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Power to the people?

Folk singer Joe Crookston wows the crowd at the Cooperage in Honesdale, PA

November 8, 2012

Hallelujah! My power finally came back on Monday night! Happy to be alive and have a roof (still) over my head, I’m grateful. But I confess, the Lady Sandy truly tested me. I missed those little things—like electricity, heat and a phone. And TV? It isn’t a necessity (I suppose)… but the Internet? How else can a person stay in touch with the outside world, living as I do on the very fringes of society?

Safe at home a week ago on Monday, the winds began to whip around Green Acres. Shutters flew off their hinges, my garden shed took a hike and references to “The Wizard of Oz” began to fly across my computer screen. Reminding all concerned that this was not a tornado touching down, and that Dorothy and Co. were fictional characters in a film, truth be told, it seemed better to view the outside world as a movie rather than the apocalyptic scenario that seemed to be playing out around us. Outside my little piece of paradise, the gusts reached 85mph and the torrential rains turned to sleet before the lights went out and the forced-air heat sighed, sputtered and died.

“Not to worry” I chirped to the dog, “We’re cool.” I had turned on the bed warmer in anticipation, and the blankets had stored up some warmth, so I settled in to read by the glow of my mother’s antique hurricane oil lamp. Reaching for my old “Hardy Boys” collection, memories of Frank, Joe, Chet and the gang ( flooded my feeble brain as I thumbed through a book that had been merely “decorative” for more than 45 years. I settled on “The Mystery of Cabin Island,” written (who knew?) in 1929. The series, penned by multiple “ghostwriters,” was wildly popular for decades and I recall being enthralled by the Hardy Boys adventures as my sister thumbed through Nancy Drew. But last Monday, under the (quickly fading) warmth, I realized that these stories were more than simple and (IMHO) not terribly well-written and I found it difficult to lose myself in the plot. Still I reveled in the memory of youthful ignorance. So a hardy “thank you” to the men (and women) who wrote those books, since they did help lull my (addled) brain into slumber with the comfort of an old shoe.