1978—The Blizzard

Sunday, February 5, 1978. Supper-time at the kitchen table in Timbaloo. Speakers on the wall, feeding us the news. Hmmm. A monster storm is about to hit Washington, D.C.; it will then head up the coast toward New England. Now, we loved to make jokes about the unreliability of the Weather Service, and so we were inclined to shrug off the forecast. EXCEPT that I had in my briefcase a multi-million-dollar Abt Associates proposal that had to be in Washington at noon the next day. Given the District’s well-known inability to function under what we’d consider trivial amounts of snow, I had the makings of a problem. So, in typical mature, measured fashion, I left my supper half-eaten and my boots, gloves and heavy overcoat in the closet, called a cab to Logan Airport, grabbed the next Eastern Airlines shuttle out (which turned out to be the last one to land at National Airport, before the snow closed it down). Got there in the middle of Sunday night, took a motel room near National, and woke in the morning to

find the pantywaists of our nation’s capital paralyzed by a few inches of snow. Called around and found an enterprising chap on skis who took my proposal1 across the Potomac to its destination. So now (Monday mid-morning) I was at liberty to go home. But how? The airports were closed, and even if I could get on a plane going to Boston, it wouldn’t be able to land anywhere in New England. Made my way to Union Station and learned that the Montreal Express (I think that was its name; or maybe that was what we called this kind of nor’easter) train was scheduled to leave around midnight. Bought a ticket. Finally departed after dawn on Tuesday. Before long, the train was acting as a snowplow and going VERY slowly. The meager food supplies on the crowded train ran out quickly. 1As it turned out, the agency extended the deadline. Ours was there on time. The winning proposal (not ours) met the second deadline. Hmpf.

We crossed into Massachusetts Thursday morning, stopping at Route 128, as they announced, to pick up the corpses of some motorists who had died of carbon monoxide poisoning in their immobilized cars. Arrived in Back Bay Station early Thursday afternoon, sixty hours after scheduled departure from Washington. Seven snowy miles from home. Hungry. Weary. All the vending machines in the station had been empty for days. But the phones were working! Called home from a pay phone (remember them?); assured Valerie (six months pregnant) that I was still alive, sorta, and asked her to send the three boys out to clear a path up Timbaloo’s front steps.

Then started to pay attention to the officials who were ordering us to stay put until they’d see fit to give us leave to go. Called The T and learned that a piece of the Green Line subway (ending three long blocks away) was still running as far as Park Street, and that the Red Line was still operating from Park Street to Harvard. Conspired with similarly-rebellious fellow-passengers, and ultimately set out northish along Dartmouth Street toward the Copley Station subway stop, about a quarter of a mile, through head-high snow, with an elderly academic, a blind woman, and her companion.

The snow and wind had pretty much tapered off, but Governor Mike Dukakis had ordered all roads closed except to emergency vehicles; it would be weeks before Brunnhilde could legally leave our driveway. Must admit it was tough, slow going, and the blind girl and her friend were glad to find an old, traditional hotel (which I’ve been unable to identify since) a bit more than half-way along our route. We all went in and found the dark lobby (the power was out) crammed with fugitives like ourselves. In a true spirit of hospitality, the uniformed hotel staff circulated in the crowd, bearing candles, tea, and something like what our Brit friends call biscuits. Our blind companion was perfectly at home in the darkness; she and her friend stayed there, while the professor and I pushed on after a little rest.

Finally made it to the subway station, where we shook hands and wished each other well, and he continued toward his Back Bay home. The T carried me to Park Street and then to Harvard without further mishap (and without asking for the usual fare). Emerged to a truly startling sight: Harvard Square with no traffic, unless you count a couple of police cars and the odd snowplow. Five miles to go. Recall, if you please, that I was wearing (really inadequate) plastic shoes, a light overcoat, no gloves, and no hat. Carrying a briefcase. Did have my sunglasses, thank the Lord. Well, the plows had moved or compacted the snow on Mass Ave, and I was all alone as I trudged up the middle of the road as far as Porter Square, where a pleasant fellow offered me a ride on his snowplow.

