Blizzard of ’22

When I was a boy, I devoured books and stories. Reader’s Digest was standard bathroom fare in our home, although it could be found elsewhere sometimes, as long as it made its way back to the throne room without too much delay. At least, that’s how I recall it. My books of choice were the Hardy Boys, Sugar Creek Gang, and Encyclopedia Brown series, primarily, although I was persuaded to consume Laura Ingalls Wilder’s books, some of Louisa May Alcott, and Lucy Maud Montgomery, before growing into Tom Clancy, John Grisham, and the Shaaras.

I lived in a farmhouse that was built in 1820. It was situated on its second foundation, the first one having been across the road from the second, though I don’t know when the structure was moved. We had a huge barn opposite the house when I was very little, but an arsonist put an end to it one chilly October day in the middle 1970s. He or she was never caught.

Our house was shaped like an L, and at the top of the L was a shed that turned to the left and became, at one time, a garage, followed by an outhouse and more shed. I’ve seen the photographs of the structure in its heyday, but I only recall the rundown nature of it when I was a boy. That outhouse came in handy when we had but one bathroom for 8 of us living in that huge house.

Eventually, as time and happenstance passed, we expanded the house, gaining three bedrooms and one and a half bathrooms upstairs. All told, by the middle 1980s, we had seven bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, dining room, coat room, and mudroom. As I said, the farmhouse was huge. I always thought of us as middle-lower class financially, and I suppose we probably were, but that house provided comfort and security to many beyond our family.

As a child, I recall the strength of that structure–even when we dealt with a leaky roof for a time. Howling winds in rain and snow did not concern me because the house was strong. Storms that became legendary in years to follow did not take down our home. Accidental fires caused damage but did not destroy our house.

The thrills of my childhood storybooks often came to life in our house. Sometimes, they gave me nightmares, such as my terrors of the Redcoats charging up the cellar stairs to kill us because we were rebelling against England in the Revolutionary War. (That was a recurring dream that happened when I was feverish.) Other times, they filled me with excitement, like when I played with my Matchbox and Hot Wheels and created storylines of Hardy Boys or Sugar Creek Gang adventures. I’d tell Mum about them, and she’d be sure to ask me later how the adventures turned out.

I disliked going to the woods with Dad and my brother to cut firewood in the dead of winter, but it was a common occurrence on Saturday mornings in January and February. Once I was there, I often thought of Little House in the Big Woods or other stories I’d read that involved cold weather, cutting wood, or being outside, in the woods, in scary situations (I became afraid of the woods at some point in my life and going near them alone filled me with indescribable terror, as I was constantly convinced I was being watched and stalked). However, any sign of a stone wall would pique my interest, and I’d be carried away as I imagined Civil War or Revolutionary War battle scenes taking place in my own back yard.

Winter holds it own memories. Sledding was plentiful, but so was shoveling the driveway. How thankful I was when Dad finally put a plow on the Farmall 200! There were many years of shoveling before that happened, though, and the Blizzard of ’78 was particularly memorable. Plow trucks got stuck on the roads and needed to be pulled free by farmers on their tractors. Snowbanks rose higher than dump truck bodies. I can still picture the mounds of snow to this day, more than 40 years later.

Two days ago, we had a storm that is being called the “Blizzard of ’22.” It has a certain ring to it, don’t you think? It sounds like something from one of my storybooks from childhood that maybe Laura Ingalls Wilder or Louisa May Alcott may have written.

Perhaps it’s because I didn’t have to drive in it, or because of the sensationalization of every storm these days, but this one didn’t seem like such a big deal. We received about 15 inches (38cm) of snow where I live, and the wind howled, but that was it. The snowbanks I saw as I drove to work today weren’t intimidating like the ones in 1978. In fact, along one stretch of road, there weren’t any snowbanks at all!

I’ll leave it to others to determine if the “Storm of ’22” deserves accolades like the “Blizzard of ’78” or not, but as for me, this one just doesn’t live up to the thrills or chills of my childhood stories nor books.