My husband, Paul, and I moved to Lewiston in 1986. Though I grew up along a river in southeastern Massachusetts, I’d never seen it freeze over in winter. The Androscoggin as a sheet of ice was a revelation.

In the mud season that followed, I got stuck in my own driveway and had to call AAA to tow me out. That was a new experience too.

A year later, in the spring of 1987, there was a massive flood. I was a reporter for the Lewiston Journal and was dispatched to Gardiner, where people were trying to get to their homes and businesses in rowboats.

I’ve always thought of that year as a true baptism to life in Maine.

Though I quickly got used to snowy winters, no real springs, short summers and the inevitable mud seasons, nothing prepared me for the Ice Storm of 1998. We were without power in Augusta for five days. I was working as a school librarian by then, so I was able to decamp (with two dogs and three cats) to my mother’s house in Massachusetts, but Paul was covering the momentous event for the Portland newspapers. Luckily, he was able to get a hotel room.

I was eating lunch out with my mother when Paul called to say the lights were back on. My mother said, “You’re not going home already, are you?”

“Ma,” I said, “I’ve got a refrigerator to empty out.”

I’ve been mulling over these weather memories for obvious reasons. We’ve been having some seriously awful storms. I have been feeling distraught, anxious and disturbed all at once. I keep telling myself that things have been bad before. Haven’t they?

In 1978, a terrible blizzard struck southern New England. I barely made it home from college, 15 miles from my parents’ house. Thousands of people were trapped in their cars, and it took days to clear the roads and restore power. I survived that, right?

My parents told stories about the hurricane of 1938. My mother recalled how the waters washed over the Stone Bridge, a famous site in her hometown of Tiverton, Rhode Island. My father posed for a photograph with his father and brothers and the remains of a tree that had toppled in their yard.

Bad stuff. And yet, when I saw the photographs and videos of the destruction along Maine’s coast from last week’s storms, I was heartbroken — and afraid.

What does it mean?

Our climate is changing. We’re going downhill. I was hoping I’d be gone before really big problems started descending on us.

Instead, I sense events are accelerating. Getting weird. Blizzards in February, I understand. When it rains in December in Maine, there’s something wrong.

What does it mean for how we live our lives?

I now fear the rain. Our cellar normally stays dry because we have a sump pump. When we have a storm like the one Dec. 18, and lose power, off goes the pump.

I wouldn’t like to lose my washer and dryer, but they are easily replaceable. It’s the furnace that makes me worry. I try not to catastrophize, but it would be a huge deal to get a new one installed.

This is a new worry for the ice storm and blizzard survivor. Plus, when we have these rain events, it’s too warm to use the wood stove. So, I have no way to cook either. Silver lining: I wasn’t hungry while worrying about the furnace.

We had about 4 inches of water in the cellar from that December storm. Since we are on a hill, however, and the cellar floor slopes slightly, the furnace, on higher ground, remained out of danger.

We are still examining our options, ranging from sandbags to a generator, because we are pretty sure this is going to happen again.

In fact, the power went out the following week, on a perfectly calm day. It was only for a couple of hours, so no harm done. I think it might have happened when storm-damaged trees were being taken down.

Two outages in such a short time made me much more apprehensive heading into last week’s storms. I could barely sleep before the first one. Luckily, we made it through with no problems.

But the coast was pummeled, and I felt distraught. I think it’s seeing places that are meaningful to me, places I visit every summer, so badly devastated.

My personal feelings are heaped on top of the bigger picture, of course. It’s a tragedy for those who live and work in coastal communities and for an important sector of Maine’s economy.

I always feel peaceful when I’m by the ocean. I need regular time on the shore. I could never live in the middle of the country. But now I wonder if our attitudes toward the sea need to change. Don’t we need to recognize the ocean’s power, as well as its beauty? How wise is it to build so close to the water? Should we be less indulgent and more respectful?

This winter, I am finding my solace in snow. Pure snow. When we get it. Even if the power goes off, I can take a deep breath and help Paul light the woodstove. Watch the flakes gently fall.

Like we’d do in the olden days.

Liz Soares welcomes email at lizzie621@icloud.com.

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