| 1978—The Blizzard |
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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 |
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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. |
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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. |
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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.
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