Blizzard Lore

A blizzard hovered for two days over the plains.  It arrived on Thursday February 21, 2013, in West Omaha at Englewood Drive exactly twelve minutes later than the ETA reported on the weather channel.   The airport shut down. Schools and universities closed. Employees stayed home.  The family slept in.

One by one the family awoke and looked out onto a white landscape.  The dried hydrangea blooms had turned into drooping balls of frozen cotton.  The spruce trees looked like ice wizards. Fence posts rose like sentinels from two foot drifts. 

Outside it was five degrees; inside 68.  They lit the gas fireplace and made pancakes.  They wrapped up in afghans and declared a pajama morning.  The teenagers' fingers flew through text messages and online games.  The dad hooked into teleconferences and caught up with his email.    The mom designed an iPad training session for teachers.

The dogs forged through the snow cover first, the puppy, dressed in a sweater, leaping like a rabbit, and the black lab plowing her way to the fence border.  Soon the neighborhood came alive with snow blowers.  Before evening the snow plows had cleared the streets.

The water supply didn't freeze.  The pantry remained stocked. The closets contained multiple layers of wool and polartec.  A line of furry snow boots stood by the back door; a pile of mittens waited in a basket.

In the infamous blizzard of 1888, sometimes called the Schoolhouse Blizzard, temperatures plummeted forty degrees after an unseasonably warm January 11th. Arctic air swooshed down into the northern plains from Canada. On January 12th many children were either trapped in schools without heat or perished as they struggled  against the wind and blinding snow to reach their homes.  238 children died.

Although I grew up in the San Francisco bay area in the 1940's and 50's in a temperate zone, I knew about blizzard lore.  My dad liked to retell the story of the blizzard of 1888 in Nebraska, told to him by his mother, most likely to keep him from hunting in dangerous weather.  In the 1880's two ancestral families had homesteaded west of Nebraska City.  When the blizzard struck, they settled in to wait out the storm.  The men tied a rope between the house and the barn, so they could safely tend to their livestock.  When their provisions grew low, the men, who were brothers, set out into the storm on their horses for Nebraska City.  The women begged them not to go.  I imagined silent children watching their mothers tending the fire and listening for the husbands' return.  After the storm abated, the wives discovered the two brothers frozen between the house and the barn.  The provisions were in the barn with the horses.

My father grew up on a tenant farm in southeastern Nebraska.  One harsh winter during the Great Depression, he and his brother struck out across frigid fields to hunt for rabbits and squirrels to supplement home canned tomatoes, the only food remaining that January.  When the sky turned dark and the wind whisked across the empty fields, my grandmother must have felt blizzard lore course through her veins. 

My husband was born into the Great Depression on a farm in the Flint Hills of Kansas where weather ruled life's rhythms.  Winter could be arduous. He slept with his brothers in an unheated room.  When food ran low, they ate steamed wheat and gravy. Water froze in the kitchen bucket.  In winter the boys dressed beside a stove in the kitchen. 

In Kentucky when snow fell, my children would beg to go sledding.  I remember one winter night when, after papering stairway walls, we went sledding with friends until midnight.  Laughter and brightly colored parkas sparkled in the icy air.  Our noses tingled, and snow caked our mittens .  Afterwards we warmed ourselves by a wood fire and drank hot chocolate. It was 1981, nearly one hundred years from the blizzards of 1888.

We are now five generations distant from the Schoolhouse Blizzard.  Weather scientists track storms to the minute. We are not precariously housed.  Most of us live within a short drive to groceries. We can work online.  Our most dramatic event is a household  teasing about which cookies to bake, oatmeal raisin or chocolate chip. 

This morning the mom of this Omaha family noticed that her bread pans were lying outside next to an unfinished snow fort.  In the night the family puppy had discovered a bag of chocolate candy hidden under an afghan. Pieces of gold foil littered the rug. A sock here, a towel over there, jackets on the floor, magazines askew -- the scene is definitely relaxed.

Last night we went sledding in the moonlight. I clung to my grandson as we careened down a steep sled run and over a mogul. The dogs chased us.  At the bottom of the hill, my daughter laughed, "Mom, you okay?!" The Big Dipper sparkled in the clear sky above.  It was thrilling.

