Momsicle and Popsicle
My parents lived on a dirt road in New Hampshire, so downed power lines snaking linguini-like across the road were as common as grass snakes in the pumpkin patch. But this time in 2008, the ice storm froze every line, bush, limb and pole in sight, like the White Queen had waved her wand in a mighty tantrum of global freezy fit.
Brother Mike dropped by to help evacuate the oldsters but they planned on going nowhere. No lights, no water, no cooking, no heat, no phone, no problem. They lost power at 3 am Friday, and it was a balmy 50 degrees in the house when he showed up on Saturday.
So, he tried to bring up dry wood from the cellar.
No, No, that had to be saved for an emergency.
Nearly half a million people in the state were without power, they had closed the roads, the courts, and the schools. And opened shelters. But save that dry wood.
Brother Mike brought the ice coated cordwood from outside and stacked it three feet high in the living room in a great circle around the fireplace while Mom explained why they wouldn’t leave. “It’s not that cold in here. The power will be back soon. The roads are terrible. Your father doesn’t like to go out to dinner. He won’t be comfortable in a new place.”
True sleeping in a chair was clearly superior to offsite accommodation. That way the pain in his neck would keep him awake enough so he won’t succumb to hypothermia in his sleep.
The ensuing comparative pain debate choked on the great gusts of black smoke spurting from the fireplace. Chimney fire. Glad it happened while Mike was there, with his 20 years of volunteer firefighting. No phone, so no fire truck would show up soon. Momsicle ran down driveway to flag down any passing traffic (this on a road so little frequented, we all look out the window when we hear a car go by to see if we know them.) A neighbor came with a cell phone, having noticing the obese clouds of black smoke billowing from the chimney, raining soot on the frosted fingers of the forsythia.
By the time the fire department, police and ambulance arrived the fire was out. Lucky for Momsicle and Popsicle really, because once they stick the hose down the chimney and let her rip there’s not much left of a living room.
Did they want a lift to a neighbor’s or a heated shelter? No, no, too much trouble really, we’re fine.
A neighbor with a generator, and perhaps an eye on the wood-fueled path through the white pines from our house to his, came to offer a warm bed at his place.
No, no, we’re fine, thanks for the water.
Brother Mike had half drained the water lines to prevent pipes from bursting but they were still living in luxury with flush toilets. It only takes a two gallon bucket to manually flush, and the neighbor had offered to keep them supplied.
Nutrition, not a problem. Hot dogs on a stick, instant coffee in soot water boiled in the coals with the acrid aroma of unidentifiable plastic handle melting.
Brother Mike notices that Momsicle kept opening the double doors to the garden room, although no sunlight cracked the leaden skies.
Just keeping the plants from freezing, you know.
Right, save the geraniums. Finally we got it. They weren’t leaving, if it meant death to the greenery, they had to stay to keep the fire going for the plants.
Darling Momsicle and Popsicle. Reason in a rational world.