Photo credit: evenSteven
When the power went out I was hunched over my computer, frantically working to meet a deadline, the same position I’d been in since five o’clock that morning. It was now four o’clock in the afternoon and the sun was dipping behind the mountains. With work no longer an option, I ventured into the dying light to take some fresh air and photographs. I figured I could spare an hour to get some exercise until the power came back on. It rarely takes more than an hour for the power to come back on in the city. But already I’ve begun to realize this is one of many aspects of life in the mountains that differs radically from life in the city.
I moved to Whitecroft in October, a month later than my partner and our four-year-old son. I stayed in Vancouver to finish up some work obligations, living in the 11-foot trailer now parked in the backyard of our Whitecroft home, a trailer I now realized might come in handy for cooking meals and keeping warm given the inevitability of future power outages.
Four hours into my first Whitecroft power outage, shuffling around in my cold, dark house, I realized that waiting for the power to come back on was tantamount to an act of faith. What if the power never came back on? I was glad that Meghan and Finn had ventured into town for the evening. I sat down at the computer to research the cost of generators before remembering I couldn’t do that either. Laptop battery fine; Internet not so much. Deadline would have to wait.
With little else to do, I crawled into bed for the night and started reading by the light of a single candle. Then I heard music. Amplified music? I stood at the window and looked out over the village of Whitecroft, all the houses dark beneath the silvery cloak of a full moon. Then I saw it — a flame in the wilderness.
Sliding open the window I stood listening to what sounded like the Tragically Hip, a concert bootleg maybe? Doesn’t sound like a studio recording. An idea popped into my head. Maybe I should just walk over there and introduce myself?
Immediately, my city-self cautioned me against it. You don’t just walk in on somebody else’s party and introduce yourself, the voice said. You’d never pull a stunt like that in Vancouver. You’re not in Kansas anymore, city slicker. You don’t know these people! What if they own guns?
But even being stuck in the city for a decade can’t completely erase your country roots. In the country where I grew up, you knew your neighbours and your neighbours knew you. So, I abandoned my pajamas, grabbed a bottle of wine and ventured out into the darkness. A short walk later I was standing in a driveway looking up at a crew of Whitecroftians jamming around a gas-powered porch fire; drinking, singing and playing guitar. Nobody noticed me standing there in the dark, listening and waiting for the song to finish. As soon as it ended I spoke, “Is this the kind of party where a new neighbour can wander over and introduce himself?”
“Hell ya,” said the owner of the porch. “Come on up! Welcome to Whitecroft!”
Right then and there I knew the voice was right. I’m not in Kansas anymore, I’m in Whitecroft. . . and I like it.
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