The Ice Storm
by Lewis Nichols

Lewis Nichols, by Hirschfeld
(Click to enlarge)

It is inevitable that sooner or later another ice storm will slide down upon the suburbs. It is inevitable, that an afternoon drizzle will turn, when the sun goes down, into what the weather bureau somewhat unromantically calls a freezing rain. The weight of ice on the limbs of trees will cause them to bow slowly until one of them strikes the power lines. There will be a flash and a cascade of sparks, and then, on the far side of the break, all the houses will be plunged into darkness. This is inevitable because it is winter. It is inevitable, and the ice and the limb will be cursed alike in power plants and in the houses beyond. Yet deep down in their hearts the residents of those darkened houses will have a sneaking fondness for the ice storm. Deep down in their hearts, although speaking the denial through curses, these residents will take deep personal satisfaction in pitting their strength and ingenuity against the workings of nature. They will take satisfaction, that is, provided there is gas for cooking. When the storm wipes out the electric percolator and there is no other, nature clearly is going too far.

There are few uplifting excitements quite so great as being in a house when an ice storm begins meddling with the power. The lights flicker, dim, brighten, flicker and then abruptly go out. With the first preliminary flicker the experienced household springs into action along organized lines and those rehearsed during the storms of other winters. The lady of the house, who thrives on crises, has a tendency to be almost smug as she contemplates the arrangements. The plumbers candles are where they should be, and the stubs of Christmas candles are in the bottom drawer of the kitchen cabinet. The kerosene lamp has been filled and is waiting, its wick trimmed and even. A candle in hand, and no question about the smugness now, she surveys her pantry shelves, stocked against such freezing rain with tins of soup and beans and milk.

The head of the house also is not above reviewing his own preparations with a certain amount of satisfaction, if not, to be sure, actual smugness. During the invigorating days of the autumn he piled the fireplace wood outside but as near the house as possible, and as an afterthought made a smaller pile at the end of the porch where it would remain completely dry. This was the emergency pile, to be touched under no circumstances other than an ice storm’s closing down the oil burning furnace. From this pile, if calculations then were correct, will come enough heat to make the living room comfortable, with enough extra to seep through the house and keep the pipes from freezing. The head of the house can permit himself another private satisfaction, and he wastes no time in making this one public. It is to the effect that a little earlier he noticed a film of ice begin to form upon the trees, and so he immediately lit the fire. Pointing to the glowing bed of coals, he wishes all credit due to a prophet great with honors in his own home.

Pitting individual strength against a rugged nature momentarily free of wattage has another advantage beyond personal satisfaction. It can lend to midwinter the atmosphere of a summer’s picnic. No supper is so nourishing as that eaten on paper plates before the open fire, when it is too cold in the rest of the house to take a chance on washing the face and hands. Old clothes are in order, with woolens and sweaters, and after supper there is little to do save go to bed. To the rapidly cooling rooms upstairs depart the family, save the head of the house and the oldest member of the second generation, who take up positions in sleeping bags, prepared to stoke the fire during the night. It is warm in the living room and the nickering flames paint pictures no artist could touch, and it is a rude thing indeed, when, without warning, the lights suddenly flash on again and the storm is over.