Published Tuesday, September 30, 2008 12:59 PM
Updated Tuesday, September 30, 2008 1:00 PM
Widdle Baby and I live in a tiny town, where tomatoes grow bigger and gravy tastes better. If your dog gets out, a cop will bring him home. Strollers--people love to stroll in our village--stop to chat if you’re outside. It once took Widdle 90 minutes to bring in a week’s worth of groceries.
The strange thing about country living is this: If three raindrops fall, the lights go out. Seconds later, residents grab their cell phones. “You got power? We don’t have power. Call Mildred, see if she’s got power. ”
If the lights stay out long enough for the Dollar General to close, everyone gets depressed.
“They closed the store. Sure did. And here I sit without a single can of Spam.”
Usually, power is restored within an hour. But last month we had a real, big-city-style blackout.
When the town went dark at 1:30 p.m. on a stifling Saturday, Frankie, my mother-in-love, called the utility hotline. “They said it’ll be on in about an hour,” she informed us.
Widdle called the hotline at 3 p.m. The recording said we could expect lights by 5 p.m. At 5:30 p.m., the voice said power would be restored by 7 p.m.
The minutes crept by. No electricity is one thing, but no water is just gruesome. I changed into a bikini top, and the sweat still rolled down my back.
Finally, a fed-up Frankie called us and said, “I’m going to a motel.” She is 84; the nearest motel is 13 miles away over dark roads.
“Mom, stay home and use the flashlights I gave you,” Widdle said.?When we were still power-less at 7:30 p.m., Widdle was done. He stood up, grabbed his keys and said, “Let’s go to a movie.”
My face was greasy; my hair felt like wet weasel fur. I wore my Coke-bottle specs because I couldn’t wash my hands to insert my contacts.
“I can’t go out like this,” I said.
“Movies are dark,” Widdle said. “Let’s go.”
I pulled my hair into a ponytail and followed.
The movie was funny and, best of all, blissfully cool. I sneezed several times as the sweat dried on my body. Widdle sucked on his two-gallon soda and said, “Bet the power will be on when we get home.“
On the way back we stopped at a convenience store. When I walked in, the cashier flinched.
“What’s wrong with her?” I thought. Then I looked in the ladies’ room mirror and saw matted hair, smeared makeup and stained shirt. Women on wanted posters look better than I did.
“Well,” I told Widdle, “Now we know I’m not a natural beauty.”
We chuckled all the way home… until we got home. Still no electricity.
Power was finally restored at 1 a.m. (Turned out lighting had struck a transformer.) Never have I been so grateful for ice cubes and air conditioning.
Next time, I’ll have a pact with Frankie: I’ll drive if she pays for the room.
Julie R. Smith, who’d last three minutes on a camping trip, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.