Hey, I'm Alive!

A wild storm blew through here on Wednesday night. The power went out around 7:10 and stayed out for almost thirty hours.  At one point, the wind started to scream a high-pitched wail and a white wall of water slammed into the west side of the house. I was glad that I had cleaned out the “tornado closet” under the stairs. We don’t have a basement in our old house, but as a survivor of the Reece's Corners tornado in 1983, I know how important it is to have a designated emergency space in which to take shelter during a storm.

Damage From a Storm a Few Years Ago

Back then, I was working in the plaza at Reece’s Corners. As in the case of this week’s storm, the hydro went out first; then, the next thing we knew, white water, sticks and other debris were swirling around in circles; it felt as if we were trapped inside a washing machine. Afterwards, people talked about how the wind roared like a freight train passing through. Initially, I had no memory of this—trauma has a way of cushioning us in this fashion—but eventually, I was able to recall putting my hands over my ears to block out that horrible, horrible sound. I also remember running back behind a partition and shouting, "Get back! Get back!" to my co-workers who stood, as if mesmerized, with their noses pressed against the glass. Instinctively, I knew that the glass could shatter at any moment. 

When it was over, we ventured outside and into a scene from an apocalyptic movie. A tree at the corner of our building was uprooted; the car next to mine was turned over on its roof; my car had the windows and mirrors sucked out of it—for years, I would find fragments of glass in it—and it looked as if someone had taken a chisel to the paint. Hundreds of little round holes had been chipped into its body work.

Then suddenly, it hit me that my aunt lived nearby and would have been home at the time. We raced down there and were shocked by the sight before our eyes: that big, bad wolf of a wind had blown her house down. Tentatively, we ventured into the rubble. To this day, I shudder at the memory—desperately wanting to find her, but also terrified that when we did, she might be dead. I couldn’t fathom how she could have survived such mass destruction.  Quickly, it became evident that it was too dangerous to walk through what remained of the house so reluctantly, we gave up the search and shortly thereafter, were grateful to learn that she had escaped unharmed—that she had already been rescued by someone driving by and taken to a safe place down the road.

I cut my finger on a bit of glass that day. It is just a small—almost invisible—scar now, but it was a big blow, just the same. Is it any wonder why I clear out the closet at the first sign of a storm?! 

This week’s storm wasn’t of that magnitude, but it did get me thinking about a couple of things. First of all, gratitude. As the Joni Mitchell song goes, "You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone." After twenty-four hours of tepid drinks, that first cold sip of water tastes divine. Also, there is much for which we can be grateful: no one was hurt or killed; the house was still standing; although the yard was filled with limbs, no trees came down. I could go on, but you get the idea. It shouldn't take a major storm to remind us of the many blessings in our lives.

This week's episode with the storm brought back memories of the book Hey, I’m Alive! which I read around the age of nine. When I was in library school, a professor asked us to talk about the book that had most influenced us in childhood. Everyone else in the class cited beloved childhood classics such as The Secret Garden, but for me, it was this obscure, out-of-print work of non-fiction by Helen Klaben that had captured my imagination as a child.  Only later did I learn that books with a survival theme are a legitimate genre of childhood literature. Recently, in one of his blog postings, Matthew Ruttan asked what books we’d choose if we were stranded on a desert island. Without a doubt, this book would be on my list.

Basically, it’s the true story of a college girl Helen Klaben and a pilot named Ralph Flores whose plane crashed along the Yukon-British Columbia border back in 1963 and how they survived forty-nine days in the frozen wilderness. They only had a few snacks and no emergency supplies on board; quickly, they ran out of food. The thing that I remember most about that book is how they made soup out of toothpaste and melted snow. As a child, I thought that was rather ingenious on their part; also, a sign of just how desperate their circumstances were. Even at nine, I knew that toothpaste soup wasn't exactly high on anyone's list of culinary delights. 

Ever since then, if I am having a hard time getting to sleep, I will think about what I would need to survive a similar disaster. It’s a great cure for insomnia; invariably, I fall asleep before my survival hut is completely furnished.  As an adult, I have to admit that sometimes, I cheat and add a bottle of wine and bag of potato chips to my survival list just to make the experience more tolerable.

A few years ago, my sister tracked down a used copy of Hey, I’m Alive! for me. Re-reading it, I discovered that the heroine’s name was Helen; I’d forgotten that. Perhaps that is one of the reasons why it resonated with me. There is also a theological tone to the book that went completely over my head as a child. Helen was Jewish; the pilot was a recent convert to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Early in the book, he tells her that the plane crashed because she rejected Jesus Christ.  

That eyebrow-raising comment is worthy of another blog posting, but today, I would like to focus on the theme of survival. This week’s storm made me think about that subject and whether we’d be prepared if a major disaster struck—for instance, if the power grid went down for weeks. Out here in the country, our water well is powered by an electric pump; if the power goes out, we don’t have any water. Luckily, we had filled jugs of water when we heard the storm warnings this week; later, I went out and bought a case of bottled water, but if a major disaster struck would we be able to do that?  

Are you prepared for such a disaster? Have you taken steps to ensure that you are? I’m not suggesting that you build a bunker in your backyard, but  it might be an idea for all of us to do a little research on the subject and set aside a few basics, just in case.  

At the end of her tale, Helen Klaben looks back on her harrowing experience and what she learned from it; her final words are an amazing gift: “ I have a message for the world after all. The message is love.” 

Fifty years later, I would like to reply, “Message received, Helen.”  Her words still seem relevant. In fact, as we reflect on what we need to survive, I would suggest that we would do well to put that at the top of all our lists.