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60 NEBRASKAland • NOVEMBER 2016 A s I write this we are bracing for what is predicted to be a major winter storm. Ignoring for the moment that TV weather-guessers have an average that would keep them on a minor league farm team if they were pitchers, we nonetheless drag out the heavy coats and boots, haul in some firewood, check the generator and brace ourselves. Because here on the Nebraska plains, you never know. I love winter and cold, snow and wind, and I sneer contemptuously at the sissies who flee to warmer climes. I don't care how many Husker sweatshirts they own, they are not Nebraskans. Given a choice, I'd go north. The best vacation I have had in this long life was 10 days far above the Arctic Circle in northern Greenland. Linda says that in a previous life I must have been an Inuit. Summer and winter I sleep on the back porch with the windows open. I love winter camping. (No bugs!) But when a Plains blizzard does blast in, it's not something to toy with. We worry about the power going down. We live at the dead end of a power line, so if anything happens along the way from wherever our power originates, we lose lights, heat, water, everything. I make sure the generator is fueled and ready to go. I check the tractor's fuel and block heater because if the lane drifts full, we're stuck here for a long time. Linda makes a run to town for groceries. I try to accumulate whatever writing work I can accomplish without my computer and lights if we do wind up snowed in. Linda fills some buckets to flush the toilets because like everything else in our home, the pump requires electric power. We gather flashlights, candles, some movies if we manage to keep power, and then close doors and check windows. Linda puts a roast in the oven to build up some heat and to stockpile food for … for whatever. It hasn't always been that way. We moved out here to "the middle of everywhere" in 1987 but before that I had an ancient (1872) oak and walnut log house down by the river. I didn't have to worry about the power going out during the long months I spent down there because there was no power, no lines to ice up and go down. I didn't have to worry about starting a vehicle because 1) I probably had to leave it up in town because I couldn't get through the gate at the highway and 2) the kind of cars I drove wouldn't start even in good weather. If worse came to worst, one crank on the old Allis Chalmers WC tractor would get me through the deepest drifts, but often as not I strapped on snowshoes and walked over the hill to town, sometimes for nothing more than to get the mail or share a drink with a friend at the tavern. Water? Snow is water, and there was a pitcher pump in the lean-to. No pipes to freeze. As long as I had trimmed the wicks and filled the reservoirs, the kerosene lamps never failed. There's no flushing in an outhouse so I didn't have to worry about plumbing there. If I had taken the trouble to cut, split, stack some good wood – cottonwood is fine for the day; ash, oak, and maple for night – and hauled out ashes from the old Vogelsang barrel stove, the house was warm and the coffee hot. In fact, after a few days, or better yet weeks, when warmth had penetrated those old hardwood walls, I could neglect the fire for many hours and never get uncomfortable. There was no computer, so No. 2 pencils and a Big Chief notepad recorded my thoughts just fine. As for entertainment, when I wasn't busy taking care of all of the above, I kept a good store of books, watched for eagles along the river and worked at my frailing techniques on an old banjo. When the kids were with me, we played all manner of thinking games – Twenty Questions, what living person would we like to have dinner with? What historical person? What character from Nebraska literature? When I taught at the University of Nebraska I sometimes heard students referring to this kind of thing as "living the simple life." But no, actually it is the opposite: it is the complicated life, because I had to take care of everything myself. Sure, when we flip a switch to turn on a television set, a lot of complicated things are set in motion, but my part in the process is next to zero. If something goes wrong along the line, I'm finished. I have to call someone else who knows about electricity or plumbing or computers or wells or ... whatever to fix it. I believe that is what those of us who enjoy real camping seek … that sense of self-reliance and the satisfaction that comes from being in control of our lives. There is a peace that comes of that even beyond the quiet and calm of nature – even in the depths of the most ferocious winter storm. A couple days ago I spent a day with some buddies at the campfire in front of the cabin just sitting, talking, sipping good whiskey, laughing at stories, and listening to the geese fly and the crows scold. We didn't worry about anything because there was nothing that needed worrying, and those big things we left back in civilization were beyond our reach for those few hours. As usual, we missed the appointed hour and then showed up at the house a couple hours late for supper. Linda was a trifle miffed at our irresponsibility and asked, "Don't you guys ever look at the time down there?" I told her in all truth: "Dear, there isn't any time down there." So bring on the blizzard. We're ready. It's all out of our hands now, so we might as well relax and forget the world where time still matters. ■ Roger Welsch is an author, humorist, folklorist and a former essayist for CBS News Sunday Morning. He is the author of more than 40 books, including his most recent "Why I'm an Only Child and Other Slightly Naughty Plains Folktales" available from University of Nebraska Press. Where Time Stands Still By Roger Welsch But Ol' Rog doesn't.