Romantic Knights
When my husband was alive, storms that kept us stranded at home were romantic. During our first winter here, Arkansas experienced its worst ice storm in a decade or more. The entire landscape was a thick slick sheet of ice. Even the minivan was coated, like a prehistoric whale preserved in Lucite. Walking outdoors was impossible. We were without electricity or running water for an entire week and quickly learned how to use a wood-burning stove for heat—and for melting snow to flush the commode. Of course, mid-week, we had to ice pick our way to a neighbor’s homestead for supplies. What a couple of city dweebs we were.
But every evening, after eating our canned beans and crackers by the woodstove, we’d hop into the freezing bed under twenty-nine blankets, like two kids who were granted permission to camp in the backyard. We were having an adventure.
Now I’m adept at winter weather preparation: Turn on heat in the wellhouse. Keep faucets running at a trickle so pipes don’t freeze. Fill jugs with water—just in case pipes freeze despite my efforts. Stock the pantry and the woodpile. Collect kindling. Put matches, flashlights, candles and kerosene lamps where I can find them in the dark. Park the car close to the road. Plug in electronic devices, so if I lose power, I can call for help.
But last week Mother Nature showed me the romance is gone. After five days of not laying eyes on a human being unless I looked in the mirror, I began researching the legalities of solitary confinement in our prison systems. I can see that forced isolation is inhumane. And I have a cell phone, the world’s most comfortable bed, and two furry creatures who keep me company all night! (Our nation needs to do some soul searching. But I’ll save that for another day.)
When I was a kid, I lived in the frigid Yankeeland. Snow was plentiful, but municipalities had the means to keep sidewalks and streets generally navigable. I don’t remember any sense of panic in winter. Occasionally there was enough snowfall in a short timespan to call off school for a day. But still, it was cleaned up in short order, and business went on as usual.
When I was 18, I moved to Jackson, Mississippi. It snowed while I lived there, and for all practical purposes, the city shut down (except for the hospital—where I worked.) I was astounded by the power the population gave to an inch of snow.
Later, I moved to Louisiana, where houses were built on stilts. Cold air passed right under my home, and up through the uninsulated floorboards. There was sometimes ice on my living room floor. On the inside! Does the Deep South just pretend it never gets cold so winter hazards won’t have to be addressed?
I’m getting too old for this. Maybe there would be less preparation in town. But I have a friend who lives in an old Eureka Springs house where the interior nighttime temperature peaked at 64 and sometimes dipped as low as 49 during last week’s cold snap—despite a functional furnace. I don’t see that as an improvement over my situation.
Perhaps Yankeeland is the only place I can stay warm in winter and see live people despite a frozen landscape. It doesn’t sound romantic. But maybe an intimate relationship with a working thermostat in a town where houses are built to withstand the cold would be like finding an old-fashioned knight in shining armor. They were never my type. But you know the old adage – “Never say never.”