Bystanders look over a section of Albion Road in Waterville closed to traffic due to broken poles and wires in the aftermath of the 1998 ice storm. Morning Sentinel file
Jan. 8th in Waterville began with cloudy skies and low temperatures.
Fine. All was fine. And then, suddenly, it wasn’t.
Friends call, one after another.
“Ya got power?”
“Your lights on?”
“You got ice on your driveway?”
Yes, to all the above, especially ice. Not like in a glass of scotch or skating, or the kind a truck load of dirt would quickly fix. This was planet-killing ice, Krypton ice, thick and evil ice.
This stuff glowed in the first shadowy dusk like Judas’ 30 coins, tons of dimes that suddenly were dumped from the clouds, leaving a sea of silver that covered all of Maine, millions of hearts, souls and driveways.
I write this memory piece reluctantly, with no pleasure. It’s on the page as a statewide nuclear event, a massive car wreck, a statewide heart attack, or worse, a blackout of Jeopardy!
As I strive to recall all the moments of the event, my hands and feet grow cold and my teeth itch, but I’ll continue.
She and I don’t remember the exact moment everything stopped. That kind of cold changes your memory bank. It was Jan. 8, 1998.
First the lights flickered, the television went dead, and our two dogs — Polo, the old English sheep dog, and Louie/Louie, the miniature Schnauzer — sat up, noses twitching, looking at each other and then at both of us.
Dogs know when something preternatural is happening, and they started to whine. Jack London had that kind of dog.
The day moaned through lunch and into darkness, not the creaking darkness of a winter night, but a bluish black, eerie, Dracula darkness. The count knew that kind of darkness. Imagine how we felt.
We ate cold-cuts and Cheerios, and went to bed under three blankets, coats and six sweaters, listening to sporadic explosions in the distance, and then as they came closer. Imagine Bastogne, Kyiv.
Then the transformers went, one by one, two by two. Finally, Colby Professor Nicky Singh’s big tree brought down all the wires along our street. That’s when my bride started to cry.
When a teacher who once taught during the Los Angeles riots starts to cry, you know she’s frightened.
Soon, we packed up the Cheerios and Raisin Bran and my scotch and the dogs and checked into three different motels. This was very pre-Lockwood, you understand. Those three motels are gone now.
The first room smelled of a carton of Lucky Strikes, so did the second. The third was the same.
Finally, we found a national motel with a sweet little lady in thick glasses and a thicker French accent.
“I’m so sorry, this chain doesn’t allow pets.”
I turned to my boys, and they crept closer to me and laid at my feet, while looking up at the lady with soft eyes.
“I’m sorry boys,” I said, “you’ll have to sleep alone in the car, but I’ll keep you covered with our coats.”
That did it. French lady melted.
“Oh, no!” she cried, “I will make an exception.”
Two nights later the Devines drove home to face the music. As we approached, we saw lights beaming from every window. It was clear that endless rosaries had reached celestial ears.
Our friend, Alan Rancourt, up on Cherry Lane, had run down a cord to connect us to his power.
It was 25 years ago this month.
J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer.
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