The Missing Ink
By the time the weather guys and gals were finished with us mid week, Cimarron Valley residents were mentally preparing for a winterpocalypse of unprecedented proportions. We were gonna lose power for two weeks, be tunnelling out of our homes like Antarctic researchers, and trading chickens for propane before it was all over.
What we actually got was snow. Maybe four or five inches of accumulation, give or take a drift or two. Cold? Absolutely yes. Wind chill flirted with minus 20 at times. But the way it was sold? We were promised the kind of storm that gets its own name, a Netflix documentary, and commemorative coin.
You could feel the panic rising as the forecast graphics painted the eastern US blue and pink. First it was “possible accumulation.” Then “significant impacts.” Then suddenly the meteorologist’s tone shifted to overreacting grandpa mode. Two feet of snow. Extended outages. Stay home. Prepare now. And cancel those Saturday games.
Oklahoma heard, and did what Oklahoma always does — we went to Walmart.
Not calmly. Not thoughtfully. We went like it was Black Friday and 100-inch TVs were $99. We went like eight-inches of solid ice was gonna seal us in our houses until it was time to color eggs. And we bought eggs.
It was shopping cart Tetris. Aisles stripped bare. Bread gone. Milk gone. TP gone.
The Dollar Store didn’t escape either. That place looked like it had been cleared out by a determined crowd that had the same idea at the same time and didn’t want the extra stress of a Walmart parking lot.
And then there was the water aisle.
Every brand disappeared. Spring water. Purified water. Water with flowers on the label. Water filtered by Tibetan monks. All gone.
Except Dasani.
The Dasani shelves stood untouched, fully stocked, pristine. A monument to personal standards. People walked by it slowly, carts full, eyes darting. Some paused. Some sighed. A few reached out, stopped themselves, and kept moving. Because while Oklahomans will brave subzero wind chills, slick roads, and possible societal collapse, we still have our standards when it comes to drinking water.
Meanwhile, outside, the snow fell sideways. Roads got slick. Schools closed. Games were postponed. Everyone stayed home — which was probably smart. We all hunkered down, dripped our faucets and waited for the real disaster to arrive.
And then… it didn’t.
The power stayed on. The snow finally stopped at a manageable amount. By day three (Monday), the biggest threat most people faced was their kids’ boredom and the realization that they had an alarming amount of bread on the counter.
Once again, the worst-case scenario fizzled into mediocrity, but not entirely — it was cold, and it was brutal for those with livestock — but not the apocalyptic event we had all gone shopping for. The generators stayed quiet. The emergency candles went unused.
This is the rhythm of the Oklahoma winter. We’re told to prepare for the end of times, so we do. Fully. We buy like society’s gonna break down. And then the storm shows up, does just enough to be annoying, and leaves us standing in our kitchens thinking, Well… now what? Guess I’ll have another glass of milk.
Social media, of course, filled the gap. Photos of empty shelves. Jokes about milk sandwiches. Someone grilling, shirtless, in the single-digit temps. Posts reminding everyone how to drive in the snow, written by people who very clearly do not know how to do it.
In a few days, the shelves will refill. Life will go back to normal. The next forecast will appear, and doom will once again be foretold. And once again, we will listen and respond accordingly because what if this time they’re right?
We’ll do what we always do.
Straight to Walmart. Straight to the bottled water aisle. And straight past the Dasani.
Thanks for reading.
Shop local Leave a little on the shelves for grandpa.