The Blizzard of '56

It’s strange what you remember, or don’t, about your childhood. A comment, a particular smell, or a song can bring it all back or leave a yawning space in your head.

I vaguely remember my Uncle Matt. He came home early from the Korean War. He had been shot in the back of the leg. My father said that Matt was never the same after his experience, and he died mysteriously a year later. I was too young to attend his funeral, and that was that.

There’s a tattered old photograph of my dad and me sitting on a dock when I was a very little boy. Written on the back in faint ink is the date August 1951 - Sebago Lake. I have no recollection of the trip or the place, and that was that.

I only mention them today because of this story. How many other significant events happened when I was a kid that I don’t recall? Occurrences that were swallowed by time.

On the other hand, there was the big Valentine’s Day blizzard of ’56 when I was ten; the details are still crystal clear, as though it were yesterday. How can that be, I wonder?

It began snowing around noon the previous day. Our history teacher, Mr. Edwards, told the class to stop staring out the window. “You’ve seen snow before. Pay attention to the board so we can finish up with President Jackson.”

But that was the thing about growing up in eastern Massachusetts, close to the Atlantic Ocean. If the temperature rose above 32 degrees, a storm would produce rain. Move a few miles to the west or north, where the temperature is below freezing, and there would be snow.

Usually, lots of it.

Everyone in New England knew the term ‘snow line’. On the evening weather forecast, seen on our grainy black-and-white television, the meteorologist would draw a line along the coast of New England announcing the rain-snow divide. No simple line took on more importance in my life than that slash on the map.

President Jackson couldn’t help us with the weather, but the class was hoping for heavy snow so that we’d miss a day of school.

We lived a mile from town. I could walk to school or ride the bus, whatever the weather. Strangely, I loved walking in stormy weather. If it were raining, rivulets of water would rush along the edge of the road, finding the low point, which led to the stream near our home. The stream emptied into the Charles River on the edge of town. Cold weather brought fresh snow, which covered the dirty stuff from earlier storms.

The deep drifts looked magnificent. Sometimes, they reached over my head. My friend and I would dig tunnels into the sides like we were living in an igloo.

When it was cold, my mother usually had a cup of hot chocolate waiting for me when I came home.She had a part-time job working as a secretary to the local insurance agent. She was usually home by mid-afternoon, in time to prepare our evening meal. However, she had to work late the day before the Valentine’s Day blizzard. The insurance agent anticipated a slew of claims arising from damage caused by falling trees, banged-up cars, and broken arms as people slipped on the frozen snow.

Funny enough, my father came home early that day, a rare occurrence. He was a plumber, and the small firm he worked for didn’t want to send the men out in the trucks if the roads were going to become icy.

As I trudged up our long driveway, I could see fresh tire tracks in the snow. My father was in the kitchen washing out his lunch pail. Just then, my mother walked in, shaking off the snow in her hair and complaining about the weather.

“It’s just going to get worse,” my father said. “Well,” replied my mother, “We’re going to have beef stew tonight if I can pull it all together at this late hour. A nice meal for a stormy night.”

“Is there any hot chocolate?” I asked my mother. She glared at me. “Look at the time. You have a choice. Hot chocolate or dinner.” My mother was flustered. She prided herself on serving supper at 5:30 sharp, in the Irish-Catholic fashion, and she was way behind in her preparations.

“Why don’t you just make hot dogs and beans tonight?” my father asked, trying to be helpful. “That would be simple.”

My mother snapped a reply, “The beef, the very expensive beef, has been marinating for two days, so it’s a tasty stew or scrambled eggs on toast tonight.”

My father nudged me out of the kitchen and pointed upstairs to my room.

This year, I had entered 6th grade, and my father had made a desk for me. I no longer had to do my homework at the kitchen table. He also bought me a new lamp, and together, he reasoned, my study habits would improve. He also gave me his old transistor radio, which I propped up next to the lamp.

Some nights I would listen to the Boston Bruins on the radio, and other nights I would listen to the Providence College basketball games. At times, my mother would make hot chocolate after dinner, and I would take the steaming cup to my room and sip on the heady mixture until I was ready for bed.

But tonight, I wanted to write my Valentine’s cards. I always gave one to my mom and one to my homeroom teacher, who was Mrs. Russell this year. I also gave one to my Auntie Maggie, who lived in town with her husband Fred.

Auntie Maggie was an expert baker and regularly made us apple, pumpkin, and blueberry pies. Sometimes, in the autumn, she would make sour and tart pies like rhubarb and mince, which I didn’t like very much. However, she would then spoil me for my birthday with a traditional Boston cream pie, filled with chocolate. I loved her very much.

I was also going to give a Valentine’s card to a girl in my class. I was very nervous about this since girls had never interested me, but there was something about Emma. When I was daydreaming, it was usually about baseball or ice skating, which I loved, but I found myself thinking about her. It was a strange feeling for a young boy.

In September, when school started, she had come home from sailing camp on Cape Cod. She was all tanned, and her hair was longer, and she looked pretty. Last year, I wouldn’t have looked at her, but times change. That was one of my father’s favorite sayings: “Times change” or “It’s time to move on.” That’s what he said.

