Phillips: Dancin' in the dark and other tornado ruminations

In the aftermath of the devastating tornadoes on April 27, I imagine most people have little else on their mind besides getting back to normal.

The cost to rebuild will likely be staggering, but ultimately the storms' damage will be measured in the lives that were lost or irrevocably changed, not dollars and cents.

Ever since I was a child, tornadoes have been up there with sharks and spiders on my list of things not to think about before going to sleep. After last week, I'm reminded why they rank so highly.

Thankfully, I didn't know anyone who was killed, and I was fortunate to avoid suffering damage to my home or vehicle. In fact, I even managed to avoid being one of the 119,000 households that lost power. I don't believe I've ever felt as guilty as when friends were throwing away bags full of spoiled food while my refrigerator motor whirred merrily along.

Clearly, someone was watching out for me. Either that or there's something to that "luck of the Irish" thing.

Despite the storms' undeniably negative side effects, I achieved a kind of revelation because of them.

Saturday, I spent time with friends who decided they had had enough of being cooped up for days with nonfunctioning lights and cold showers. After driving around in the almost cruelly beautiful weather, we stopped for an early dinner on the newly refurbished - and somehow unscathed - rooftop of The Pickle Barrel.

On the way back to my friend's house in East Ridge, my reverie faded as he was forced to navigate around huge uprooted trees draped across the road, yards and, at times, houses.

When we got back to his porch, he asked if I wanted to stick around, and my brain balked. I had fully intended to return to my cocoon of modern comfort, not sit around in the dark. I was lucky enough not to be in the same predicament he was, so I tried to convince myself that I owed it to both of us to enjoy the comforts he lacked.

Justification is a powerful tool but not powerful enough. In a show of solidarity, I decided to stay for a few minutes, "graciously" forgoing amenities such as gaming systems, home theaters and air conditioning.

I stayed six hours.

Courtesy of my retention of elementary science, a bag of ice and some salt, we had cold beer aplenty. A crank radio/lantern and my friend's tablet PC - we weren't total Luddites - provided Lynyrd Skynyrd, Queen and The Who for company.

Before the advent of recorded music, most homes in America had a piano and few had electricity. Playing music was how they entertained themselves. A piano would have been ideal Saturday, but unfortunately, my friend's keyboard is electric, and my own instruments were miles away.

Instead, we got by just by talking and listening to music until everything outside the lantern's glow looked like it had been draped in a heavy, black blanket. It was as if someone turned the dial back to 1911, but I was having too much fun to care.

Even as the city claws its way back to normal, I'm glad to know friendship, at least, doesn't need to be plugged in.

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