings. I’m waiting for Sharon’s call to tell me the power is back at last. And waiting. At 5:30 p.m. the BGE message switches to a generic “we will restore your power as soon as possible.” We start to think about where we can do laundry. On a run for ice, I see a BGE truck parked in the neighborhood with two workers sitting inside, looking bored. Back home, we read and perspire by candlelight.
Wednesday, high temperature 100°F: It’s the 4th of July. I make a run to Dunkin’ for coffee, past a new utility truck where the BGE truck had been. Sharon tosses the spoiled food from our fridge and freezer, carefully draining and straining the contents so we can recycle the containers. The BGE automated response system informs us that that power should be restored in our neighborhood by 4:30 p.m. that day. The spoiled food stinks in the heat, and our trash can lost its lid in the derecho, so I head out to Home Depot to buy a new lid. But Home Depot doesn’t sell lids separately from cans, so I buy a new can, just another $16 down the drain after the cost of the hotel, the spoiled food, the ice, etc. When I get home, my neighbor is setting up a generator outside his garage. He gets it started an hour later. Through our open windows 20 feet away, it sounds like a jackhammer. Sharon and I sit in our living room, sweating, reading, and trying to ignore the overwhelming, pulsating, nerve-rattling, peace-shattering noise.
The laptop doesn’t have enough power to keep the phones charged for long, so when the power does not return by 4:30 p.m. as predicted, I take the phones out to my car to charge them and sit there, in the driveway, running the air conditioner and reading. The noise of the air conditioner partially muffles the pulsating din of the generator. BGE’s message now says the power should be back by 10:30 p.m. At 6:30, Sharon emerges from the house with the dogs in a carrier. She can’t take the noise any more. So we drive for a while as the sun sets, catching bursts of fireworks from time to time. We’re running on fumes, having a hard time hearing and understanding each other. We wind up in Ellicott City, and have a dinner of frozen yogurt in the car. Sharon asks me to drive on interstate highways so the dogs won’t keep jumping up at every stop. So I drive. We’re clinging to the hope that BGE’s fourth prediction will come true: 10:30 p.m., 10:30 p.m., 10:30 p.m. The power just has to come back tonight. Tomorrow is supposed to be hotter. We need a break. Back home, powerless and enduring the throb of the generator, we have to make decisions about which windows to open, and what balance to strike between stagnant, stifling air and obnoxious clatter. We can’t bear to add to the indoor heat by lighting candles to read by, so we sit in the dark and surf our smartphones as 10:30 passes and recedes. BGE changes its message again to the generic version, offering no further predictions. I’m convinced that the power will return overnight. It just has to. But it doesn’t.
Thursday, high temperature 102°F: Something has to give. We’re so tired. The noise from next door is oppressive. We’re slow-witted, and having a hard time identifying and evaluating our options. I make another bitter trip to Dunkin’ Donuts so we can throw coffee at our problems. I’m in the parking lot when I get the call from Sharon: The lights are on. The fridge and freezer are empty; the house is a mess; the laundry has been piling up for well over a week. The air conditioning units will have to work a while before the house gets anywhere close to comfortable. But the power is back.
Friday, 11:30 p.m., high temperature 107°F: I’m standing at a window watching the wind whip through the neighborhood when the lights go out, along with the TV and the window air conditioners. We wait in the quiet and dark in the hope of a quick reprieve. An hour later we resign ourselves to a hot, humid night. I think thoughts the faulty logic of which will only become apparent later: that we won’t have milk for morning coffee, for example, not recognizing that the coffee maker, not just the refrigerator, is inoperative. In the eerie absence of the everyday hum of appliances, our two Chihuahuas bark out nervous warnings whenever they hear a sound. I toss, turn and perspire.
Saturday, high temperature 100°F: The sweltering crowd at Dunkin’ Donuts is irritable, but I take some comfort in the numbers: We’re not the only ones powerless. BGE forecasts restoration for my neighborhood by 2:30 p.m. I make a hotel reservation just in case. There’s not much to do but sit indoors, read, sweat, and resist the temptation to open the refrigerator for food. We snack on donuts and crackers. Heading to an air-conditioned mall or theater isn’t an option because of the dogs. 2:30 comes and goes. We’re groggy. We’re holding out hope. At 4:00 we load the car, figuring that doing so will magically cause the power to come back on. It doesn’t. We’ve packed an ice chest full of fridge and freezer food for cold storage at the hotel. We head to the Residence Inn, try not to think about the cost (the pet fee alone is $100), and eat take-out while watching the news. BGE is offering no further prediction about the time of restoration.
Sunday, high temperature 103°F: I make the 26-mile roundtrip home in the morning to confirm that the power is still off. Regardless, we can’t afford a second night’s hotel stay. At noon we’re at a grocery store, Sharon heading in for non-perishables while the dogs and I sit panting in the car. Our freshly charged smartphones allow us to monitor the restoration effort and access BGE’s Twitter feed, the content of which strikes my weary and overheated eyes as defensive and self-serving. We sit, we read novels, we sweat. As the sun sets I grill sausages (from the ice chest)—the grill being our only appliance that doesn’t work on electricity. After dark we continue to read by candlelight, accepting the additional heat in the room as the price of sight. The muggy warmth is affecting our appetites and our digestion. I’ll lose 5 pounds before the power comes back.
