SURVIVING AN ICE STORM
Before the ice storm hit, my son said something to me one morning that made me laugh.
He said, “it should be against the law to send kids to school in 20-degree weather.”
If that law had been in effect at the turn of the century our grandparents and great-grandparents would have never made those daunting “walked 20 miles one way in the snow with no shoes on” treks.
I can’t remember many ice storms in the 80s growing up but we lived during a barbaric time when we didn’t get to have a week off for winter break.
No a/c or heat on buses. No seatbelt safety on buses. No cell phones for when your bus gets stuck on a muddy road and your parents don’t notice you’re not home for about 2 hours and have to come get you after a kid walked 5 miles to the nearest home to make phone calls.
Those times shaped us. As for the ice storm of 2026, shelves were bare, gas stations were without gas, we’re unprepared, people are driving on ice in a Camry to get coffee and Facebook traffic increased.
The usual. As freezing rain coats sidewalks, tree branches and the last shred of optimism, residents trapped indoors during an ice storm face a familiar question: How did it come to this, and where did all the batteries go?
Meteorologists call it a “significant winter weather event.” Everyone else calls it “that time the outdoors became illegal.” Roads glaze over, power lines sag and the wind delivers a steady reminder that going outside is a terrible idea. Authorities urge people to stay home, which most do, mostly because the front steps look like a curling rink.
Survival begins with acceptance. The forecast will not improve because you glared at it. The ice will not melt because you wore a brave hoodie. Once denial passes, residents should inventory supplies. This usually reveals three cans of soup no one likes, half a box of crackers and a mysterious jar of something that expired during a previous administration.
Food is key. Ice storms turn adults into strategic snack planners, rationing chips as if they are precious metals. Experts recommend eating the least favorite foods first. This advice is often ignored. “You don’t start with the emergency chocolate,” said one local survivor, speaking on condition of anonymity because they already ate it.
Next comes heat. If the power holds, celebrate quietly so as not to anger the grid. If it does not, layer clothing until you resemble a fashionable pile of laundry. Blankets become currency. Pets will sense weakness and occupy the warmest spot, staring as if to say this is their house now.
Entertainment is critical. With travel canceled and errands postponed, time stretches. Board games emerge, along with long-buried grudges about rule interpretations. Streaming services buffer at the worst moments, forcing families to talk to each other like it is the early 2000s. Reading is attempted.
Napping becomes a lifestyle. Social media fills with photos of icicles the size of regret and trees bent into modern art. Everyone posts the same caption: “Stay safe out there.” No one is out there (except hard working linemen, law enforcement, good ol’ boys with 4 wd and someone in a Camry out for coffee).
At some point, a brave soul considers going outside “just for a minute.” This is a trap. The ice does not care about intentions. If you must venture out, shuffle like a penguin with a mortgage. Pride heals slower than bruises.
As the storm lingers, cabin fever sets in. People reorganize closets they have ignored for years. They bake bread, mostly to prove they can. They check the window every hour, hoping for change, like it is a snow globe they can shake into spring.
Eventually, the ice loosens its grip. Drips start. Branches creak. The world thaws. Survivors emerge blinking, waving at neighbors they have only seen online. The lesson remains simple: Prepare, stay in and never underestimate the emotional importance of snacks.