Downstairs, I could hear the phone ring. My mother was yelling something at my father, who must have been reading his evening paper. In the kitchen, my mother and father were talking on the phone to Auntie Maggie. She did not like to drive in snowy weather, and her husband, Fred, was due in on the 6:12 train from Boston. Once or twice each winter, she called my father when a big storm was approaching.

Normally, it was not a problem for him to drive to the train station in the next town to pick up Fred. However, supper would now be delayed by another hour, upsetting my mother.

Fred, or Freddie as he liked the family to call him, was not my mother’s favorite. He was one of several men who had married into the family, one with a disproportionate number of pretty daughters. Freddie was the only one in the family with a college degree at the time. He was a banker and took the train into Boston every day.

Of course, my father agreed to Maggie’s request. She was the youngest, and he still called her his ‘little’ sister.

My father announced he was taking me to the train station to keep him company. I was excited to go out into the storm, but disappointed that I had missed my hot chocolate and that our meal was to be even later than usual. I was hungry.

“I don’t know why Freddie doesn’t come home earlier,” my mother said, miffed. “Poor Maggie spends half her time driving to the train station.”

“He’s a busy man, and they work late in Boston, the big city. Coming in at 6:12 is reasonable,” said my father. “They still manage to have dinner an hour later each evening.”

This, of course, annoyed my mother even more. “Why do they have dinner and the rest of us have supper? Just because he comes from old New England money? Dinner is a pretty fancy term for the same food. And why can’t he have a sandwich on the train?”

It didn’t take much for my mother’s Irish temper to show.

“Well,” said my father. "You know, Freddie. He likes to have a martini before they eat.”

“One?” asked my mother sarcastically. “It’s usually two. And remember last Thanksgiving at the family gathering? Freddie managed three martinis. In the middle of the afternoon, no less. He didn’t carve the turkey; he butchered it. He served up chunks of meat, not fine slices. And there was more cranberry sauce on his tie than on his plate. Those things are noticed. I don’t know why our lives revolve around him.”

My father ignored this crack and said, “Okay, son. Let’s go rescue Uncle Freddie from the blizzard.”

I helped my dad put his toolbox into the trunk of the car to give it some traction in the snow. In those days, he owned a clunky Chevy Bel Air, which he bought after the war, and the heater didn’t work very well in the winter.

As we drove through town, my father fell in behind the big snowplow, which was doing its first run of the night. “It’s good that we are behind the plow,” said my father. “But it will cost us a few minutes because he is so slow.”

Ahead, the blinking red and orange lights of the truck looked like a crazy kaleidoscope of colors dancing in the falling snow.

“Don’t worry, Freddie knows what to do if we are late. The station café is open until the last train comes in.”

Once we crossed the town line at the Charles River, the plow left us, and we climbed up the long hill and then drove very slowly, slipping and sliding down to the small road by the station. We were ten minutes late, and the parking lot looked desolate. Snow was eddying around the station lights.

Alone, the station master was sweeping off the main platform. My father said there was one last train from Boston, a short, two-car shuttle that would arrive soon.

But no one else was in sight. In a panic, I could see us going home empty-handed while my mother fumed about wasted time, dangerous driving, and an ungrateful relative. As well as a late meal.

Just then, someone appeared at the door to the station café. The shadow backed out slowly, and it was hard to see the person through the heavy snow and his dark coat and hat. Then I realized it was Uncle Freddie, carrying a tray, a newspaper, and his briefcase.

“Quick, go help him,” my father shouted.

I relieved Freddie of his briefcase, and he turned and put his head down into the blowing wind. The snow was swirling around my father’s car, and I opened the door. He took my place in the front, and I jumped into the cold back seat.

“God damn weather,” said Freddie as he shook my father’s hand. “Thanks so much for the ride. Given the storm, I thought it would be you.” He was balancing the tray on his lap.

“Here’s one for the kid,” he said, passing a large cup to me. “Be careful. It’s a special hot chocolate just made by Nick in the café. It’s a double with dark chocolate chips, extra marshmallows, and a shake of cinnamon. Give me the briefcase if you would,” he asked.

Freddie reached into his briefcase and took out a bottle. He poured half the bourbon into my father’s cup and the remainder into his. “This will keep us warm on the way home.”

While my father and Freddie talked and the car drove into the blizzard, I sipped on the best hot chocolate I had ever had. It immediately took the chill out of me and sent a spark of energy to my brain.

The heavy snow muffled all the sounds on the road, and the passing landscape was no more than a whiteout. Nothing mattered now. In my mind, I was working on the Valentine’s message for Emma’s card. Should I sign it “your friend” or maybe even “with love”?

We dropped Freddie at the end of his driveway, and I watched him disappear into the drifting snow. Ahead, the town plow had not reached our street, so my dad had to drive at a crawl for the last few miles. Familiar mailboxes, half covered in white, were the only markers to keep him safely on the road.

We were late getting home, but surprisingly, my mother seemed relaxed. “The beef stew is just cooling,” she said cheerfully. A bottle of sherry was open. “Remember the old saying,” she continued, “It’s one for the pot and two for the cook.” A small glass sat on the edge of the stove.

My father put his arms around my mother and said the kitchen smelled heavenly.

In a soft voice, she said, “Now, light some candles before the power goes out, and let’s enjoy our meal. I hope that Freddie showed some gratitude for the ride home.”

My father just winked at me as the blizzard of ’56 howled outside.