We forget just how dependent we have become on the electric company until there is a power failure. Then our whole life comes to a standstill. We can't cook in the microwave, we can't watch television, we can't even read in our favorite chair. Instead, we scurry around in the dark looking for the flashlight, the candles and the matches. If we step outside we see only darkness except for the occasional light that some other homeowner has found. Then we wait. We wait in our little circles of light for the power to come back on. Then when it returns we are filled with great joy.
I've had many reports of the Remembrance Sunday service held at Dickleburgh (in Norfolk, England) this year, mostly about the preacher. Since Dickleburgh has a historic connection with the Americans from the time of Second World War, they always invite the American Air Base at Mildenhall in Suffolk to join them for the service, and always invite the current American air force chaplain to preach.
On the Sunday afternoon following Thanksgiving, when I was in seventh grade, it began to snow. It started slowly and undramatically -- much like any number of other snows I had experienced growing up in Detroit. The sky turned the shade of dirty wool and the flakes danced through the wind as in one of those glass balls that you invert. Little by little the sidewalks whitened, and soon the neighborhood was alive with the rasping sound of shovels. Before long the roads were filled and you could no longer see the curb.