I’m sort of a weather fanatic and every day I check what the weather conditions are in other parts of the country, especially in places where I’ve lived. Today, my old home state of North Dakota is experiencing blizzard conditions which are expected to last into Sunday, and then the temperatures are predicted to plunge to 30 below zero by Monday night.
Seeing that reminded me of something I wrote quite some time ago. It seems to be an appropriate time to share it with you.
Blizzard! A rare occurrence in most of Texas, but those of us reared on the northern plains knew intimately what it meant. Adults feared the forecast of winter storms just as residents of tornado alley fear the sound of sirens in the spring. Tornadoes inflict severe damage to small areas in a short amount of time, but a blizzard can cut large areas off from the rest of the world for days and sometimes weeks. Farm animals can perish by the thousands if a blizzard is especially intense or long lasting, so the expected combination of snow and high winds was taken very seriously.
When radio stations sounded a blizzard warning and the first gray clouds began to build in the northwest, the weather became the sole object of attention for those of us living in rural areas. Animals were quickly watered, fed and herded into shelters. A supply of coal or firewood was hauled into the house, as was drinking water and lantern fuel. Farmers and ranchers worried if the electricity would stay on, and if the animals would survive, and if the family would stay healthy during the unpredictable period we might be snowed in. While there was usually some warning of impending storms, it was often difficult to predict when it would end, and once the snow fell, wind became the concern.
As a child, I always looked forward to the time when the merciless northwest winds would pile snow into drifts huge enough to dig tunnels into, and to create miniature white mountains to slide down on homemade skis, or riding an old grain shovel. Being at the mercy of nature was an exciting situation for us children, but we failed to appreciate the gravity of the situation. We trusted our parents to take care of us no matter what Mother Nature threw our way.
One winter in the late forties, we were snowed in for three or four weeks, with snow and high winds nearly every day. The temperatures remained well below zero and no one dared attempt a trip to town. Roads were blocked with snowdrifts so there was no way to make the trip with a car or truck. Rural families are usually prepared with stockpiled food, but as days passed, supplies dwindled and my family made the difficult decision to attempt a trip to town.
Dad and my uncle cobbled together a box shaped platform on the rear hitch of a farm tractor, and with a neighbor they made the twenty-four mile round trip to town for food and mail. This was long before climate-controlled tractor cabs, so they rigged a tarp around the driver to provide some protection from the stinging wind-driven snow while the two other men clung to the side of the tractor, holding onto the muffler to keep their hands warm. Though the muffler would glow red hot in the heat of August, it became little more than a hand warmer at 40 below zero.
They left for town at first light, and I can still recall the sight of that old Farmall tractor slowly disappearing into the swirling snow. At 5 mph, we knew the trip would take at least five hours of travel, plus the time they needed to buy and load groceries in town, and daylight was in short supply in the dead of winter. As the time neared when they should be getting home, we all waited anxiously for the sound of the tractor above the howling winds. They didn’t return until nearly dark, but they brought enough food for us to hold out until the roads were cleared many days later.
The longest blizzard I can recall was really a six-week series of intense storms, with only a few hours, or maybe a day, between storms. Between two of the storms, we were surprised to see an airplane circle the farm, wag its wings, and then land on our frozen lake. The pilot was a man who was dating my Dad’s sister, so he had a chance to visit her and also to make points with the rest of the family.
His arrival was especially exciting to us kids as we watched the little ski-equipped Piper Cub circle to check the snow conditions and then bounce to a landing on the snow-drift covered lake. Before the prop had even stopped spinning, we had covered the distance from the house to where the airplane rested near the frozen, rocky shoreline. The gaudy-yellow airplane was a most welcome contrast to the blinding whiteness of freshly drifted snow, and the opportunity to see an “outsider” after weeks of enduring nature’s fury, was in itself exciting.
A Piper Cub is a small two-passenger airplane, so the quantity of supplies he carried was somewhat limited, but thankfully it included our mail. Life, Saturday Evening Post, Field & Stream, Sports Afield, Farm Journal, Dakota Farmer, Ladies Home Journal, and six week’s worth of the daily newspaper were our escape from cabin fever until the weather improved and the roads were cleared of snow.
Tomorrow, I’ll write a bit more about what winter was like when I was a kid.
