On the morning after the big storm, thousands awoke to an initially breathtaking site of untouched snow and ice-trimmed trees - and no way to tell anyone else via e-mail or telephone. There wasn't even a way to learn exactly how this dazzling display of winter's wonder occurred. Cable television service wasn't being delivered, and neither were newspapers.
People were in the dark - literally. The eye-catching landscape had unexpectedly produced an eye-opening event - a tech-savvy generation without the use of its toys.
After fumbling through basement closets with the help of scented jar candles, I finally found an old, battery-operated radio and, miraculously, some still-sealed batteries to go with it.
The obvious first place to search for local storm information - Washington's WJPA - had evidently been a storm victim itself.
Around the dial, music was everywhere. You could get your fill of Lady Gaga, Lady Antebellum and "Single Ladies, Put a Ring on It." You could hear songs two in a row, four in a row and six in a row. Ditto the commercials. It was maddening and enraging on a continuous loop. Finally, an announcer said something like this: "Well, folks, we've got a situation," and proceeded with a list of ... mall closings!
Nary was a word offered about the status of electrical power or when one could expect a telephone - or even a cell phone - to be operable.
The unaffected voice continued, "We'll be right back with Foreigner, Bryan Adams, the Four Seasons and Jim Croce."
Uh, no you won't.
The "situation" wasn't any better elsewhere on the FM dial. A blizzard of songs and commercials confronted me as I manually spun the metal tuner knob, but I found not one update about whatever it was that had occurred overnight. Even the scented candles couldn't mask the ever-thickening odor emanating from the old Panasonic.
Impatient and increasingly less comfortable, I jumped into the snow holding a yardstick that had long been propped inside a coat closet, then hurried back inside into an almost-as-cold game room to spark the propane fireplace. In shorter time than it took to hear a live, human voice on the radio, I had answered two questions. It was a 22-inch snowfall, and I wouldn't freeze to death as long as the propane tank held out.
Then it was back to the radio, this time the AM dial.
I recalled how, in an earlier era, KDKA had canceled its normal programming Nov. 9, 1965, to keep the entire East Coast and Canada up to date during the power blackou, and, six years later, how KQV ingratiated its local audience with an every-three-minute update on the cancellation of the Alice Cooper "Killer" concert at the Civic Arena. If that evening was overkill, though, this morning was pathetic.
Virtually the entire AM dial was droning with syndicated programming. Eventually, a real-time announcer offered a weather forecast, followed by a list of postponed or canceled events. What, though, of the real news? What about the state of electricity? Why weren't cell phones serviceable? And how had the 6-inch to 10-inch forecast evolved into a 22-inch wallop?
More importantly, if electricity wouldn't be returning soon, where could one go for warmth? And how would they get there?
Instead of answers, there was a silent, chilling press of a button that produced a packaged legal information show - an electronic flip of the finger, if you will.
The lights flickered, the furnace sputtered and once again I had lights and heat.
It would be two days before a newspaper landed on my doorstep and double that many days before cable and telephone services were available. That surreal Sunday, I could have listened to the Super Bowl on radio, I suppose, but I didn't. In fact, I don't think I'll be relying on radio for much anymore.
Who knew that my best friend from the '60s could be so distant and disengaged 40 years later, when I needed it most? Who knew that music I discovered through radio could be so enraging in a different scenario? Who knew that radio programmers were so insensitive to the needs of their audience?
Snowstorms apparently don't fit into radio's format. From this day forward, radio doesn't fit into mine.
Terry Hazlett can be reached at snowballrizzo@aol.com.