The Ice Storm

I spent the evening of December 11th wrangling with my six children. None of them wanted take baths, tidy up, or get their clothes and backpacks ready for school. By the time we'd closed out the night with a parental lecture on playing fewer video games and getting chores done on time, it was too late to read, snuggle or talk. The kids went to bed feeling slighted; I had a terrible headache and felt guilty and irritated.

Later that night, the worst ice storm in New Hampshire history hit our farm. I woke up terrified at 2 a.m. to a pitch black room and an ear-shattering commotion. The wind howled and screeched, I could hear branches breaking and tearing. When morning came, we had no electricity, heat, or water. Our land was devastated: every tree was bowed; top limbs were sheared completely from their trunks; lower limbs had been severed and shredded; two-hundred year old firs lay toppled like dominoes. In addition to the debris, the ground was covered with inches of chunky, splintered ice.

Almost immediately, help began to arrive. Friends cleared our driveway and unloaded a pallet of wood for our stove. I bundled up the kids, and we went outside to haul wood and move endless piles of branches. Inside the house, the family room was slowly warming up, thanks to the fire, and I made hot chocolate and homemade soup on top of the stove. At the end of the day, we ate dinner together in the family room. As it grew dark, we lit candles, played games and read stories. The children fell asleep happy and exhausted.

We replayed this scene daily for two weeks. I cooked oatmeal, chili, and whatever else I could put together on top of the stove, and the house smelled wonderful all day long. Our family, with the help of friends and neighbors, worked for hours, chopping, splitting, and stacking wood. The kids made forts from the downed trees and created swords, bats, light sabers, and guns from sticks of all sizes (I have five boys and one girl). Christmas was a week away, but it wasn't on anyone's mind. We finished each day with soup or stew that tasted better than anything we'd eaten before. We sang carols and told stories in a family room lit only by candles.

Rather than feeling desperate for modern life to return, I relished the changes this disaster had forced upon our family. It was very hard to cook, clean and work without our normal conveniences, but I loved it. I wondered what was missing from our regular lives, and how I could hold on to what we were experiencing at that moment.

Our power was finally restored, thanks to the tireless efforts of utility workers who came from as far as Georgia and Tennessee. The Christmas tree had lights again, and so did our phones, televisions, and Blackberries. I was thrilled to take a hot shower. No matter how much I wanted to, I knew that we couldn't continue to live like Laura Ingalls Wilder. My kids take the bus to school and my husband commutes to work. We have play dates and sporting events. We use the computer, the hair dryer and the washing machine.

While I can't turn back the clock, I can make some changes. I plan to maximize our family time by shutting down the electronics (television, computer, video games, cell phones and house phones ) when we're home together. I'd like to sit around the fire or the kitchen table more often as a family and eat a home cooked meal, play Monopoly, and talk. I think we should have campouts in the family room, even when the rest of the house is heated. I want us to do family chores together, not separately, and serve together too. Finally, I know we should stand in awe of Mother Nature who can, in one swift moment, remove the distractions in our lives and show us what really matters.