Since my earliest memories, I have been pathologically afraid of the dark. Years ago, I could not drive where there were no city lights. When the power went out, so did I. I couldn’t take a walk at night. Couldn’t sit outside in the dark. Couldn’t sit inside in the dark, either.
I did not deal with the absence of light.
Jim worked with me. Al worked with me. Both of them helped to take the edge off, but the terror was still there. When Michael realized my fear, he didn’t make fun of me either. Mike simply explained that I would learn to be outside in the dark. With him, I was safe. And so I was. I trusted him enough to at least tamp down my fears.
We spent one dark, below-freezing night down at the chicken pen, crouched in the cab of the truck. We were wrapped in blankets, our guns out the windows. Not one dang chicken-killing raccoon showed its fuzzy face. We almost took out a feral cat, but realized our mistake in time. We whispered jokes to each other, giggling silently. I wasn’t afraid for a second. That night is one of my favorite memories.
In Alaska, I had to leave the cabin to walk to the washroom in the dark. I showered out there, alone. I was more nervous about our resident bear than the dark. Mike sometimes waited for me on the porch, but he would often get bored and just go back inside. I wasn’t happy alone, listening for that bear, but I knew Mike was only a yell away.
Mike and I sat in the dark, both inside and out, talking for hours. We walked, took drives, worked on projects down at the barn or around the house, rode the four-wheeler – all at night, in the dark. At first, I was never completely comfortable, but I functioned. Over time, I was getting to the point so that I didn’t really think about the dark. Mike was always present, my shield against the night.
And now, it’s just me. Or is it? I drive up our mountain alone now, in the dark. I walk around outside, in the dark. I sit in my car in the front yard, charging my cell phone, in the middle of a pitch-black power outage. I sit in Mike’s hot tub room in the dark. My porch rocker and I go for miles on the back deck in the dark.
Does it help that I have Gus, who will bark at/attack anything or anyone that shouldn’t be here? Does it help that I’m armed to the teeth, and I can hit anything I aim at? Of course it does. It takes the edge off and keeps me calm. But it’s more than that. Somehow, Mike’s comfort and ease of movement in the absence of light erased my terror.
Gus did go off one night. I was in bed, almost asleep. He rarely barks, so I knew it was the real deal. Like a flash, the gun was in my hand. Lights out, I slipped around and checked everything, then threw on the outside lights. All was fine. There was something there or Gus wouldn’t have sounded off, but we weren’t in danger from it. And I calmly went back to bed.
I laid there thinking about what I’d just done. I’d seen Mike do it, several times. I simply mimicked him, and reacted just as he’d taught me. I thought about so many things that I now do on simple muscle memory, things that aren’t familiar to me, things that Mike Powell drilled into my being.
Mike didn’t try to convince me there was nothing to be scared of in the dark. He knew there was – or could be. Mike taught me how to exist in the dark, how to protect myself and how to function. And once I knew those things, I could be easier in my skin.
It’s just one of the many gifts Michael Powell left me with…at 62.
At 62 