THE
GREAT BLACKOUT OF 2004
Okay, so it wasn’t really a great blackout. You probably wouldn’t even be
able to call it a rolling brownout. But nonetheless, it was still a traumatic
experience for me.
My husband and I arrived home from work at the same time. I thought that I
would be the dutiful and ever loving wife and make dinner that evening. So I
sauntered into the kitchen and flipped on the light switch – nothing. I called
to my husband and told him the electricity was off. He shouted back that the lights
in the bedroom were fine. Mystery.
Hubby headed to the electrical panel, figuring one of the circuit breakers
had tripped. He came back into the kitchen and said everything was fine, but
the kitchen lights still weren’t working. But, on testing, the lights in the
living room came on. The mystery grows.
While hubby pondered the problem, I decided to proceed with making dinner,
before total darkness settled in. About the time I turned on the oven, the
lights in the kitchen came back on. ‘The lights are working,” I informed my
husband. “Great job on whatever you did.”
To which he replied, “The lights just went out in here in the living room.
What did you do?”
“Nothing, honest!” I proclaimed. So I turned the oven back off. The lights
in the kitchen went out and the lights in the living room came back on.
We both agreed that this was totally weird. He thought we should call the
power company. I thought we should call an exorcist. For some reason, there are
no exorcists listed in the yellow pages of our phone book, so I ended up
calling the power company. After pressing one for English, two for electrical
problem, three to get set and four to go, the sweet automated voice on the
other end took down our address, contact information, account number, heights and
weights, hair and eye color, number of children, number and type of pets, what
I intended to make for dinner, types of beer in the fridge and finally the
nature of our problem. The voice then informed me that a service technician
specialist and a SWAT team would be there sometime in the next one to
forty-eight hours.
I gently slammed down the phone only to find my husband playing with the
oven switch on our electric stove. He would turn the oven on, and the lights in
the kitchen would come one. But the lights in the living room would go off. He
would turn the oven off, and the lights in the kitchen would go off and the
lights in the living room would come back on. He was thoroughly enjoying himself
watching this electrical phenomenon.
For some reason, this seemed to totally enchant my husband. Had I not made
him quit, I am sure he would have stood there playing with the switch to our
electric oven for the next one to forty-eight hours, until the service
technician specialist and the swat team showed up.
Now totally freaked out, I decided to forgo cooking dinner and to instead
order a pizza and some green pea soup for dinner. I would also comb through the
phone book looking for that exorcist while waiting for out supper to arrive.
I thought I had best get out the plates, silverware and pizza condiments
before I did anything else, before total darkness settled into our kitchen. I
turned on the oven, which also turned on the kitchen lights, and it was then
that I caught a whiff of gas. Alarmed, I called out to my husband. “Dear, I
smell gas out here in the kitchen.”
He told me it was just my imagination and to grab him a beer out of the
fridge before they got too warm. Now the smell of gas was getting stronger and
I was getting scared, concerned and pissed off at my husband. I told him the
smell was getting stronger.
His laughter really pissed my off. It is a good thing he has quick reflexes,
because the beer bottle might have hit him in the head otherwise. He laughed
even harder and I got even angrier.
“Dammit,” I yelled. “I am sure the pilot light on the stove is out and it is
spewing gas into our kitchen. The damn house is going to explode and all you
can do is laugh.” By now he was literally rolling on the floor, howling with
laughter and tears streaming down his cheeks.
“The pilot light is out,” I screamed. “The house is going to explode at any
minute and all you can do is roll on the floor and laugh like an idiot?” I was
sure the gas had gotten to his head. Maybe I should call 911!!!
Finally he calmed down enough and told me to settle down.
Settle down! Our damn house was going to explode. Maybe I should just kill
him now and wait for the explosion to cover up the crime.
I was getting light headed and somewhat nauseated from the gas smell. I
didn’t think that a little old unlit pilot light could spew that much gas.
My husband staggered into the kitchen weak from laughter but unconcerned
about the gas smell. “Think about what you are saying,” he told me.
“I smell gas,” I insisted. “The pilot light must have gone out on the stove
and it is leaking gas into the house!”
“Think about it,” he said again.
“Gas!” I insisted.
In looking back on it, I guess I can understand his reaction. And I can
forgive him for laughing so hard. But in my defense, how was I to know that
electric stoves do not have pilot lights.
For you who are curious, it had been an exceptionally dry summer. The ground
around the house had settled so much that it had pulled one of the electrical
lead wires out of the electric meter. This was causing only one phase of the
electrical current to flow into the house. I don’t really understand the whole
electric thing, but it seemed that when the oven was on, half of the house
would get electricity and the other half wouldn’t. When the oven was switched
off, the flow was reversed and the other half of the house would get the power.
Who knew??
