"I Think I Might Crack"

The Great Northeast Blackout happened on August 14, 2003. Fifty million people across eight states and part of Canada suddenly found themselves sitting in the dark, wondering when life would start again.

My dad had passed away a couple of years earlier, so my mom and I had fallen into a rhythm. After work that afternoon, I picked her up so she could stop at the pharmacy. She waited in line, paid for her prescriptions, and we headed toward home.

A couple of miles later, the traffic lights were dead.

If you've ever driven through a city with no working traffic signals, you know exactly what happened next. Every intersection became an awkward four-way stop where half the drivers forgot the rules and the other half invented new ones.

Neither of us had any idea how big this thing really was.

She came back to my house, and we sat on the front porch with a couple bottles of water and some chips. We deliberately left the refrigerator closed because nobody knew if we'd be without power for an hour... or a week.

As darkness settled in, our stomachs overruled our caution.

We started driving.

Lorain Avenue wasn't far from my house, and everything looked abandoned except one magical little beacon.

Steve's Hot Dogs.

They cooked with gas.

The glow from the grills lit up the inside of the restaurant, and there was a line stretching out the door. We joined it without hesitation.

Honestly, it was one of the best parts of the night.

Nobody was complaining.

Everyone was talking.

Strangers swapped theories about what had happened. People laughed about the weirdness of it all. The city was quieter than anyone could remember, and when we looked up, we could actually see stars. Real stars. The kind that usually lose their battle against Cleveland's lights.

When we finally reached the counter, another surprise.

Cash only.

A few people only had credit cards. So everyone did what neighbors used to do. We covered each other. I bought hot dogs for a couple of people. Somebody else helped the next family. Nobody kept score.

For one evening, we all remembered that we're pretty good at taking care of each other.

Mom and I ate our hot dogs in the car, told stories, and eventually headed back to her house.

If you walked into her kitchen and turned right, the first junk drawer held the emergency candles. We lit a handful using the gas stove and headed downstairs to the family room.

Every good Italian family has their real living room in the basement.

I brought a deck of cards.

Out of pure muscle memory, my mom sat down in the overstuffed chair that had once been my father's favorite seat. She picked up the television remote, pointed it at the TV, and clicked.

Nothing.

She clicked again.

Nothing.

You could actually watch the realization wash across her face.

Then she stared into the darkness and, in the driest delivery imaginable, simply said...

"I think I might crack."

I absolutely lost it.

I laughed so hard I could barely breathe.

It wasn't what she said.

It was how she said it.

I laughed for the rest of the evening.

Eventually I got her settled upstairs, made sure she'd be okay going to bed early, kissed her goodbye, and headed home.

Thankfully, the lights came back not too long after.

It's still one of my favorite memories.

Fast forward twenty-three years.

I'm writing this from my house in Mexico, where I've now spent twelve days without normal electricity. Technically, I have power from one lonely outlet, but that's been the extent of modern civilization around here.

Every evening I climb up to my rooftop.

The stars are unbelievable.

And every single night I think about my mom sitting in that basement with her remote control.

Then I start laughing all over again.

The funny thing is, if she were here today, she'd probably have adapted a lot faster than she thinks.

I've got rechargeable lights all over the house.

Rechargeable flashlights.

Rechargeable fans.

Rechargeable kitchen gadgets.

My phone.

My iPad.

Massagers.

Yes... rechargeable sex toys.

Apparently we've decided that everything deserves a USB-C port now.

I even found a battery-powered pillar lantern that's become my porch light every evening.

The truth is, I'm living with fewer conveniences than I expected... but more comforts than people had in 2003.

Funny how perspective works.

Maybe that's the lesson.

We spend an awful lot of time believing we can't live without the things we've grown accustomed to.

Until one day we do.

We discover we're more adaptable than we gave ourselves credit for.

We learn new routines.

We notice the stars.

We have conversations we might never have had.

And sometimes, after enough nights in the dark, we realize we were never really missing electricity as much as we were missing certainty.

The lights eventually come back.

They usually do.

Until then, it turns out one outlet, a rooftop full of stars, and a memory of your mother saying, "I think I might crack," are enough to remind you that we're capable of a lot more than we think.