From the safety and relative mild climate of my home in the middle south, I've been watching the stories of the snow which has swept across much of the country and buried whole cities, including Washington, D.C. under a blanket of white this weekend before the Solstice and all the holidays which follow. Well I've reached the age where my hair is white as snow, and so I look back to the storms of my youth, perhaps a little more fondly through the lens of history.
As January of 1967 neared its end, the winter had not been extraordinary. And as a high school sophomore the world to me was limitless possibilities, and the weather, while occasionally uncomfortable, was inconsequential. Winter did provide a few predictable things around the house - the annual freezing of the ice rink in the not-yet-completed park behind our house, which had been salvaged from a depression-era WPA project, the toboggan being attached to the top level of the platforms in the "three sisters," a stand of trees behind the house and across the alley, so that sleds could be dragged up into the trees and children could go sailing down, headfirst, on their Radio Flyer sleds through a clearing and into the park, headed in the direction of the north branch of the canal, and of course, a little longer, colder, wetter walk from the house to the Peterson Avenue bus stop, where 17 cents and a display of my bus pass would get me a ride to Western Avenue and a transfer to the northbound bus headed in the direction of school, some two miles up.
So it was, on the morning of January 26, and as I left the house, the ground was blanketed in a soft snow, which was falling gently, not at all in a threatening way. Final exams for the semester had been compelted, and in the short break before the Spring semester began, the various classes gathered together for "retreat" - a two day session arranged around all things spiritual. As sophomores, we did not go away to retreat in another venue (complete with sleepover) but instead, we were gathered into the cafeteria where Father Red and Father Kinsella gave large group lectures, and then, perhaps for the first time in our young lives, we experience the "breakout sessions" dividing into small discussion groups.
As an incentive to stay on task, the nuns had perhaps miscalculated, as someone had arranged for a large group of young men from the minor seminary to come in and lead the small groups. This meant that the young men were about eighteen. Highly qualified to advance our spiritual development, no doubt, or at least to develop a big crush on fast.
And all day long, as we sat at the long tables in the large yellow cafeteria, the gentle snow continued. It continued through morning mass. It continued through Father Kinsella's talk. It continued through breakout sessions. It continued as we eyed the young men. It continued as we stopped for lunch. It continued as a radio played during lunch and we all sang the chorus of the new hit "Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday." It continued through Father Red's talk. And as it continued, the nuns began paying less attention to what was going on inside, and a whole lot more attention to what was going on outside. And at some point, they must have finally reached a consensus that they did not want to be stuck with two hundred sophomores, no bedding or changes of clothes, and no way to bring in groceries. And so, sometimes after two, for perhaps the only time in high school, we were dismissed early. But for my little group, it was too late.
That Western Avenue bus line carried scores of girls home and to transfer points on the North side, and every one of them had gotten to the stop ahead of my little group. I think there were about six of us. Karen, Connie, Donna, Christa, Peg and myself, who were not able to make it onto the bus as he shut his doors. The snow was piling up and now close to a foot deep, with no sign of stopping, and the sky was dark with the heavy clouds blocking any sunlight. Now here's a little detail that probably made things worse: That bus pass that identified us as students was only good at the one bus stop closest to school. Which meant that if we left our stop and began walking in the direction of home, the next bus would charge us double when it finally reached us. So we waited, and the snow came down.
After some time standing in the snow, which had now reached the tops of our boots and was dampening our sweaty feet, we concluded that no buses were headed northbound, and thus, none would be turning around at Howard Street to head south. The number of cars in the street had diminished to a few headlights sliding through the darkness, and those parked at the curb were now just hills in the snow.
I'll stop here to remind you young'uns that there were no cell phones in those days, and the closest phone to call home was probably a pay phone six or eight blocks up Western Avenue, which was primarily a long row of car dealerships at that point, with a four block stretch of private golf club on one side. Needless to say, nobody was buying cars that day, and the light were out at the dealerships. And so we slogged. Touhy, Estes, Greenleaf streets; and still it snowed. Frozen fingers now pulled deep inside coatsleeves, and the walk became slower, Lunt, Morse, Farwell and Pratt and we'd reach the vast wasteland bordered by the golf course. No one had any idea what time it was, but it was dark. And the number of cars on the streets had diminished to nearly zero, but when one did go by, it kicked up such a mass of snow that we jumped back.
There was no way, I thought as we passed the darkened golf course in that dark evening, that I could ever get home. But if we got to Ardmore, just a block past Peterson, we could all walk over the block to Donna's house, where we would wait it out.
By now, hats, hoods and hair were soaked through. Feet were soaked and fingers frozen. Periodically we stopped in doorways just to breathe a moment out of the storm, but in that situation, there was really no choice but to soldier on. And so we did, Pratt, Arthur and Albion. It must have been well after five o'clock as we crossed Devon, only four blocks left now 'til Peterson. There was by now nary a car in sight, and our little band was no longer the cheerful adventurous group of giggling teens that had left the school that afternoon.
Up the long street we continued, now hearing only the silence of the snowfall. By now we could barely speak to each other, and tears of frozen misery began to appear on our faces. Now Rosemont, now Granville, now Hood. Until there, we could see, past the "Z" Frank dealership, the snow-covered stoplights that told us we were nearing Peterson. Spirits immediately improved, with thoughts of hot chocolate and a sleepover party. No doubt with the snow the way it was, we wouldn't get home for a day or two, but that seemed all right, in fact we had earned it. When suddenly, from behind us, slowly moving down Western Avenue like a shark coming to surface came the red glow of a Mars light, the first car we'd seen in over an hour.
We stopped in disbelief as the beige Plymouth station wagon pulled over as close as it could get to the buried curb. And stood stunned for a moment, as my father, wearing his heavy coat and his black russian lamb hat with the earflaps pulled down, waved us into the trusty Fury III.
There were no cell phones, but Dad's car had a radio for work. He had radioed city hall, where the load dispatcher sent electrians out to make sure that the city's traffic lights kept perfect time. The load dispatcher had called my mother and learned that I had not arrived, and the message was relayed to Dad. Alone in the snowy darkness, he travelled the route, unwilling, unable to rest until he had located us.
I, of course, was disappointed when everyone else was let out just South of Peterson to cross the alley to Donna's house. But the memory that sticks with me today is that somebody loved me enough to get me home, against all odds.
The storm would continue for almost another full day. The city was paralyzed. Dad and I headed home in the silent darkness, through the falling snow, weaving our way slowly, slowly through the cars and buses abandoned in the snow. And when we arrived home, incredibly wet, incredibly tired, a simple bowl of hot tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich would look like a feast - and fortify me four the next three snowbound days at home.
I don't have any good recipes for the snowbound, but I bet someone here does.