Dealing with the Dark

I hope this missive finds you showered, powered, and lounging at a comfortable body temperature. 

For those of you not affected by Hurricane Helene, those might seem like pretty basic standards. We who endured the last week in the breezeless dark know that hot water and cool sheets are nothing to take for granted.

Even if we never did shake the compulsive futility of flipping the bathroom light switch ten times to no avail. 

Ironically, the storm illuminated the precarity of our city’s electrical grid in addition to the baseline amenities to which we’ve been accustomed. Downed trees cut through wires and transformers blew up like popcorn, but not all outages hit the same:

Downtown denizens and some island and southside folks got their lights back within hours or never lost them at all. Other neighborhoods became pockets of Little House on the Prairie, Ma and Pa hauling in fuel and provisions from Pooler and trying to keep the kids from going full feral. 

Some of us were lucky enough to repair to nearby friends’ homes or hotels, the latter maintained on the same beefy transformer as the city’s municipal buildings. Many resorted to camping in their backyards with the possums, the Milky Way visible in the night sky.

With our fancy refrigerators rendered useless, too many of us faced the heartbreaking choice of throwing out hundreds of dollars worth of food or risking salmonella. We drove around with coolers, stopping at every convenience store to beg for ice and salvage what we could, leading local bassist and family man Eric Dunn to comment drily, “I can’t believe I’m going through all this trouble to save a family size Stouffer's lasagna.”

It was surreal to drive from the desolation of midtown—giving as much grace as possible to the simpletons learning how to navigate a four-way stop—to the bustling normalcy a few blocks north, the tourists clutching their coffees and complaining about the humidity. (Try sleeping in a dog’s mouth and then talk to me, honey.)   

At least respite was within reach, and we are particularly grateful for the supreme hospitality of Jason Restivo and the staff at Sobremesa, who let us charge our phones and drink wine for hours in the AC. 

Many restaurants had to dispose of all their inventory and shutter due to the fickle geography of the grid, shredding already slim profit margins. When your stomach rumbles this week, please consider getting snacks and sandys this week at Sixby, Finches, and the many delicious options in Habersham Village. 

In the midst of the chaos, Saturday night brought more tragedy. Howls could be heard across the darkened streets as the Georgia Bulldogs succumbed to Alabama’s tricky field machinations, a loss saddled squarely on Coach Kirby Smart and offensive coordinator Mike Bobo’s inexplicable refusal to run the damn ball. 

One Savannah fan rightfully complained that many had sacrificed precious generator fuel to watch the game and were happy to “provide a dark room for them to go sit in and think about their life choices.”

Speaking of life choices, Georgia Republicans should consider that their felonious presidential candidate was smarmily rooting for the other team—and as another friend pointed out, endangering 100,000 college football fans by showing his twice-assassination-attempted ass in public.

Ever the self-centered tool, he followed up that stunt by clogging roads and disrupting resources in Helene-flattened Valdosta, where emergency management teams are still trying to get power and water to citizens.  

Back in Savannah, blessed relief came Monday night when Kentucky lush rockers My Morning Jacket gloriously purged the venue’s last visitor with song and light. Civic Center staff speedily served both bars for the climate refugees, and The Johnny’s indoor temperature was set to glacial (several of y’all mentioned the new nickname; seems to be catching on!) 

As I write this, most of the city’s power has been restored; ours came on a day before the promised estimate. Never have I ever been so excited to turn on the light in my closet. Though technically, I had to turn it off first, along with 12 other lights that were flicked on during the darkness out of habit.

But there are still hollows of lack: My poor people who are on Day 6 of no power must be furious as they watch their neighbors frolic through the windows with every appliance flashing. Conspiracy theories abound as to the patchy service, including the rumor that Mayor Van Johnson has special buttons in his office that turn neighborhoods on and off and that Georgia Power prioritizes homes according to political sign yardage. 

Not that Georgia Power shouldn’t be blamed for something: All those rate hikes ought to have gone towards far more preemptive action and preparation, and we all need to use our outside voices to demand more treework and ground lines.

But the reality seems that there just aren’t enough linemen (and women!) to handle an unexpected emergency like Helene. The scientists keep warning us that storms are getting bigger and more unpredictable, and we are not ready. 

If anyone believes their part of the country is safe from extreme weather, talk to the beleaguered people of Western North Carolina, who until last week thought hurricanes weren’t a mountain thing. Entire communities were swept away, and many loved ones are still missing; you know it’s bad when World Central Kitchen sets up in your town. Some good’uns have organized a Savannah effort to bring in supplies—donate if and how you can.   

While the last several days have indeed sucked more for some than others, for the most part it’s added up to a minor inconvenience compared to the devastation suffered elsewhere—or what could come next. (On a related note, the labor strike at East Coast ports including the Port of Savannah may have more inconveniences in store.)  

I’m glad we’re all safe; let us know if you need anything. As we get back to the business of running red lights and leisurely standing in front of our open fridges, let’s hope we’re better prepared for the next Big One—not if, but when. 

Clean up, then stock up ~ JLL

Joan Jett would definitely know how to handle a four-way stop