Christmas morning started with a bang. Literally. Somewhere around 2 am, a loud “boom” pierced the silence. The cat, who sneaks onto my lap when I am asleep, was startled into jumping off the bed and going to investigate. Outside, I could hear the rain pelting relentlessly on the roof. I turned my head toward the clock radio on my night table but no blue, digital numbers glowed in the dark.
I rose and padded, barefoot to the living room, carefully making my way in the pitch black. I peered out the window and saw that the whole neighbourhood was shrouded in darkness. Not a single porch light was on. No Christmas decorations twinkled in the night. We were in the midst of yet another power failure. My husband joined me at the window and we decided the noise must have been a transformer blowing. Then he ambled back to bed while I continued to look out onto the dark street.
“Just great,” I thought. “It’s Christmas morning, pouring rain and we are in the middle of a power failure.” Then my thoughts went as dark as the night. Last year, a power failure caused by a violent wind storm lasted three days. What would we do if it was a prolonged failure? We were in lockdown: We couldn’t go to a family member’s home. The city couldn’t welcome people at the community centre. We couldn’t even go to a restaurant and warm up for an hour. With those questions on my mind, I climbed back into bed, pulled the covers tightly around me and tried to quiet my restless mind.
When I woke later, I was relieved to see the digital numbers of the clock radio blinking blue in the still-dark early morning. I got up and set to work right away.