October 25, 2005
Late October had held onto its warmth longer than usual, and the farm still looked more like late summer than the edge of winter. Many of the trees stubbornly clung to their leaves—some even stayed green. We knew cold weather would come eventually, probably sometime in November, but not now. Not tonight.
That evening felt like any other evening on the farm. Around seven, we fed the animals and locked the ducks and geese into the Hilton. By the time the chores were done, the house felt cozy and quiet. My parents finished whatever housework was left, and then we settled into our nightly rhythm—some television downstairs, the soft murmur of familiar shows, and the faint sound of the wind picking up outside. Mom eventually went upstairs, as she often did, to call her parents or brothers and sisters. Being the oldest, she was the unofficial mediator of her family, always smoothing over squabbles and keeping everyone talking. Dad and I stayed downstairs watching TV or I would go upstairs and get on the computer. By ten or eleven, we were in bed.
The weather forecast had only called for rain and temperatures dropping into the low forties, and that’s exactly how it sounded when I fell asleep—steady, gentle rain tapping the roof and lulling the house into stillness.
What woke me was the opposite of stillness.
A brutal, explosive sound cracked through the night—then another. For a disoriented moment I thought it was a tornado, or something worse. The wind roared against the siding, and sharp stinging pellets slapped the house like handfuls of gravel. My heart pounded as I scrambled to the window.
Everything outside was white.
Not snow drifting peacefully, but a raging, swirling whiteout so thick I could barely see the yard. Ice clung to the window glass like scaling. The shift from quiet rain to this violent storm made the moment feel unreal, disorienting—like waking into the wrong season, the wrong world.
I hurried into the master bedroom. My parents were already up, both of them standing by the front windows, faces surprised and tense in the dim light.
“It’s a snowstorm,” I said, breathless.
Dad answered, “Yeah… but what is making those loud cracking noises?”
We each stood at a different window, watching the swirling snow, trying to understand what we were seeing. Branches littered the yard—thick limbs that had snapped under the weight of ice and snow still clinging to their green leaves. Every few seconds another crack echoed through the woods like distant gunfire. Despite the shared anxiety, we stayed calm. Once we realized what was happening, we checked the house and made sure everyone, including the animals, was safe. There were no trees near their shelter, so we felt confident they were okay. The power had gone out, and with the storm raging around us, there wasn’t much else to do but wait.
By morning the world had been remade in white. The wind had died down, but small flakes still drifted lazily from the sky. We assumed the entire Four States area had lost power. After bundling up, we planned to drive to Fairmont and see if the town had fared any better. Maybe Cracker Barrel was open.
But we didn’t get far. Trees were down across the right-of-way—and of course, they were on Dale’s property. The sight filled all of us with dread. Just our luck. We all wondered whether he would come out, make accusations, or cause trouble. As usual, we documented everything. I handed the video camera to Mom, and Dad and I worked to clear the road—him cutting branches with the chainsaw while I dragged them aside. It took nearly two hours to free the lane, and surprisingly, Dale never appeared.
By the time we reached Cracker Barrel, I was starving. I don’t think I had ever been so relieved to see the restaurant open. Inside, the air was warm and smelled of coffee, fried apples, and wood smoke. Dad and I were still damp and cold from working outside, and sitting at a table near the fireplace felt like stepping inside a different world. The warmth washed over us, and for the first time since the middle of the night, I felt steady again.
The storm was all anyone talked about. Friends and neighbors compared stories—trees blocking roads, downed power lines, entire hollows still stranded. Marion County had been hit hard.
I ordered my usual: three buttermilk pancakes, two eggs, bacon, and two syrups. It tasted better than any breakfast I could remember.
That night we returned home to a house still without power. We pulled the comforters off our beds and dug out sleeping bags. The futon in the living room was folded flat and became our makeshift family bed. When Dad lit the fireplace, the room filled with warm orange and yellow light. Outside that glow, the rest of the house was pitch black. The fire crackled and popped, sounding almost cheerful compared to the storm the night before.
Once the initial anxiety had worn off, the whole thing felt strangely fun—like we were roughing it the way our relatives might have when the farm was first settled over eighty years earlier. It felt like camping, and the novelty of it softened the cold.
The next morning I drove to Fairmont State. Some classes were canceled, and others were half-full, but campus looked mostly normal. I washed up in the university bathrooms like I’d just finished a workout, and no one batted an eye—clearly I wasn’t the only one without power. My dad went to Brideport and purchased a generator at Lowe’s. He got there just in time before they sold out. We ran the generator sparingly. Just enough to keep the house warm.
While I worked shifts at Cracker Barrel, exhausted power company workers came in to eat. Their faces told the story before they spoke—tired eyes, windburned skin, and the kind of bone-deep fatigue that comes from sixteen- to twenty-hour shifts. They didn’t even have their full fleet; most of their trucks were still in New Orleans repairing the devastation from Hurricane Katrina, which had hit just weeks earlier.
Phil, our owner, told us that if a power worker ordered a steak, it was on the house. Those steaks took forever to cook, and standing there impatiently waiting for them wasn’t fun—but watching those workers receive them was. They were grateful, humbled, exhausted. We treated them like first responders, even like soldiers returning from the front lines, asking where the “battle” for power restoration was going well and where it wasn’t. There was a quiet pride in serving them.
After five days, our power finally came back on. Most of the snow had melted, but the temperature stayed cold—wet, drizzly, windy November weather settling in for good. I loved it. That sound of wind through the trees has always been one of my favorite things.
I felt relieved more than anything else. The generator had kept us warm during the days, but having the house humming back to life felt like a victory. We were also surprised Dale hadn’t confronted us or caused trouble. Maybe they weren’t home after all. It didn’t matter. The storm had passed, the lights were on, and fall had finally arrived.