For Ray and me it all began in the middle of a rainy night with a thud like that of distant thunder, and then more thuds without the flashes we were expecting. We were snug, the house was still warm, all lights were off; the best choice seemed to sleep and wait for morning's light. Light brought us, somewhat like Noah, more rain, ice-coated trees, and the unbelievable sound all around us of the sharpness of rifle fire, tree branches snapping, as nature worked on her own pruning. Even Saturday, as warmer temperatures came and ice sheaths melted like a barrage of giant ice cubes bombarding the tree growth, we watched the damage with horror. For the first time in years here on Route 135 we could see the lake again through the wounded trees.

We holed up for nine days. Concerned adults (I find it hard to call them children) phoned daily, brought drinking water, repeated "Don't go out there,'' and mentally were probably hoping that Mom and Dad wouldn't show up on their doorsteps. Since we couldn't defrost the car, felt pretty independent, and had that wonderful telephone link, we stayed put. We had two kinds of water, one drinkable and one functional, a stove that kept us reasonablv warm in one room and adjoining bath, much usable food in refrigerator and freezer, books, a large crossword puzzle book, loads of candles and lamps. What more could a pioneer ask?

So our story is not different from others of those days. The conclusions I have drawn are many. This experience, while frightening, was not new to us. We have been there before in shorter ice storms, with flooded cellar, drowned water pump and oil burner, all disasters occurring three days before Christmas while my mother lay dying in a Massachusetts hospital. We have weathered hurricanes, snow that literally kept us for three days from going in either direction on the road, pregnancies at full term in the midst of blizzards. If this disastrous January has been a first experience for those reading this account, be sure that you will see much more of nature's testing. It will help to know that your mettle was tried and not found wanting.

Secondly, I have thought about the elemental nature of the experience. Oddly enough, I enjoyed the "pause in the day's occupations" which forced you and me to realize the closeness to every living thing, constructed as it is of almost the same genetic DNA as we are. The rain, the suffering trees, the animals displaced in the forests, the demanding birds, your shivering and hungry neighbor--how long had it been since we were reminded that we live in a capricious environment that cannot be appeased with the veneer of technology with which we have coated it! Lights electric blankets; warm offices; computers; speeding cars; over-busy lives; all superficial protections.

Recognizing that superficiality, I have a new appreciation for home, for warmth however generated, for a roof against the elements, a hot cup of coffee, God's mercies, a Red Cross van which insistently tooted and flashed its lights outside my icebound door and offered assistance, or police officers who inspected our living quarters and us for safety. But I cannot discount the risk factor, which is ever-present in our lives, and the challenge of knowing tomorrow is uncertain and we had best get on with today. An article in my alumnae magazine has said it well: "longevity and comfort are, of course, good things. But amid our preoccupation with the needs of the body, the primitive urges of the mind are sometimes forgotten. In our quest for physical comfort, we often neglect our spiritual need to honestly and openly confront both our mortality and the fragility of our world... In many cases, our muffled minds are simply craving true challenges and real journeys, experiences in which the outcome is not certain and real loss is possible."