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Battling the elements during first winter in P.E.I.

It’s an entirely different way of life when you’re hunkering down
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The noise of the almost hurricane force wind was deafening. Our 143-year-old house shuddered and groaned under the onslaught of this force of nature. The wind, blowing off the Atlantic, brought sub-zero temperatures and drove snow particles into cracks and crevices of our aging home.

The large hand-hewn beams holding the roof were held together with wooden dowels. Every day my husband inspected the attic to see how many of these dowels had moved and, using a wooden mallet, he pounded them back into place. The nails the builders of the 19th Century had used were square with square heads. They appeared to have been made by hand as they came in all sizes. The uniformity of the nails we use today was missing.

We had bought this lovely old home during the summer months. It stood on a knoll, overlooking grain fields, undulating in the gentle breezes. In the distance we could see a sliver of the blue Atlantic. Later on in the summer, when the grain ripened to a mellow gold, the vivid green of potato fields gave wonderful colour contrasts.

During the past two weeks, the weather had been fierce and the storms relentless. The power poles all the way from Summerside to Charlottetown had fallen like dominoes under the weight of the freezing rain that clung tenaciously to the wires. We had been without electricity for 10 days. The freezing rains turned into snow which continued to be driven horizontally before the never-ending winds.

The house swayed and shook as it was relentlessly pounded by North Atlantic storms. Gone were the days of gentle breezes, giving the island the then deserved name of Abegweit, meaning “cradled by the sea”.

Our kind neighbour had called before the storm struck, telling me to fill every pot in my kitchen, all sinks, the bathtub and the washer with water. Knowing we were on well water, she warned us the power may be out for several days and the electric pump would not be working. We followed her instructions faithfully.

In spite of the dropping temperatures, we were warm. A shed attached to the back of our house was filled with wood for our two wood stoves. We kept the Fisher stove in one of our rooms, we grandly called the library, filled with dry wood. In our huge country kitchen stood an old-fashioned wood cook stove. This stove had recently been manufactured in Elmira, Ontario and looked every bit as authentic as great-grandmother’s version but was much more efficient in producing heat. Beside this lovely stove stood a modern gas range.

Earlier in the day, the wind had temporarily abated and after being housebound for two weeks, I waited for the snowplows to appear and hoped to go into the village for a few supplies. At last we heard the welcome sound coming from a large snowplow.

Our two boys and I hurried outside and started digging my car out of the snow which had by now been totally covered and only hinted at its whereabouts by the shape of the snow. After one hour of hard digging, I started the car. We went back inside and changed into more appropriate clothing. When coming out again, we realized the storm had once again returned and was blowing the already fallen snow, together with fresh snow, quickly filling in the tunnel the plow had made in the road, obliterating it once more. Defeated, I turned the car off and we went back inside, our boys being as disappointed as I was.

Our usually clean carpeted floors took on the look of a sawdust pile. We had not been able to vacuum for a long time and carried wood several times a day, dropping sawdust and bits of wood in order to feed our stoves. The dishes were piled as high as the counter tops allowed. We washed essentials but the bulk stayed there, waiting for the water pump to start working again. We were getting tired of playing board games but there was nothing else to do other than read. Our kerosene lamps and candles threw enough light to play games but were somewhat dim for reading.

Three days ago, we woke up to screams from our daughter’s room, telling us to come quickly. We ran up the stairs into her room only to find a perfectly formed cone of snow about 18 inches high on top of her quilt. The wind had driven the snow through a non-visible crack beside her double glazed window frame and produced this beautiful sculpture on her bed. It was hard to believe this was possible.

We attempted to look out the upstairs windows and discovered the snow had covered the north, west and east side of the house, all the way to the eaves. Our boys were overjoyed. They pulled their toboggan to the top of the roof and, yelling with glee, proceeded to ride over the snow drift all the way to the bottom.

To our surprise, we found if we held our hands six inches away from any electrical outlet on an inside wall, our fingers became like ice.

As evening was approaching, we lit our candles and pulled out our monopoly game. That kept us occupied for the next two hours while the storm was raging and our house groaned and complained bitterly. Loose boards were hitting the outside walls regularly while the wind howled, reminding us of stories about wailing banshees.

For a moment I thought the pattern of the storm noises had changed. I listened more carefully and remarked to my husband it almost sounded as if someone was knocking at our back door.

He, being somewhat deaf, made fun of my “hearing things” when the whole house was clanging and shaking with the force of the storm. The noise came again. Now I needed to investigate the back door. To my great surprise, there stood a young couple with their five-year-old son. We didn’t know them but they told us their car was stuck in a snow drift at the end of our driveway.

They lived just two kilometres from us and had gone into the village earlier after the snowplow had passed and were now unable to go home. We pulled out a large hide-a-bed in the library and they stayed with us for the next three days until the storm passed and normal life could once more begin. That is, it may be normal until the next storm.

Christa Stegemann is a Saltair resident and frequent traveler.