Monday, high temperature 95°F: I’m up at 6:00; who can sleep? I stumble out early to buy ice. The local grocery stores are cleared out, but at my third stop I find a few bags left in the freezer case. Sharon takes me to work at UMBC, partly so she can have the car for the day (a source of air conditioning and battery charging, if need be), partly so we can have a cup of coffee together in the cool comfort of The Commons. We both feel like zombies, like our sweaty sleeplessness must be highly visible to passers-by. I spend the day trying to focus (and charging up my laptop, so we can use its battery to charge the phones at night) while Sharon swelters at home. We’re both following the BGE numbers, waiting. After work we head to my morning ice store, but the case is empty now, so we drive on. When we find a store with ice we dawdle there, wandering the aisles, enjoying the air conditioning, imagining a future shopping run when we can buy perishable food. Dinner is leftovers from the night at the hotel, preserved in the ice chest and heated in aluminum foil on the grill. Later, reading by candlelight, I remember that I have a doctor’s appointment in the morning; too late to cancel, wish I could sleep. I keep seeing news via Facebook (on my phone) of locals getting their power back. I’m glad for them. I hate them. I’m glad for them. I hate them.
Tuesday, high temperature 99°F: Big news of the morning is that BGE finally has a new restoration time for our neighborhood: 5:30 p.m. that very day. I return from the doctor’s office with coffee from Starbucks and hope that this purgatory will end. It’s quiet on campus, the day before a holiday, and I savor the cooled air and dearth of meetings. I’m waiting for Sharon’s call to tell me the power is back at last. And waiting. At 5:30 p.m. the BGE message switches to a generic “we will restore your power as soon as possible.” We start to think about where we can do laundry. On a run for ice, I see a BGE truck parked in the neighborhood with two workers sitting inside, looking bored. Back home, we read and perspire by candlelight.
Wednesday, high temperature 100°F: It’s the 4th of July. I make a run to Dunkin’ for coffee, past a new utility truck where the BGE truck had been. Sharon tosses the spoiled food from our fridge and freezer, carefully draining and straining the contents so we can recycle the containers. The BGE automated response system informs us that that power should be restored in our neighborhood by 4:30 p.m. that day. The spoiled food stinks in the heat, and our trash can lost its lid in the derecho, so I head out to Home Depot to buy a new lid. But Home Depot doesn’t sell lids separately from cans, so I buy a new can, just another $16 down the drain after the cost of the hotel, the spoiled food, the ice, etc. When I get home, my neighbor is setting up a generator outside his garage. He gets it started an hour later. Through our open windows 20 feet away, it sounds like a jackhammer. Sharon and I sit in our living room, sweating, reading, and trying to ignore the overwhelming, pulsating, nerve-rattling, peace-shattering noise.
The laptop doesn’t have enough power to keep the phones charged for long, so when the power does not return by 4:30 p.m. as predicted, I take the phones out to my car to charge them and sit there, in the driveway, running the air conditioner and reading. The noise of the air conditioner partially muffles the pulsating din of the generator. BGE’s message now says the power should be back by 10:30 p.m. At 6:30, Sharon emerges from the house with the dogs in a carrier. She can’t take the noise any more. So we drive for a while as the sun sets, catching bursts of fireworks from time to time. We’re running on fumes, having a hard time hearing and understanding each other. We wind up in Ellicott City, and have a dinner of frozen yogurt in the car. Sharon asks me to drive on interstate highways so the dogs won’t keep jumping up at every stop. So I drive. We’re clinging to the hope that BGE’s fourth prediction will come true: 10:30 p.m., 10:30 p.m., 10:30 p.m. The power just has to come back tonight. Tomorrow is supposed to be hotter. We need a break. Back home, powerless and enduring the throb of the generator, we have to make decisions about which windows to open, and what balance to strike between stagnant, stifling air and obnoxious clatter. We can’t bear to add to the indoor heat by lighting candles to read by, so we sit in the dark and surf our smartphones as 10:30 passes and recedes. BGE changes its message again to the generic version, offering no further predictions. I’m convinced that the power will return overnight. It just has to. But it doesn’t.
Thursday, high temperature 102°F: Something has to give. We’re so tired. The noise from next door is oppressive. We’re slow-witted, and having a hard time identifying and evaluating our options. I make another bitter trip to Dunkin’ Donuts so we can throw coffee at our problems. I’m in the parking lot when I get the call from Sharon: The lights are on. The fridge and freezer are empty; the house is a mess; the laundry has been piling up for well over a week. The air conditioning units will have to work a while before the house gets anywhere close to comfortable. But the power is back.
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