Yesterday the internets were alive with jokes about the Great Storm Bust of 2015. For those who lived in NYC, especially, a huge gap emerged between the hyped predictions (“historic storm coming — two to three feet!) and the actual snowfall of between 1.5 and 10 inches in the greater NYC area.
The poor politicians and meteorologists had snowballs — small ones — on their faces.
It could have been otherwise, of course.
The blizzard hit further north and east than predicted. It came. It just didn’t come to where the subways and media outlets connect nearly nine million people to the rest of the world.
Snowfall is like wine and fishing — the longer the distance in time, the greater the size and quality of the product.
I remember, for example, the Great Blizzard of 1958 — the year 42 inches of snow fell in Lancaster County and closed Fairland Elmentary School, where I was a student in fourth grade. You may remember reading about that school in Blush: A Mennonite Girl Meets a Glittering World.
The snowstorms of that year never made it into the book. Nor did this picture of the Spahr Farm covered in two feet of snow.
My father and his neighbor Dan Martin worked together to create a path for the milk truck to use, since the road that connected our two farms had blown shut. They used tractors and trucks and saved the milk from having to be dumped, which would have been a calamity.
We children, however, loved the blizzards that year. We pressed our ears to the radio to hear “school closing” announcements. When the announcer finally said “Manheim Central Schools,” we shouted with joy and began to plan our adventures in the snow. Sleds, snowball battles, forts, snow angels, ice cream. We did it all.
Our soaked mittens, hats, snowsuits, and coats hung over the radiator to dry. Sometimes the smell of hot wool sizzling reminded us that they were dry enough to go outside and play again.
Now, when I look out my window and see snow, I just rejoice in the beauty.
It matters not to me whether blizzards come or not. Unless I am headed to an airport, which I am today. That’s the luxury of this stage of life.
Tell us your snow story, either recent or long ago. Have you survived real blizzards? Busts?