When Ice Came a Calling

As 2021 got underway, ice encased every tree branch and blade of prairie grass at Boomerang Creek.  Housebound, Kit and I gathered in front of the Buck stove and reflected on times when self-reliance and family got us through hard times. Memories of a January past resurfaced—one when ice came a calling in the night, and isolation took on new meaning.

I’m not certain what woke me early that January morning—the thunderous crashing sounds reverberating from the woods or awareness of being in total darkness. The ceiling fan over our bed was motionless.  The ambient green face of our digital clock radio normally visible at night had gone dark.  Another reverberating crash in the woods evoked images of rival bucks clashing like cymbals, their massive antlers locked in head-to-head combat.

The battle of nature that had begun in the night was in fact a drama of Wagnerian proportions. Warm air flowing up from the south had clashed with cold air descending from the north, resulting in a destructive band of sleet and freezing rain that coated a wide swath of Missouri in ice. Area-wide power outages resulted when tall, dense trees sagged under the weight of ice-encrusted branches.  In random, rifle-like reports, crystalline limbs snapped like brittle bones, shattering in explosive cascades onto roads, driveways, sidewalks, rooftops and power lines.

Adjusting to the darkness, I moved by memory toward the kitchen, locating a flashlight, then a box of matches before heading into the living room.  The pine mantle above our hearth was decked with holiday candles in hurricane lanterns. Before long, the room glowed with soft yellow candlelight, and Kit had a fire crackling in the Buck stove.

We later learned that the power had gone out around 5:30 a.m.—the time I normally get up, head for the kitchen, and push the start button on the coffee machine. Problem was, our entire house—kitchen appliances, cordless phones, furnace, TV, radios, garage doors--is powered by electricity. That morning and erratically over the two days that followed, the only power we had was of our own making.

Before doing battle with the elements, I was determined that we would have hot coffee.  The logical solution was to set up our Coleman stove.  The problem was we were out of propane canisters.  Undaunted, I searched through a storage unit in the basement, discovering my mother’s copper chafing dish and stand.  She used it to keep her spicy cheese dip hot when she and Dad entertained back in the 1950s and 60s.  Recently, she had given it to me, along with two tins of Sterno canned-heat cooking fuel that must have been half a century old.

Back in the kitchen, I perched an aluminum stovetop coffee pot on the copper stand, pried open the Sterno lid, held a match to the surface and violà!  Canned heat! Patiently we watched a delicate blue flame dance across the clear, jelly-like petroleum fuel, eager for the bubbling sound of hot water rising through coffee grounds like oil gushing up a well, announcing the magic of coffee.

For breakfast, Kit fired up the outdoor charcoal grill, made toast and cooked a fine ham and cheese omelet in my father’s old cast iron skillet.  Wanting to make use of the bed of hot coals, I cut up stew meat, dipped it in seasoned flour, and browned the meat before adding chopped onion, assorted root vegetables and broth.  While we enjoyed our camp breakfast al fresco, the stew simmered under the grill’s hood to a delicious richness.

Later that morning, our daughter Heidi called from California to thank us for the cozy memories from our years together in Los Angeles when we were a newly configured family of four.  For ten years, we lived in an 800-square foot canyon cottage that radiated love and provided Heidi and her brother Hayden with memories they are now recreating with their own families.

Heidi’s priceless call was received on a corded landline phone in the kitchen--our only functional phone in a power outage.  Bits of news came in from local friends and distant family throughout the day.  When there was still no power by late afternoon, I remembered my father’s old portable weather band radio. Powered by four fresh AA-batteries, the radio came to life with updates on the weather situation and forecast of more of the same just as sleet and waning daylight began to fall.

That evening, Kit and I talked while watching the fire with our three cats curled up next to us in a state of feline bliss.  In the background, the Christmas songs on a country radio station could be heard on Dad’s little black radio, interrupted by occasional announcements of school cancellations across the listening area.   We read our novels aided by two flashlights and noted with awe that Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters created their timeless literary masterpieces without ever experiencing the magic of electricity. 

At the close of the day, still without power, we recalled the ways my parents’ gifts had aided us that day. Finally, we offered our thanks to the Boone Electric and Ameren linemen who would be working on through the icy nights and days ahead, restoring power to rural customers like us while their own families eagerly awaited their safe return.

“All change is a miracle to contemplate; but it is a miracle which is taking place every instant.” - Henry David Thoreau, “Walden”