He dropped me off in the middle of Appleton Street, right in front of Timbaloo, bless his gizzard. Where, of course, my three faithful sons were throwing snowballs at each other in the general vicinity of the unshovelled stairs. Climbing them (the stairs, not the boys) resembled swimming more than walking, but I did arrive at last, weary, cold, and famished.

Now that we were together again, and ever since, we’ve had to confess that this historic disaster turned out, on balance, a very positive experience for us. We saw more of each other, got to know our neighbors, and enjoyed with them a we’re-in-this-together spirit that might otherwise never have arisen. We remember our disrupted church situation, in particular, very positively: until they once again permitted parking in Cambridge, we held Sacrament meeting in our parlor for those of our neighbors who cared to participate. Our guests on these occasions included some we seldom if ever saw at the Chapel. We resumed our normal commute with mixed feelings.

A procrastinated thank-you

I've been diffident about posting this memory. It's tender, and I wouldn't wish to impose that tenderness on anybody who wouldn't be glad to harbor it. But you can just skip it, in that case. Ray Glazier says I should post it, and I value Ray's counsel. I'll watch for comments.






President Thomas S. Monson
The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints
50 East North Temple
Salt Lake City, Utah 84150

Dear President Monson,

This is by way of a belated thank-you note. In 1967, you were pivotally helpful to a man we love, and your kindness has begotten wonderful consequences about which you ought to know. Please forgive our procrastination: we’ve repressed good intentions for years.

You may perhaps remember H. Duane Anderson, who was called in 1967 to preside over the mission in Paris. The picture shows Duane and Leola, as they looked then. They’re the parents of one of us and the grandparents-in-law of the other. After decades of teaching French language and culture, our Pappy was thrilled to receive this call, but it also terrified him. As he related the story to us later, he poured out his heart to you in a private meeting, asking how hecould possibly direct the work of three hundred missionaries, when he had never himself served a mission. He told us that you comforted him, related some stories of missionaries who had done mighty work despite a lack of preparation, and assured him that the Lord would make him equal to his opportunities. He went to Paris reassured, and had an intense and honorable experience there.

Now we fast-forward to 1991 when young Ron Ralston had the good fortune to fall in love with the Andersons’ eldest granddaughter, Cynthia Lee Anderson of Arlington, Massachusetts. To his great joy, Cyndi agreed to wait for Ron while he served a mission to Milwaukee.





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Full of enthusiasm, Ron entered the MTC, where it became apparent that a disability would keep him from serving a mission. He came home absolutely desolated, and he went around saying to himself and to others, “Cyndi will never marry me, with all the missionary tradition in her family. Here I tube out of the MTC! She's going to break our engagement. There is no way she's going to marry a guy who couldn't make it through the MTC.”

Our Pappy became aware of Ron’s distress. As Ron remembers it, Pappy called him in and related the story of his own misgivings at the brink of the mission field and how you had assured him that the Lord would make him equal to the challenge. Pappy then, as head of the Anderson family, welcomed Ron to the family and told him: “Nobody in this family is going to hold it against you that you didn't get to go on a full-time mission. If anybody gives you any trouble about it, you send him to me.”

Before too long, Cyndi and Ron were married in the Salt Lake Temple (it was several years too soon to make it happen in Boston). They and their children (see the fairly recent photo on the next page) are forever grateful to you for teaching our family patriarch how to strengthen the feeble knees.






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So now you know; we hope you rejoice. And we do sustain you and pray for you always. Thanks for a beautiful Conference and for your blessings upon us; we treasure them. Within the limits of our capacity, we send you also our blessings.

With much love,




Ronald Ralston




Richard B. Anderson












Mr. Richard B. Anderson
390 East 1500 South
Kaysville, Utah 84037

Dear Brother Anderson:

Thank you for the letter from you and your son-in-law
Ronald Ralston regarding your dear parents, H. Duane and
Leola Seely Anderson. You have a noble heritage of devotion to
the Gospel of Jesus Christ, even in the face of sacrifice and
trials.

There was deep sadness on the passing of your mother
and great admiration for your father as he continued to serve
with faith and courage. How grateful we are for comfort and
peace received from the Gospel of Jesus Christ and the gift of
the Holy Ghost.

Please give my love to your family. May our Father in
Heaven bless you in the service you give and in all that you do.