Early in the afternoon of Thursday, Jan. 8, 1998, I was meeting with clients in Caribou when the message reached me that my father, terminally ill with cancer and spending his last days at home in Orrington, was failing rapidly. With hasty apologies, I immediately headed south at a speed that won’t be mentioned. Following a couple days of intermittent freezing rain and drizzle, travel had been tough enough in the County but worsened considerably the farther south I progressed. I was thankful for sparse traffic on Route 1 and Interstate 95.

As Bangor came into view, it was obvious that much of the area had already lost electrical power. The gentle purring of a small Honda generator and a soft light from behind the large living room drapes greeted me as I pulled into my folks’ driveway. Weeks earlier we had positioned my father’s large hospital bed adjacent to the window so that on his better days the drapes could be opened to give him a view on a small part of the world where he had spent most of his life.

Quiet hellos and meaningful hugs greeted me as I made my way into the living room – the last of 10 family members (and one very concerned black Labrador retriever) to arrive and begin the long vigil. When I leaned over his pillow to tell him that I was home and that it looked like we were in for a “pretty good” ice storm, my father – who had been only intermittently coherent – lurched to his elbows and completely in character declared loudly, “Good God, we’ve got to get hold of a generator!”

The next four days and nights were a blur of unforgettable scenes; but exhaustion from intense focus on my father’s condition makes recollecting what was said difficult. Our subconscious but unrelenting need to listen for his labored breathing was relieved to some extent by rotating sleep shifts on cots and in sleeping bags; refueling the generator and making sure electrical loads were kept within reason; greeting friends, relatives and clergy who dared venture out in dreadful weather to bring food and comfort; stepping outside to hear the incessant snapping and crashing of tree limbs falling to the ground followed by muted sounds of shattering crystal; and watching and listening as my father’s extraordinarily attentive hospice professionals performed their minor miracles.

Early Monday evening on Jan. 12 as a clear sky foretold a cold night, our great man, Roland L. Hanscom, died peacefully in the living room of the home he had built for us 40 years earlier. His family, you see, has an entirely different reason to remember the Ice Storm of 1998.

Rodney L. Hanscom lives in Holden.