Snow Days

                               Snow Days

                                               by Dor’y Nicolas

 Minnesota kids grow up assuming snow in winter. It is seldom just right. Either not enough by Christmas time or too much any other time. We heard the grown-ups talk about “the great blizzard of April 11, 1933,” “24 inches in 24 hours,” “people died.” We learned that you travel in winter with blankets, water, food, and a snow shovel in the trunk, and if you did get caught in it in your car, you never, ever, left the car. But it was 1956, and I was ten years old. That was all ancient history to me. For me and my siblings, getting snowed in was a treat. It meant a snow day would be called. We would listen to the radio for the school closings and would cheer when we heard our town. This would be a day, maybe more, of playing cards and eating cookies still warm from the oven. The first nice day after the storm would be another snow day when the farmers cleared their driveways, and the snowplow would go by, and we would prepare to go back to school the following day. But first we had to make snow angels, play fox and goose, and tunnel into the biggest snow drift we could find.

One morning that very winter, when I was ten, almost eleven, we went to school as usual. Snow was in the forecast, but no schools were being closed even though it was already being called “the coldest day of the year.” My youngest sister, Gwenny, was not in school yet, and Rosie, just a first grader, woke up with a bad cough that morning. They stayed home with our dad because he had chores to do. Mother drove four of us to school, my two older sisters, my younger brother, and me.

During the day, it started to snow, and it became a storm quickly. Mother was there to pick us up, but she looked worried. As we drove out of town, she told us that she had barely made it through a deep drift on the usual route, so she was going to try a slightly different one going home. By the time we were on our way east out of town, it was clear to me that this was what a blizzard was, and we were in it. The snowflakes were enormous, and we could barely see the sides of the road. When Mother made that early left turn, we were going north, straight into the wind. The snow was blowing directly at us, and it was turning to sleet. Ice was forming on the windshield and on the windshield wipers. The rapid sweep of the icy blades across the icy windshield made a rattling sound. Eventually, the windshield was so iced over that my mother stopped the car and got out to scrape it. I saw the fierce wind buffet her, her hair blowing, the look of determination on her face.

Just then, a speeding car flew by us on the right, landing in the ditch far ahead of us. A man got out and headed toward us, yelling at my mother for stopping in the road. She yelled back at him, “I can’t see a damn thing, and I’ve got four kids in the car!” I was scared, but so proud of her. (You tell him, Mom!) He went back to his car, got in, gunned the engine, and succeeded in getting back on the road, leaving us there. Mother got back in the car muttering “traveling salesman!” I wondered how she knew that, but I believed her.

Within minutes, other headlights arrived, and a different man appeared. Mother knew him, called him Mr. Current. He shouted into the wind, “You can’t go on. You won’t make it. Come to the house, and you can call Jim, let him know you’re safe.” Mr. Current knew my dad. We would be okay.

The five of us bundled into his car, and we made it to his home, not too far from where we were stopped. I remember Mrs. Current being so kind to us. She made us a meal and then served us the best bars for dessert. I was shy, but I spoke up. I told her they were the best bars I had ever tasted and asked if I could please have the recipe. She smiled, provided me a blank recipe card, a pencil, and her recipe for me to copy, which I very carefully did. They were called “Orange Walnut Slices.” They were three layers, and the top layer was a powdered sugar frosting made with grated orange rind and a little orange juice. I ate mine very slowly, in tiny bites, to make it last as long as possible.

I’m not certain, but I think we were there two nights. I think we slept on the sofa and chairs, cuddled up with our mother like baby kittens. Then our dad came to get us. We said thank you so many times.

The following weekend, I asked my mother if I could make the bars. She said I could. She said she would sit at the kitchen table and write a thank you letter to Mr. and Mrs. Current, and if I needed help, she would be right there. 

 I said, “But we told them thank you so many times.”

“I know, but this is what people do. People help each other in times of need, and we express our gratitude in writing.” Then she said, “Sit down here a minute. I have a story to tell you.”

It was a true story about her sister, my Aunt Elizabeth, and her husband Leo.

“You know they live up north near the Iron Range and how cold it can get up there. It was the coldest day of the year right after a two-day blizzard when Leo noticed a car not too far away almost covered in snow. He went to see about it and discovered a family that had been trapped in their car for those two days, a husband, wife, and three small children. They took them in just as we were taken in, but it was so much worse. The children had urinated and defecated in their clothes, and it was frozen onto their bodies. They fed them, warmed them up, cleaned them up, gave them their own children’s clothing to wear.”

Mother paused then. She looked me in the eye. “You realize Elizabeth and Leo are poor. He works in the iron mines, and that is seasonal work, not year-round. They have eleven children. She gave them the best of the poor clothing her own children needed. But that is what people do for each other. Leo shoveled out their car, and they were on their way.”

She paused again, letting the story sink into my young brain, I guess. Then she said, “Some time later, she got a letter from the woman.”

“Good!”, I shouted. Maybe she sent some money, I thought.

“No, not so good. The woman told Elizabeth how offended or insulted she was by the rags that Elizabeth had dressed her children in.”

”No!”, I shouted again. I started to cry.

My mother shook her head and leaned toward me. “Listen. It’s okay. Some people have a very hard time expressing gratitude when they are given help, especially if they feel they are better than the person helping them. Elizabeth knew that. She knew she saved lives that day. She knew she did the best she could with what she had. She didn’t do it to hear ‘thank you.’ She did it because that is what you do. You give help when it is needed, and you give gratitude when you are helped. So, I’m going to write an especially good thank you letter.”

We sat looking at each other for a while. She reached over and wiped a tear from my cheek.

“Please tell her thank you for the recipe. Tell her that I am making the bars. Ask her if it is okay if I rename them ‘Blizzard Bars.’”

“Okay. And you can sign the letter, too.”

It was a completely different experience for Rosie and Gwenny. Left at home with their farmer father, whom they had never before seen prepare a meal, they stood on chairs by the stove watching him fry eggs. He used a pair of pliers to crack them open. They said they were pretty sure Mother didn’t do it that way. I’m pretty sure he did it to try to amuse them. Now, when we eat our Blizzard Bars, that’s the story we tell.