What do I do now? It’s not as if this crawled up the path like a sloth on Valium. Getting old is a process. An unavoidable process unless…well, unless you die before you reach the age of “old.” And who determines when that is? Not the dying, the getting old. What boxes do you check? Physical changes? Graying hair, wrinkled skin, sagging middle (not to mention other areas). Forgetfulness. Check. Check. Check. And check. I am old. Been that way for a while, but never wanted to admit it or face the ugly truth. Sitting in the dark long enough has a strange way of opening your eyes. I am not being metaphorical. I am literally sitting in the dark. Dark and cold. It’s been that way, off and on, for seven days. Second week of February, the month of love and dead flowers. A winter storm like south Texas has never seen. It looks like those idiot progressive tree-hugging-climate-changing morons were right. Day one, it was beautiful. Snow falling on dead Bermuda grass, turning my backyard into a winter wonderland. Day two, around dusk, the temperature dropped into the single digits. Things lose their beauty when cold turns to frigid. On the third day we didn’t have any degrees. Below zero, two words rarely heard in this part of the country. The wind-chill added misery to misery. The weather girl seemed almost giddy standing in front of the green screen with words blaring—
WIND CHILL -40 DEGREES! STAY INSIDE!
The power went out shortly after that. Haven’t seen the giddy weather girl or her helpful hints since.
The power was off and on. More off than on. They call it rolling blackouts. It rolled down hill like a boulder, crushing anything in its path. When it came on, usually for about twenty minutes, I plugged in my cell phone and laptop, made a fresh brew of coffee, and toasted a muffin. I finished the muffin (with lukewarm orange marmalade) just as the lights went out again. Cable was out, no reason to turn the boob-tube on. My neighbor, an old fart and not very sociable, had his stereo or CD player turned up full volume. Each time the electricity came back on I heard-
“Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl, with yellow feathers in her hair…” Same song, over and over. Catchy tune. Gets stuck in your crawl. Until the thirty-first time hearing it. Then it just grates. Who sang that damn song? It’s on the tip of my tongue. Forgetfulness—Check.
Neighbor’s name is Arthur Lupin. Lupin, like the cat burglar in Sherlock Holmes. He drinks too much and plays his music too loudly. I think he might be dead. Fourteen hours without lights or heat this time. It’s not rolling anymore. More like D.O.A.
Arthur Lupin is old. There is no arguing with that. He uses a walker and drags an oxygen tank behind him. I should go check on him, but if he ain’t dead I would have to listen to him tell me about the time he fought in the Golden Gloves Championship. He is old and a liar. I googled it. No electricity for fourteen hours, but it has been longer than that since Lola, with yellow feathers in her hair, graced the airwaves. He is dead. Got to be.
Day two of the Winter Storm of the Century (the news people feel like they must give everything a name), before the temperature dropped to single digits, I went out in the backyard and built a snowman. I was acting like a little kid. Building a snowman and catching snowflakes on my tongue. Except, I had to sit down several times to catch my breath.
I was hoping to build the snowman with my grandson. He has never seen snow. His momma (my youngest daughter), and the boy went to her friend’s house. He has a fireplace and running water. She would have stayed with me if I asked her to. But I didn’t. I saw the writing on the wall. I sure miss that boy. Playing in the snow with him, making smores by candlelight, telling scary stories with the lights out (not too scary, Grandpa), would have made this more tolerable. Well, maybe next time.
