To the Ice Storm in Dallas, 1978-1979

When I woke up that morning in December, the room seemed brighter than usual, the house seemed more quiet.  My bedroom windows looked out onto the backyard, only it didn’t look like the backyard this day. The elm tree in the backyard, the picnic table, the hedgerow along the back fence sparkled, covered in a thick layer of ice. It was quiet and remarkably still. Only the light moved.

Source: DMN staff photo by David Woo

I was thrilled. Days like today are events always and though I didn’t know what that would mean, I knew it I liked the change. And I was the only one awake, so I felt like the good news was mine to share. I would be the one to report it.

Wondering what the front yard looked  like, I went to the dining room and suddenly what seemed like a great day turned frightening. Tree limbs all over the yard, a large one fallen on the little Dodge in the driveway. Neighbors’ trees down, the road clearly not passable, as if a giant had walked through and smashed across the yards, the wake of a tantrum. No, this is not good news.

And the power was out. I didn’t notice it at first, but then I feel the house is colder than normal. The appliances in the kitchen aren’t humming.

Mom and Dad get up and begin to take stock. Mom builds a fire in the fireplace while Dad goes out to survey the damage. He’s from Brooklyn, familiar with snow, but ice like this is decidedly southern. Just cold enough to freeze the rain as it’s coming down, but not really snow. We can’t go out to play in it. We watch neighbors pick their way across the yards.

By nightfall, the power is still out and will be out for three more days. Dad has spent the day clearing limbs from the driveway, though it doesn’t look like it, and it’s we still couldn't drive anywhere.

No television. No radio. No heat or hot water. But we had a gas stove, which we huddled around in the kitchen and we had a gas fireplace, which we huddled around in the living room. They decided we should get out the sleeping bags and all sleep on the living room floor. All seven of us.

We were passed the age when that sounded like fun. None of wants to relive the camping days; we like our privacy, our space. But we do. We spread out the brown flannel-lined Sears sleeping bags and grab our pillows from our bed. We have flashlights. We can read. Mom sleeps by the fireplace to keep it going all night.

The dark is deeper than usual. I am awake and it seems like everyone is asleep; I’m not sure. But I can hear them all breathing. We don’t recognize the comfort, but we feel it. This will be the last time we ever gather like this. To sleep in the same room. To wake up together. To weather the storms together.