Winter of 1976-77. We had one of those Michigan ice storms. You know. The ones that coat tree limbs and electrical lines with 1/2 inch thick or more enclosures of ice. The kind of ice that snaps things off. From weight, from brittleness, just for the gorgeous hell of it.
And it was beautiful. An ice-encrusted tree limb is exquisite in the bitter winter sun. Until one breaks and falls across a wire, the one that delivers you life-giving electricity.
We had “a beautiful home.” Huge by the standards of the time. We could entertain 70-80 people with two dozen pot luck salads and desserts and vats of chili and people didn’t even bump in to one another. It had “good traffic flow” as they say. But when the electricity went out
1) We had no water.
2) We had no heat.
We moved to my mother’s house, some 25 miles south. For a week.
I said, “This makes no sense. A home is supposed to be shelter. And in the worst weather ever, when we need it most, this house gives us no shelter. What good is it if it can’t do that?”
When we moved back a week later, Ma came with us. I can’t remember why.
In the process of checking pipes and everything else I opened the freezer door of the refrigerator and it was full. To the brim. With bread dough that had thawed and expanded to fill the entire compartment. I gasped and laughed and Ma said, “Just punch it down and bake it up.”
I baked 5 loaves of bread that evening. Ma took 2 of them home. And I never felt secure in that house again.
Husband #1 was a very good man. He didn’t share my need to live in a small, simple place that would have heat and water even when the electricity went out. Still, I sometimes regret having left that marriage. And smile when I remember that it happened at all.