An Unexpected October Blizzard

Located on a small, rural farm exactly forty minutes away from friends, towns, and resources, our surroundings consisted of lush, green cornfields in the summer and empty, barren fields of frozen dirt in the winter. In mid-October, 2002, winter came early, and it brought with it a vengeful blizzard of ice, wind, and bitter cold.

The snow had begun falling in fat, beautifully intricate snowflakes on a Friday morning, and by the time we returned from school, delivered by school bus at the end of the longest lane a kid could ever walk, the snow had fallen to nearly ten inches, drifting to my waist in parts of the drive. We had no choice but to trudge through snow, our lower halves soaked and frozen by the time we reached the house.

“I have hot cocoas ready in your mugs, girls,” my mom called, encouraging us from the porch as she shoveled the sidewalk. “You’re almost home, you can do it!”

∞∞∞

As we sipped our cocoas, it was as if the storm had been kept at bay until we’d reached the safety of home. The winds picked up shortly after and the weather radio sang out the potential dangers, ice, snow, wind; the works. An hour later, the delicate snowflakes had morphed into bullets of ice, pelting anything and anyone without mercy. The lights flickered for a while before they went out entirely, blanketing us in the dim light of cloud-covered skies, and as the ambient hum of our fridge, ceiling fan, and furnace sputtered and died, the sound of the howling, screaming wind filled my ears. Looking to my mother for direction, she simply lit two candles and put a pot of water on the stovetop, lighting the gas burners with a long match. If Mom wasn’t afraid, then neither was I.

Giving the three of us our own tiny flashlights, she sent us on a mission to find our sleeping bags and all of the blankets we could find. As Louise followed Lindsay upstairs, I hesitated, glancing back at my mother.

“We’ll be fine, Laurel, go on,” she comforted, as if she knew my rising uncertainty and fear.

∞∞∞

“Look, Mom, I can almost see my breath,” Lindsay gasped excitedly, wrapped in a bundle of thick quilts, “I’m bored! Can I go play in my room?”

My sister, four years younger than me and young enough to not know how much danger we were actually in, thought a slumber party in the kitchen was going to be the ‘most fun ever!’

“You can’t go to your room right now, they’re too cold, but you can help Laurel grab the couch cushions from the living room sofas. All of them, please, girls. That way we’ll have something nice and soft to sit and sleep on.”

Grateful to get blood pumping back in my veins, I left my blankets and grabbed the kitchen doorknob. Startled by how unnervingly cold it was, I hesitated.

“Close the door after you, and be quick, okay?” Mom said, “flashlights on.”

Down the hall, our breath was illuminated by the beams of light, and as we stacked the cushions, working together to carry them down the hall, Lindsay’s teeth chattered in the silence. When we returned, we saw the windows covered with towels, and Mom was putting the finishing touches on covering the other door with an extra blanket, insulating and protecting us from drafts. We arranged the cushions and blankets on the floor, right in the middle of our small kitchen, and huddled together as my mother presented us with steaming mugs of blackberry tea. We sipped the naturally sweet tea as the hours grew long, yet the wind continued to scream, and I saw the suppressed uncertainty in my mother’s face. It rattled me to the core and I knew that this unexpected winter storm was going to be dangerous.

“We’re going to go to sleep now, girls,” my mother said quietly, using the gentle, yet direct tone she reserved for her middle-born daughter. “Lindsay, why don’t you snuggle up next to Louise?”

Lindsay huffed yet obeyed quietly, scooting closer to the youngest of us. Glancing at the woman sitting across from me, her face illuminated in candlelight, a slight trace of fear had replaced her stoic, determined demeanor.

Storms came and went frequently in the midwest, and until now, I hadn’t seen my mother afraid of anything. Even tornado season didn’t ruffle her feathers, and prior to this moment, I’d never seen her hands tremble.

“Mom, what’s going to happen?” I whispered, knowing that my status as oldest daughter held a responsibility to be her right hand.

“Nothing, Laurel, it’s fine, we’ll be fine,” she said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

She wrapped an arm around me and pulled me close, resting her cheek on the top of my blonde head. For a long time, we stayed still, resting but not sleeping, and as my sisters slumbered, I shivered. 

The insulated house was losing its warmth, very quickly. Old farmhouses were built to power through the elements, and our house was one of those. But even through the walls of our home, I could feel the bitterly cold air slowly seeping through, snatching away the warmth and comfort we relied on. Drowsy and yawning, I fell asleep next to my sisters, warm under the amount of blankets overtop and under us, and when I woke from a particularly loud gust of wind, the power was still out, it was still dark outside, and I had no way of telling what time it was. My mother’s warm, caring hand touched the top of my head, the comfort I needed to go back to sleep.

∞∞∞

With the windows and doors covered, the only evidence of day was the analog time on my mother’s wristwatch, reading a little before eight in the morning. Though Saturday mornings were our “sleep-in and stay in your jammies” day, sleeping was the last thing I wanted to do.

My mom was at the stove, frying eggs in a skillet, and for a moment, I thought the power was back on. Rising and shivering in the brisk, bitter air, I cuddled into my mother’s outstretched arms, and sighed.

“Is it over yet?” I asked quietly, unwilling to wake my sisters.

She shook her head. “Nope, and it doesn’t look like its let up any, either. I figured out why the power went out, though.”

“Ice on the lines?” I asked hopefully, knowing that when the ice melted the power would most likely turn back on.

“Sorry, kiddo,” she sighed. “One of the poles cracked and fell. Downed lines are dangerous, so you listen to me: do not go outside, and do not let your sisters go outside. I don’t know if those lines are live, they might still have electricity in them. Understand?”

