The Night the Lights Went Out in Groveton

The power went out thirty minutes before our Bring Your Chair to the Square January gathering was supposed to begin.

In a small town, when the lights go out, everything goes quiet in a different way. The hum disappears. The shop goes dark. Plans, however loosely held, suddenly feel uncertain.

Only one person came.

She pulled up anyway — on the very night the lights went out in Groveton.

My husband and I carried battery-operated lanterns out to the front porch, and the three of us sat together in their soft glow, watching cars pass along the nearby highway. Headlights swept by in steady rhythm, a reminder that the world keeps moving even when your little corner goes dark.

Across the Square, the lights of the Trinity County Courthouse shone bright and steady — a beacon in the darkness. 

We talked about old times and new endeavors. About where we’ve been, and where we might be going. The conversation wasn’t rushed or interrupted. There was no agenda to keep, no schedule to follow. Just stories, laughter, and the slow strengthening of a friendship still finding its shape.

It wasn’t the gathering I had imagined when I planned the event. There was no crowd. No bustling energy. No clatter of chairs being unfolded.

But it was something just as sweet.

It was a reminder that community isn’t measured in numbers. Sometimes it looks like one person choosing to show up anyway. Sometimes it looks like sitting in the dark with lantern light and honest conversation. Sometimes it looks like gratitude — quiet and unassuming — for the company you keep.

Susie, I was grateful for your presence that night. Especially in the dark. <3