I cannot begin to express how enchanting the ice storm was, from a purely aesthetic viewpoint. It was as if I had been suddenly dropped down into the middle of the Louvre. I did not know which way to turn. And as the light changed, the whole aspect changed. When the sun came out, it was simply stunning.
Every window held a new vista.
The familiar willow, Liam's willow, planted the summer before his birth, was transformed.
Our weathervane, a perch for hummingbirds in April, now dripped ice.
The house stood, silent and powerless, sheltering us as best it could. And it did a wonderful job. Although this post is a remembrance of the ice storm, we've been without power for the past 22 hours thanks to the vicious winds that ripped through the nation on February 11. As I write, it's still gusting past 50, and the big band rehearsal we had planned for last night turned into a sort of glum candelit spaghetti dinner, since everyone but me and Andy the drummer plays something that plugs in. For now, the power's on, I've spent another day juggling food and fire and fishtank, and we're going into the gig at The Whipple Tavern without rehearsal, and that's that. It keeps me from taking electricity for granted, I'll say that. And there are Kentuckians who've been out of power since January 27, not just inconvenienced, but in disaster. Here's to them, wishing them light and warmth soon, soon, soon.
If this ice storm did nothing else, it made me appreciate the true meaning of shelter and comfort, the home as refuge and protector. But it gave us so much more--beauty and images I'll remember all my life. Even now, this close to it, it's the beauty I remember best.
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