I write this column on a darkly wild November afternoon. Michael and I have just come inside after buttoning up the yard for winter. The purple Adirondack chair, the cast-iron birdbath and the rain barrels have all been carted down to the basement; the box by the fireplace has been filled with wood from the pile near the kitchen door. The carrots have been pulled and cleaned before the garden is put to bed. I’m content to know our freezer and larder are stuffed with vegetables, berries, jam and meat.

I spend a happy half-hour relocating quilts, flannel pajamas, hats, mittens and woolen scarves to the front of the closet shelves, then fill the crockpot with sliced apples. When I take the peelings out to the compost bin, the driving rain stings my face and the wind chills me to the bone. I hurriedly return to the kitchen and can’t get the teakettle going fast enough.

I like to think we are much better prepared for this season than we were last year. I certainly don’t want a repeat of last November when I was caught unawares by a hurricane that left me without lights, heat and hot water for four long days. My relationship with Michael was very new at that time, and although he could have retreated to the warmth and safety of his Saco apartment where all was business as usual, he stayed here with me on the New Meadows to deal with the water rising in the basement.

When the power went out, we worked as fast as we could to move everything to higher ground; but in a matter of a few hours, muddy water lapped at the bottom of the boiler, and we ran barefoot through the submerged backyard to string extension cords between our neighbor’s newly purchased generator and our sump pump in a last-ditch effort. With the water in the basement well over our ankles, we plugged into power and watched the water level go down.

In the scheme of things, that storm was only a minor inconvenience, a small blip on the radar screen of life.What made it monumental is the fact that battling the elements together somehow cemented mine and Michael’s relationship. He kept the fire going in the living room fireplace, and we spent all our time there talking, reading and browsing through my photo albums in the dim light. When it got too dark to see, we lit candles. We snacked on almond butter and crackers, apples and other pantry items that didn’t require cooking. We spent the nights in a nest of quilts in front of the fire.

The only distraction was the imminent arrival of my yet-to-be-born grandson, Jack. While keeping an eye on my diminishing cell phone battery, I prayed he wouldn’t decide to come on this weekend when thousands of families were without power. Happily, Jack waited until the following weekend to make his appearance and is now a pudgy 1-year-old charmer.

Since last November, Michael and I have made it a priority to acquire a few crucially important items, including a generator of our own, flashlights in more assorted sizes than I care to admit, wooden pallets that have been implemented to raise large items up off the basement floor, and a pair of Wellingtons for each of us so we don’t have to experience standing in ankle-deep icy water in the basement ever again.

Michael says it’s amazing how a little adversity can make two people a team, and we’ve become even more than that, we’re a “dynamic duo.” We know that when storms of any kind come our way, we will weather them together.

Karen Schneider is a freelance writer living in West Bath. She may be reached by e-mail at [email protected].