Ramona
By JESSICA GILBERT
Ramona correspondent
(785) 965-2621
It's nearly midnight and I'm basking in the twinkling glow of my Christmas tree lights after a week of darkness because we had no electricity due to the fierce ice storm. This week has been a spiritual experience for me — one that I wouldn't have wanted to miss. That may sound strange — I know it did to several friends who were checking in throughout the long week. "Why don't you go stay with cousins?" one said. "I'd head for the nearest big city and a hotel," said another.
And my reply to all those comments was the same: I'm not leaving. Everything that's important to me is here; we're in this together,
Usually my column is filled with the comings and goings of Ramona folks, but this week nobody has been going anywhere that was much fun. Any treks from town were for groceries, batteries, propane, gasoline, and generators. There were times during this week, when we finally had roads cleared enough to emerge and head for Herington, that I felt like Ramona was a tiny ice island — afloat in a vast dark sea.
We'd drive across the Marion-Dickinson County line and feel like we were in another country, and after the trek for supplies, I'd feel this dread about returning to our world of ice and darkness. Late in our eight-day experience we ventured to Salina, bundled in our down coats and stocking caps. We were giving in and buying a generator. As we scurried up and down the aisles of Lowes I noticed that folks were looking at me rather strangely.
"Do I stink?" I wondered, since I hadn't taken a bath all week — too cold to get out of warm clothes.
"Is it my makeup, or the lack thereof?" I wondered since I hadn't touched lipstick in a week.
"Is it my hair?" I pondered, because I hadn't combed it much — I'd been wearing my stocking cap day and night.
Finally it dawned on me, as I reviewed myself in my imagination. It's my pajamas! They were peeking out between my down coat and my galoshes. I wore them (and several other layers of clothes) all week long. That was one of the strange freedoms that came from this week. When you're doing "survival" one's life is re-prioritized!
Another gift was the wonder of being in tune with the night and day — a way of life more familiar to my grandparents and before. I began to sense when the sun was setting (something I never attended to when the electricity was on because life would just carry on no matter what the time of day). My instincts began to kick in and I'd find myself securing a flashlight so I'd have light for navigating.
Light became the obsession because it was so dark that when the sun went down I couldn't see my hand in front of my face. I'd walk into my house, confident that I could find my flashlight (I'm methodical about where I put things), only to realize that routine had gone out the window with the light.
When, in the fifth day of this ordeal the new moon arrived I actually noticed it! I gave thanks for its night-light because I could actually trek to check on our friend Tony without my flashlight. I could even take a night walk — what freedom!
As I roamed the quiet streets, listening to the snow crunch under my boots, and reveling in the moon's illumination of the ice-encrusted trees, I imagined I was on vacation in an exotic ski resort like Sun Valley, Idaho — but without the hot tub, without the ski slopes, without a five-star restaurant, without roaring fireplaces at every turn and smiling bartenders offering hot toddies.
The morning light became an occasion — I anticipated it with childish glee. I felt freedom in the light, no longer bound to the house or my bed. There's nothing quite like the glory of the morning after a long dark night of no television, no computers, no cell phones, no place to go because roads are blocked with fallen poles, and sometimes no one to call because the phones are dead. Our ancestors used to gather at the fire for warmth and it was there that they shared history and stories, and the experiences of the day. In today's world I mourn that the fireplace has been replaced by the television. It's become the altar in most homes, where we watch — we don't share, we don't talk, we don't imagine. We watch.
In these past eight days Pat, Tim, and I played games by candlelight, we read books to each other, and we huddled together around the heat. I learned a lot of trivia — which I'm dying to use at some Christmas cocktail party (if there only was one) — because I read a book about the history of "things." I can tell you where pajamas originated from, share fascinating tales about the worth of black pepper in the time of the Romans, and tell a juicy bit of history about how Yale got its name — a shady character who donated lots of money from illegal financial dealings (way back when this country was founded). "Bet you won't find that on Yale's 'home page'," a friend quipped.
In the darkness there was an element of no escape, so I pondered my life. I suppose one could call the loss of power an "intervention" of sorts because there's no easy diversion. What's left to do, except think, examine, and ponder when snuggled under a weight of blankets that made it a chore to even rise up or turn over. If sleep didn't come, or I was exhausted, I was left with just me — me and my thoughts.
We had a family scheduled to be in our guest house on Christmas Day and when we got the prediction that we'd be without power until Christmas or after, I called the folks and told them they'd have to visit at another time.
The customer graciously understood and then she said, "Do you have a moment? I'd like to do something. I'm a praying woman and I'd like to pray with you." What followed was one of the more touching moments of the week as she prayed for our business and for lights to be restored and then she said, "And God, help us to take note of what's really important — houses and things will all one day pass away, but the love of those around us lasts forever."
Someone once wrote that if you want to know the truth of your relationships just ask yourself whom you'd want with you in a crisis. Well, there's no doubt I'd want Pat and Tim. Tim can fix most anything and get it working and Pat can always find something to cook. I'm not sure what I brought to the mix, but I felt very lucky to be with them!
I've blessed the reliable people this week — they stand out in sharp relief when you've undergone a crisis. County commissioner Dan Holub kept us informed and even got a generator from a friend so we could keep one of our elderly residents warm.
I blessed the town heroes of the week — Don, Tim, Art, Billy — for starting the clean-up, for keeping the generators fueled day and night so our sewer worked, and clearing streets so we could at least drive around the block.
I saluted the U.S. Postal employees because they lived up to the creed of delivering the mail in sleet or snow. Our postmaster, Kathy Werth, was at her post every minute of the cold, dark days. Her office became "command central" because she was always there and her phone was working.
When I'd come in for the morning mail there stood Steve Jirak, the rural carrier, with a flashlight stuck in his mouth, shining the light at the south wall of the post office where the sorting boxes stand.
My uncle, Hank Schubert used to say: "Before we had 911 we had each other." And that's still true today. In times of crises, the 911 folks are overwhelmed with requests and demands.
Since my sister is Ramona mayor she's often involved in emergency planning with the county. Between the two of us she always says, "The quickest help comes from your neighbors — they can act faster than any committee!" And about this crisis she says, "Immediately, city maintenance, Don Matkins, began working around the clock. And, the city council members were checking on people around town, and the city clerk was calling everyone every couple of days."
And the final gem I'll share about living in a week of darkness is about the power of one candle. On the second night of the storm I was deep under the covers and I couldn't take the darkness so I crawled out and lit one candle and put it on my dresser. What comfort that light was. I was reminded of the power of just one person — how one person with a heart filled with love and good intentions, can light the darkness, and oh, what a sight.
And that's the news from Ramona where when the Westar trucks rolled into town I said to the guys, "Thanks! We appreciate all you're doing. I'd make you cookies but I don't have an oven that works yet!"
