I’ve Done This Before
Fri., August 15, 09:04 AM
If I could get under all the junk in Husband’s closet, I wouldn’t have to write all this. I would just add to what I wrote some thirty-eight years ago.
In 1965 I was working in Manhattan but still living in Stamford, commuting each day via the old New Haven Railroad. On November 9, 1965, I came out of work at five and walked down to Grand Central Station, where I got on a train that was schedule to leave at five-thirty.
It didn’t start on time, and there were some indications that the delay might be long. I considered leaving the train and calling my aunts in Brooklyn, as I had done the last time there was a train problem. But the conductor came through the cars, informing us that the power outage seemed to be citywide; I decided to stay where I was, if only because it was so hard to get a seat when the train was crowded.
Some of the men went back into the station to make some phone calls. Some of them drifted toward the bar car. There was muttering about attacks and the Russians, but I was pretty sure someone had just blown a very large fuse. I stayed put. I was carrying my three emergency items: something to read, something to write, and something to eat. And I had already learned the patience of riding the trains.
We were fortunate that the power failed while our train was still in the station; it was a lot colder for those that got stranded out on the tracks. And we had the train’s backup lights until about eight o’clock. A lot of people had left by then, going out to hotels or whatever. I had a double seat to myself. So I lay down (I’m short, remember) with my purse for a pillow and my coat for a blanket, and I slept.
Around six in the morning, the lights came up, and the conductor came through saying “call your wife and tell her to put the bacon on, we’ll start in about half an hour.” I decided I was in good enough condition to go to work, so I went into the station and called my mother, who was furious with me; for once, she couldn’t reach far enough to tell me to come home right now.
Rather than pay the doubly inflated prices of the station, I went out to a little coffee shop I knew. New Yorkers always step up to the occasion; the workers came in several hours early, knowing people would want coffee. English muffin and two cups of coffee cost me about fifty cents (I left a dollar, of course), while a fifteen-cent cup of coffee was fifty cents within Grand Central. I had a leisurely breakfast, then walked uptown to my office. The look on the faces of my bosses was almost worth the inconvenience. We spent the day gathering stories about the blackout for our employee newspaper.
I’m fortunate this time; we only lost power for a minute. I have to worry about more than myself, since I have a patient to look after, with both cardiac and pulmonary problems. I don’t know if I have the same kind of resiliency I had way back when.
This was a bigger blackout, and it wasn’t supposed to happen again. In essence, I was right the first time, even though my explanation was vastly simplified. They were supposed to install improved safety devices; maybe they did, but maybe they need to be replaced. In the New Haven area, as in 1965, an alert worker noticed the problem and flipped a switch in time to avert disaster. There were little “pockets” all over that reported the same thing.
I hope you’re all okay. I’ll do more about this later.
