Back in the fall of 2012, my husband developed a genuine need for a generator. He claimed his motivation was based out of love for our family. From a desire to keep us safe, warm and with readily available access to microwave popcorn and video games.
Some may remember December 21, 2012 as the end date of the ancient Mayan calendar. Doomsday enthusiasts (now there's an oxymoron) predicted an end to the world as we know it, while stocking up on freeze-dried meats, powdered milk and generators.
Generators are powerful machines capable of powering up any number of electrical appliances during power outages or end-of-the-world zombie apocalypses. They are useful and loud and - dare I say - manly. My husband learned all about them and developed a whopping case of generator envy. I don't think he really believed the world was about to end. He just wanted an excuse to buy a generator.
He wouldn't rest until we had one of our own. The bigger, the better.
I wasn't even aware generators existed for private families in private homes until my husband discovered our expanding need for one. Despite his logical arguments and rational rationale, I wasn't convinced. But you know how it rolls after 20-plus years of marriage. Sometimes you go along to get along.
My husband researched engine specifications, wattage needs and gas tank sizes until he found the Perfect One. Our generator could have been the flux capacitor for all I cared. It was orange and noisy and sat in the corner of our garage. Waiting to be needed.
December 2012 came. And went. Without fanfare, calamity or cataclysmic outcome. Our generator remained quiet. Unused and untouched. With the power button switched to off. Since then, it's been ready to run at a moment's notice. If ever needed. Ever. Ever ...
My husband is not typically a patient man. Since that time, during every thunderstorm or batch of inclement weather I've watched him, ever hopeful, ever impatient - waiting for a chance to use his precious generator.
Which never happened. Not until last weekend.
Our generator adventure started when an electrical transformer exploded next door to our house. When I say exploded, I do not mean a little crackle of electrical activity. I mean an EXPLOSION. In capital letters. There were three explosions in all - of green, fiery electric energy pulsing through the wires overhead. My husband and I witnessed it through the window and ran, terrified, toward the interior of the house and away from the commotion outside. It was that scary.
Next thing, the power went out. I thought I detected a spark in my husband's eye.
Eight minutes later he mentioned the "G" word.
"The kids will be hungry soon," he said. "I can fire up the generator and make them toast."
I reminded him of the time. It was barely 7 a.m. on a Sunday morning. Prime sleep hour for our kids as well as plenty of neighbors who, if they hadn't been rocked out of bed by the explosions, were sure to be by our decibel-rich generator. I suggested we go back to bed. My husband was having nothing of my logic because he was operating under logic all his own.
And he'd waited more than two years to do so.
He spent the next 15 minutes untangling various extension cords, which were soon plugged into the beast in the garage and summarily snaked throughout the house and attached to various electronic devices. By 9 a.m. we had two TVs on and coffee brewing. He was beginning to speak my language.
I have to admit, I woke up that morning a skeptic, but by noon I was a convert. My husband finally won me over to his generator inclinations. It only took him two-and-a-half years to accomplish the feat. Perhaps he is a patient man after all.
- Jill Pertler's column appears every Thursday in the Times. She can be reached at pertmn@qwest.net.
Some may remember December 21, 2012 as the end date of the ancient Mayan calendar. Doomsday enthusiasts (now there's an oxymoron) predicted an end to the world as we know it, while stocking up on freeze-dried meats, powdered milk and generators.
Generators are powerful machines capable of powering up any number of electrical appliances during power outages or end-of-the-world zombie apocalypses. They are useful and loud and - dare I say - manly. My husband learned all about them and developed a whopping case of generator envy. I don't think he really believed the world was about to end. He just wanted an excuse to buy a generator.
He wouldn't rest until we had one of our own. The bigger, the better.
I wasn't even aware generators existed for private families in private homes until my husband discovered our expanding need for one. Despite his logical arguments and rational rationale, I wasn't convinced. But you know how it rolls after 20-plus years of marriage. Sometimes you go along to get along.
My husband researched engine specifications, wattage needs and gas tank sizes until he found the Perfect One. Our generator could have been the flux capacitor for all I cared. It was orange and noisy and sat in the corner of our garage. Waiting to be needed.
December 2012 came. And went. Without fanfare, calamity or cataclysmic outcome. Our generator remained quiet. Unused and untouched. With the power button switched to off. Since then, it's been ready to run at a moment's notice. If ever needed. Ever. Ever ...
My husband is not typically a patient man. Since that time, during every thunderstorm or batch of inclement weather I've watched him, ever hopeful, ever impatient - waiting for a chance to use his precious generator.
Which never happened. Not until last weekend.
Our generator adventure started when an electrical transformer exploded next door to our house. When I say exploded, I do not mean a little crackle of electrical activity. I mean an EXPLOSION. In capital letters. There were three explosions in all - of green, fiery electric energy pulsing through the wires overhead. My husband and I witnessed it through the window and ran, terrified, toward the interior of the house and away from the commotion outside. It was that scary.
Next thing, the power went out. I thought I detected a spark in my husband's eye.
Eight minutes later he mentioned the "G" word.
"The kids will be hungry soon," he said. "I can fire up the generator and make them toast."
I reminded him of the time. It was barely 7 a.m. on a Sunday morning. Prime sleep hour for our kids as well as plenty of neighbors who, if they hadn't been rocked out of bed by the explosions, were sure to be by our decibel-rich generator. I suggested we go back to bed. My husband was having nothing of my logic because he was operating under logic all his own.
And he'd waited more than two years to do so.
He spent the next 15 minutes untangling various extension cords, which were soon plugged into the beast in the garage and summarily snaked throughout the house and attached to various electronic devices. By 9 a.m. we had two TVs on and coffee brewing. He was beginning to speak my language.
I have to admit, I woke up that morning a skeptic, but by noon I was a convert. My husband finally won me over to his generator inclinations. It only took him two-and-a-half years to accomplish the feat. Perhaps he is a patient man after all.
- Jill Pertler's column appears every Thursday in the Times. She can be reached at pertmn@qwest.net.
