January 7, 1973. Atlanta. I was 10. I remember it was cold. I remember hoping for snow. Instead, we got ice. Tons of it. The trees that were left standing were bent in half. Afterwards, it looked like a tornado had come through our area. Clean up took months. Regrowth of trees took years.

We were without power for 2 weeks. At our house, we weren’t allowed outside to play because there was no way to get our clothes dry, but honestly, there wasn’t much to play in since it was all ice. It was the first storm in my life where I got scared.

At first it was fun. We put sheets up to block off the living room in order to hold the heat in. Going in and out of those sheets felt like living on a stage. We rolled our sleeping bags out in front of the fire. The bathtub upstairs was full of water as were the sinks. We could use the water to bucket flush the toilet. We were prepared. Cards and games were at the ready. Cars were gassed up. Food was in the fridge. But when the power went out, it got really cold. Inside the house. Even fully clothed in sleeping bags I was freezing. Dad and Michael took turns stoking the fire through the night to keep us all warm, until Michael stepped on a spark and woke us all up with his scream. After that, I think Dad was mostly in charge of the fire.

I didn’t sleep well. My nose was cold. I slept with a stocking hat, gloves, sweatshirt, and layers of socks. The food dwindled. We were almost out of drinking water. We began to stay in sleeping bags all day. Mom and Dad talked about needing more supplies. When you are a kid, and you hear anxiety in your parents’ voices, it is alarming. Dad tried to get out to see if he could find a store that was open, but he didn’t make it out of our neighborhood. We were stuck. So were all the neighbors.

At some point, probably because we were all bored to death, Mom decided we needed to take a bath. She took us one at a time to the bathroom where we pulled a bucket of ICE COLD water out of the tub. We got a washcloth and some soap with which to take a spit bath. If you don’t know what a spit bath is you might not be from the South. A spit bath is when you spit on a cloth to clean off dirt; like a spit shine. Anytime you don’t have time or, in our case the resources, to take a complete bath you take a spit bath. Washcloth dipped in water and used to clean as much as possible. I guess after a week we were all getting pretty smelly. Another benefit of the spit bath was the speed with which we rushed back into our sleeping bags afterwards. Not a word of complaint.

Every couple of days Dad would try again to get out for supplies. One day, he finally made it. He came back with harrowing stories he’d heard of the experiences of others. He also described the trees covered in ice…still. Our house had a huge oak tree in the backyard which lost some branches, but it was big enough to remain standing. The way he described trees snapped in two like toothpicks seemed surreal. The concern on his face made me worry, but his lighthearted storytelling made me feel better. He was trying to keep us from seeing how bad things were. He didn’t find much in the way of supplies. Some drinking water and some junk food…which felt amazing to us!

We survived the “Storm of the Century” as it came to be called. Eventually, power was restored and I had never been so grateful for hot water. Still am, over 50 years later. That storm made an impression on my little girl brain. The bread and milk panic…it’s a real thing for those of us who endured that storm.

I must admit the warnings for this storm tonight and tomorrow, remind me of that time. I am praying it isn’t as bad as that storm was. Or that at least I can see from adult eyes and not be quite so scared as a child would be. More importantly, we are prepared. I insist on it when, even the calmest weathermen, are notably alarmed. I wish everyone safety…and power before spit baths become necessary!