Lights Out

Funny, going about my morning routine without noticing the power outage. . . a ponytail/t-shirt day, I didn't fire up the hair dryer.

I fed Woody and Maddie, the two starved, dancing Dachshunds, poured a glass of milk and grabbed a carrot muffin, remembering we'd had three household canines just a few wan days back.

Whispering a prayer of thanks for Stella's new-found relief in dog heaven, I measured out the vitamins and capsules, took a quick gulp and headed as usual, for my desk.

Oh no. Oh man! That little slice of lime-green light marking the lower-right corner of the monitor: all black. The three red dots on the "Micro volt 1200:" dead. Tried the room lights: zilch. Dining room fixtures: zip. Fuse box switches: nada.

I see. I get the picture. Comprendo!

THERE IS NO ELECTRICITY IN THIS HOUSE.

Well. It usually comes back on once the electric company finishes with some power line somewhere. Only real worry was the salmon in the freezer. I guessed if it thawed we could build a fire in the Hibachi and grill 20 steaks for a block party.

Heavy on my mind was my Friday blog article. I'd planned to post it before meeting my friend Jennifer for lunch at the new Thai place. Glancing doubtfully at our HP Notebook, I remember that the keyboard is half the size of a sheet of typing paper, and if there's no power, the wireless connection would also be deceased. All I can do is type and save a piece for later.

Feeling much like a Pioneer mother who can't find enough cow patties to burn under the big cauldron on laundry day, I reluctantly open this miniscule laptop and now I've hunted and pecked to this point in the story.

What can I tell you? I'll look out the window.

The sun is out in full regalia, splashing every leaf, bloom, rock and brick with dazzling blind-white light.

One of the chortling birds, a baffling tropical creature whose voice mimics the ring of an old telephone, sings out in full force. Down the street, his pal seems to hawk some type of ballpark snack: "Cheeeeee-ipppeeeee-chee-chee-cheeeee!"

A tiny bird calls, "Good to see you!" and in Brazil it's an exact translation. "Bem te vi, bem te vieeeeeee," he cries, seeming genuinely pleased to see us.

The ever present coo of the mourning dove adds its tenor note to the quintet, while somebody's peacocks meow all at once, like cats in heat. . . typical of sopranos, the peacocks come off more dignified than the others.

My jade plant has grown high as my waist and the big potted ferns, simple as they are, look stately enough to grace a wedding altar. I pick a few beige, curling leaves from the geraniums. The Docs flop limply in the shade, taking time out only to bark at the occasional passing car or pedestrian.

I'm sounding out notes, a song from the distant past. What is that? It's a joyful, glad-to-be-alive little ditty.

"It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood." Recalling Mr. Rogers, I come in to save this scrap of thoughts. With any luck at all, the lights will be out all day.