When I was 18, a blizzard struck Denver just before Christmas. It was an amazing storm, the largest snowfall the city had seen since 1913.
The city, hushed in a blanket of white, was more or less paralyzed through the holiday. But as such storms will do, it crystallized in our memories as an equalizer of the city's people, who shared an extra measure of assistance and cheer with their friends and neighbors. When natural events suspend the awesome expressions of kinetic power and habit in the daily life of a modern city, we remember them not just because they are rare, but because they up-end our behavior and impel greater degrees of mutual reliance and protection.
As the holiday ended and New Year's approached, city life did not recover quickly. Denver's team of city plows lay under-organized and under-utilized in the weeks following the storm. Huge ruts of ice gathered on city throughways. Fender-benders and more severe accidents multiplied, and the daily commute permanently damaged the cars of many thousands of people (and if you didn't have a car in Denver in the early '80s, good luck with that).
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