I nodded, fear beginning to rise once more. With two fried eggs and a cup of tea, breakfast was simple, and at my mother’s instruction, the refrigerator door was to stay closed at all costs. ‘The more it’s opened, the warmer it gets, and spoiled food can’t be eaten.’ We had enough canned food and bottled water to last a good long while, and with a gas burner, hot meals were still on the menu.

“I’m going out to the garage, Laurel, I want you to stay inside with your sisters. Let them sleep.”

“But you said it was dangerous!” I exclaimed in hushed whisper, “the power lines!”

“They’re on the north side. I’m going to the garage, that’s on the other side of the house. There’s a portable propane heater in there and a few gallons of propane. Sweetheart, I have to go and get it. It’s too cold for you three.”

I opened my mouth to protest and she held up her hand.

“This isn’t the first winter storm I’ve been through, and it won’t be the last. Just stay put, okay? Make the girls a couple fried eggs and tea if they wake up. Be responsible, Laurel.”

I nodded as she headed for the enclosed back porch, exchanging her insulated house slippers for insulated snow boots. Dressed in layers and covered head to toe, she marched to the garage with snow shoes lashed to her feet, her gait slow and steady. She was in the garage for what felt like far too long, and by the time she emerged, dragging our sled with three round tanks of propane on it, my heart was hammering. She left the tanks at the door and turned around, the plastic sled carried and tossed by the wind.

Another eternity of stress, anxiety, and the unknown later, she emerged from the garage, pulling an small, tarp-covered object. It was slow going, and she was fighting the wind every step of the way. I filled the kettle and put it on the stove, lighting it with another match. By the time she reached the house, brought the heater and tanks inside, her cup was hot and had been steeping for a few minutes.

“Everyone okay?” she asked quietly, breathless and exhausted. “Thank you, Laurel, you did really well. And you made me a cup of tea? Thank you. Would you be willing to do me a small favor while the girls are still sleeping? Hop upstairs to the library, grab a few books for yourself, coloring books and crayons for the girls, just stuff to do to keep your three occupied, please.”

I nodded and grabbed a sweatshirt, pulling over my long sleeve shirt as I headed for the door. Bracing myself for the cold, I put a hat on at Mom’s request and slipped out, closing the door quietly behind me.

Down the hall, the bright snow through the windows almost hurt my eyes, and as I wandered toward the stairs, I stopped at a window, moving the curtain to peek outside. The fence that lined the property and driveway was shrouded by snow drifts, the glassy layer of ice atop every surface unmistakeable. I pressed my palm to the window, drawing back instantly at the frost that covered the inside of the glass. Wiping my hand on my pants, I retreated and climbed the stairs, the banister ice-cold as I rounded it toward the library. Lined with bookshelves, chairs, and well-spaced lighting, this room was always warm, cozy, and inviting, but the stark emptiness that lay in its stead was sobering. Emptying my school backpack, I traded in my textbooks for a variety of coloring and activity books for Lindsay and Louise, with a multipack of crayons in an impressive amount of colors, and grabbed two books I knew my mom was actively reading. I paused for a moment before shouldering my mom’s knitting bag, an organized duffel with knitting needles, patterns, and materials. Grabbing a few books for myself, I wandered back downstairs and heard my sisters’ giggles as I approached the door.

Closing it quickly behind me, the warmth that enveloped me was a welcome embrace. The radiating heat from the little heater thawed the fear and apprehension that the cold held, and I smiled as hope blossomed. Mom grinned at me as the girls shared a banana with eggs, and their eyes lit up at my return. Doling out gifts like Santa, my mother’s smile grew wide enough to crinkle the corners of her eyes as I presented her with her knitting bag.

“You’ve just earned a purple scarf, Laurel,” she whispered proudly. “Thank you for thinking of me.”

Beaming, I sat near the heater, my toes regaining their sensations in my socked, slippered feet.

“How long do you think it’ll be like this?” I asked when the girls were distracted by Barbie and Skipper coloring books.

“Probably a day or two, at the earliest, possibly longer,” she replied softly. “We’ll be fine, without a doubt, but the power line is what’s going to take the longest. The roads need to be cleared, the electric company can come out and disconnect the power safely, and then, well, our drive has to somehow get cleared. It’s just shy of a quarter of a mile long, that’s…well, that’s really long. Too long to do by hand, and we don’t have a snowblower.”

“What used to happen when we got snowed in like this?” I asked, “how did we get out?”

“Our neighbor, you remember Mr. and Mrs. Rapp? They used to bring their big tractor down and clear it for me, but after Mr. Rapp died last year, she moved to town. Their son lives in their house now, but I don’t expect him to clear our lane like Mr. Rapp did. It’s going to be very difficult to manage things without a phone.”

I’d never put the facts together, always taking the piles of moved snow as some magical, mysterious gift that we could play on, but it made sense that our kind, farming neighbors would have done that for a single mom of three.

“And if that does happen?” I asked expectantly.

“Then the electric company can repair the lines and we’ll get power again,” she sighed. “It’s a long list of stuff to do, but we’ll get through it just fine.”

I believed her with every ounce of my heart, and three days later, we woke to the whining, straining sounds of heavy farm machinery nearing our home. A total of four days without running water, heat, or electricity had taught me more than I could have imagined, and I now looked at my mom with eyes that knew her strength and fearlessness.

∞∞∞

We found out later that Mrs. Rapp had asked her adult son if he’d check in on us, and not only had he done so, but when he began to clear our drive, he’d spotted the downed pole, called in the electric company, made the necessary arrangements, and once the power was safely disconnected, he had finished pushing the snow from the drive, piling it up in mountains, much to my sisters’ glee. He never came to the door, but he gave a friendly wave to my mom, who thanked him with a wave from the kitchen window. A simple thank you could have have sufficed for his selfless actions, but somehow, my mother’s thankful gratitude was translated through that wave. ∞