That night, as if thunder and lightening snowfall weren’t strange enough, the ground was lit with an eerie orange reflective glow. Although I lived in suburban Knoxville, the house was on the top of a hill and heavily wooded, and one of the few with a wood stove. Friends and neighbors drifted in and out all week; we had a host of folks cozily camped out in the living room and hallway. I remember gingerly tiptoeing around snoozing bodies during the night to refuel the fire, when the wood burned down and the returning chill seeped through the covers and woke me. And there was one afternoon when my housemate and I lugged a full drum of kerosene on a plastic sled up the hill from his stuck truck. I made new friends and relearned the art of conversation; ate some of the tastiest slow-simmered stew I’ve ever had; and took the absolutely coldest…and shortest…shower of my life! There was over a foot of drifting snow, and conditions were primitive and potentially dangerous, but somehow the experience seemed more like an adventure than an ordeal.