Five Days without Power

Day 1: When does a leak become a torrent?

After saturating six towels with rainwater blown in the leaking bedroom window, I make a canal with the towels, directing the stream into a bucket on the floor.

A limb from an ancient cypress breaks, tearing two of three prongs of the electrical cable away from the house and crushing the cable against the roof.

Call to PG&E: "Isn't that a fire hazard?"

"I don't know."

"When will you be here to fix it?"

"I have no idea. Just stay away from it."

While the wind gusts to 60 mph, a robin takes refuge in the gap of another broken limb as it sways and jerks below.

The cable phone stops working. My cell phone only works in one place in the house and only if I stand very still.

Day 2: Things to be grateful for

During a break from the rain, Incredibly Resourceful Landlord fixes the window and the generator in the barn so that the well pump runs and we again have water. He also gives me a propane bottle so that I can cook over my single burner camp stove.

Call to PG&E: "When are you coming?"

"By 7 p.m."

"Tonight!" I ask.

"Yes."

Later that night, while cooking on the front porch, the dark sky clearing, faint candlelight shines from homes around the valley. I feel blessed, grateful for the robin's reminding me about the strength in broken places, the warmth of the woodstove, and the stars shining for me.

Day 3: Isn't that a fire hazard?

I test the insulation of our hot water heater -- not enough to wash my hair, but at least I get a short shower.

Power is restored around the valley. Because the electrical cable is still partially attached, we have power for the refrigerator, the cable phone, and one outlet at a time. No lights, electric heat, or stove. Tired of the cold on the front porch, I open the curtains and watch the camp stove from inside.

PG&E calls; they're coming tomorrow.

"You said you were coming last night. I'm losing sleep, worrying about that limb and the live wire. Isn't it a fire hazard?"

"It shouldn't be. Just stay away from it."

I'm surprised to find that with a hat, a sweater over my nightgown, and the bedroom door open to the living room's woodstove, I'm warm enough at night. For the first time ever when she's allowed access to the bedroom, Lila, the cat, lets me sleep past dawn.

 Day 4: "When are you coming?"

PG &E: "Today or tomorrow."

"You said that yesterday."

"We're doing our best, working 'round the clock."

Braving the fluctuating power in the outlet, I check my email and post the Ellen Bass interview. Unlike the other videos, it uploads correctly the first time. The downstairs bedroom is the brightest room, so I work there until darkness sends me scurrying to light candles.

After dinner (packaged Palak Paneer and rice heated from the steam above the package), I decide not to heat water for dishes. Someone can do them tomorrow.

Day 5: Waiting for hot water

Evening plans mean I can't warm up the house enough so that the woodstove will provide enough heat for the night, but it will be great to eat a real meal for the first time since the storm.

The familiar blue PG&E truck drives by and I run out into the rain to flag it down. Maybe it just missed the house -- everyone does the first time. A minute later it's back and weary men approach.

I beam. "I'm so happy to see you!"

"My power's not on either," the younger man snaps as he brushes by. The older man smiles back.

Forty-five minutes later, I'm running around the house, turning everything on, then try to take a shower. I let it run awhile, but it's not hot enough yet. No problem. I sit down and write this, while I wait.