Sunday morning, when I woke, the lights were still out. It must have been forty degrees inside. Can’t know for sure because the smart thermostat ain’t smart enough to stay on during a blackout. My smartphone told me it 4:30 and minus 1° outside. Sitting on the side of the bed, I said a prayer to God. I figure he can hear them no matter how cold it is. Then I remembered I have a generator out in the shed (a light from God!). I bought it a few years ago for a camping trip. It’s not one of those big ones, but it was better than what the utility company was giving me. I dressed, three layers. Don’t know who came up with that rule, but I wasn’t arguing. The padlock was frozen solid. I knew a generator was behind the doors to that shed and I couldn’t get to the damn thing. Back inside, I grabbed my disposable Bic lighter off my desk and carefully navigated the slippery slope back to the shed. Did you know it is impossible to flick you Bic while wearing gloves? My hand about froze off lighting and relighting that little blue lighter with a Cowboys helmet on the side. It took a while with the wind blowing, but I finally heard the lock drop open. I had to move some boxes and a wheelbarrow with a flat tire out of the way before finding the little orange generator. The little red gas can that I would need to fill the little orange generator was empty. I was feeling a little sick.
I made breakfast. Cold English Muffins and cold day-old coffee. Wouldn’t recommend either. I fell asleep on the sofa. I woke with a crick in my neck and my hand still hurting from the gloveless adventure. If the electricity came back on, I had missed it. I checked my phone and still had better than 50% battery life. I wondered why my daughter hadn’t called to check on me. For that matter, none of my children had called. That’s my fault. I don’t share feelings and such with my kids. I figure they have enough problems of their own. No reason to worry about mine. I hope they are okay. I could call them, but I need to preserve the battery in case of an emergency. Like the neighbor dying. Who are you going to call, Jimmy? Another sign of getting old—talking to one’s self.
Sunday and into Monday, the power came back on every few hours. I managed a surprisingly good routine. Plug in the phone and the laptop, brew fresh coffee and cook whatever there was to eat that would take only a few minutes to reach the edible stage. Monday evening, the power was on long enough to cook up some bacon and eggs. I wanted some peaches with dinner, but the lights went out before I could open the can. I haven’t owned a manual-twist the top off-can opener in more years than I can count. After supper, I bundled up and sat on the back porch with a lukewarm cup of coffee, enjoying the beauty of this unexpected and rare winter wonderland. I placed a cigarette between my trembling lips (the only vice I have left). I knew I would have to remove a glove to ignite the Bic, but the anticipation of nicotine was greater than the fear of frozen fingers. The lighter is dead. Nothing but sparks. I tossed the coffee, the unburnt cigarette, and the useless Bic into the snow. Over the next few hours, I obsessed over ways to light a cigarette. No matches in the house. The only lighter was dead. I considered rubbing two pieces of wood together of finding flint and rock and pounding them until the life giving (nicotine giving) flame jumps forth. At the end of the mania tour, I accomplished only one thing; I need to quit smoking—two things—I am not a good outdoorsman.
On Tuesday, I read the “Book Thief” when there was enough light in the house to see. Lupin’s Lola only made a couple of appearances that day. Loud and proud. The interval between lights on and lights off was getting much longer. I still couldn’t remember who sang that stupid song. I’ve run out of muffins and coffee. I forgot to charge my phone. When the power came back on briefly Tuesday night, I plugged it in. A missed call from my daughter. I went to bed early, nothing else to do. I couldn’t sleep, too worried about an empty medicine bottle sitting by the bathroom sink. I took my last pill. The ones I take to help me breathe. PSA—smoking leads to C.O.P.D. PSA number two—don’t run out of your medicine.
Yesterday was bad. Everything left to eat is either in a can that I can’t open or spoiled. I chewed on uncooked spaghetti noodles. This moment of genius brought on a coughing fit. I can’t find my inhaler. I think it might be under the snow. My daughter bought me an oximeter last year after I spent a week in the hospital. My O2 sats where down to 94 when I woke up. After the attack of the spaghetti noodles, it dropped to 91. I slept almost all-day Wednesday. The showgirl named Lola serenading me to sleep.
It is freezing. I can see my breath. I thought of getting out of bed to fetch more blankets. My sats dropped again, so I will just lay here dreaming about the Copacabana, the hottest spot north of Havana…
Manilow! Barry Frickin Manilow!
I am old.
O2 sats-87
What do I do now?
