The July 14 storm dropped a tree on the power line. Wire snapped and landed on the Troyer farm fence. Fence — metal. Current ran through the fence, through the ground, and — somehow — into the barn.
A bulb in the barn (left by the previous owner, an Englishman, twenty years ago) — lit up.
First to see it was Jacob Troyer, sixteen. Standing in the barn, milking. Suddenly — light. Bright, steady, white. Not candle, not kerosene. Electric light. Jacob had never seen electric light up close. In town — yes, through store windows. But not at home, not in his barn, not at arm's length.
He called sister Miriam. Miriam called Mom. Mom called Dad. Dad came, looked at the bulb, looked at the fence, understood. Said: 'Don't touch the fence. Don't touch anything.'
Three Hours
The power company came in three hours. Disconnected. Fixed the line. Apologized.
In three hours Miriam, eleven, sat in the barn reading by electric light. (Martha said later: 'She read more than in a month by candles.')
Jacob touched the bulb (hot!) and thought about how the whole world lives like this. Every day. Press a button — light. Another — heat. Third — music.
Dad stood in the doorway, silent. He was thinking too. But thinking different: within twenty minutes the children forgot about the cow. Within an hour — forgot about dinner. Within two — didn't want to leave the barn.
'That's why,' Dad told Mom that evening. Added nothing more. Mom nodded. She understood.
Miriam still sometimes says: 'Remember when the barn had light?' Jacob answers: 'I remember.' And both go quiet. Because they don't remember the light. They remember how easy it was to forget everything else.