Fact is, we are only inconvenienced when the airport closes, and relieved if we cannot go to work or to school. 

References:

The Children's Blizzard by David Laskin

HarperCollins, Oct 13, 2009 - History - 336 pages
Thousands of impoverished Northern European immigrants were promised that the prairie offered "land, freedom, and hope." The disastrous blizzard of 1888 revealed that their free homestead was not a paradise but a hard, unforgiving place governed by natural forces they neither understood nor controlled, and America’s heartland would never be the same.


The Blizzard Voices by Ted Kooser, Tom Pohrt (illustrator)

Bison Books, September 1, 2006 - poetry -  64 pages
This book is a collection of poems recording the devastation unleashed on the Great Plains by the blizzard of January 12, 1888. The Blizzard Voices is based on the actual reminiscences of the survivors as recorded in documents from the time and written reminiscences from years later. Here are the haunting voices of the men and women who were teaching school, working the land, and tending the house when the storm arrived and changed their lives forever.


Eighteen eighty-eight, a Thursday,
the twelfth of January:
It had been warm all morning,
with a soft, southerly breeze,
melting the snowdrifts back
from the roads.  There were bobwhite
and prairie chickens out
pecking for grit in the wheel-ruts.
0n lines between shacks and soddies,
women were airing their bedding--
bright quilts that flapped and billowed,
ticks sodden as thunderheads.
In the schoolyards, children
were rolling the wet, gray snow
into men, into fortresses,
laughing and splashing about,
in their shirtsleeves.  Their teachers
stood in the doorways and watched.

Odd weather for January;
a low line of clouds in the north;
too warm, too easy.  And the air
filled with electricity;
an iron poker held up
close to a stovepipe would spark,
and a comb drawn through the hair
would crackle. One woman said
she'd had to use a stick of wood
 to open her oven door.

Excerpted from Ted Kooser's The Blizzard Voices

Over the River and Through the Woods

Crab Orchard, Nebraska, today is a village of 38 people.  A paved road branches off from Highway 50, passes through the village, and continues eventually to the Johnson County courthouse, churches, and stores in Tecumseh, Nebraska.    A bridge crosses the north fork of the Little Nemaha River which drains into the Nemaha River and finally into the Missouri River.  Along both sides of the road through Crab Orchard are tilted buildings with broken windows, weedy empty lots, a few bungalows, some house trailers, and the outlines of foundations bereft of once proud structures.  The most substantial buildings today are the old Richardson gas station, the U.S. Post Office, and a two-story bungalow on a hill overlooking the post office. 

At one time Crab Orchard had five churches, the first school in Johnson County, and a rail line.  One of those churches was the Methodist Church where in the thirties my grandmother taught Sunday School, where my parents met as teenagers, and where many of my mother’s relatives were baptized and married.  Demolished in 1987, the Methodist church was the last church to stand in Crab Orchard. 

In the 1950's this same road through Crab Orchard was gravel.  I remember a general store, a hardware and farm supply store, an ice cream shop, a bank, two gas stations, the post office, two churches, a number of well kept bungalows, and an abandoned two-story brick high school.  

"Do you know where you are going?" my husband asked last summer as I drove through Crab Orchard on my way past what was once my grandparents' farm.

"Absolutely!" 

From San Francisco, cross the Oakland Bay Bridge, drive through Donner Pass in the Sierras -- listen to Dad’s tales of the starving Donner party -- skirt Reno and cross the dry desert to Winnemucca, Nevada -- stay overnight at a motel with a swimming pool -- cross the Salt Lake desert -- question Dad about Mormons and polygamy -- climb into the Rockies, stop at Steamboat Springs for hamburgers and cokes, wind through the Snowy Range near Medicine Bow -- quiz Dad about the Oregon Trail -- drop to the plains -- read Burma Shave signs -- cruise along rail lines through Rawlings, cross into Nebraska, veer southeast toward Beatrice along gravel roads with the setting sun at your back, cross the Nemaha River, poke along through four blocks of Crab Orchard, turn south at the rutted dirt road to Lewiston, pass three sections, and turn into the long lane to the white farm house with the screened-in front porch when you see the red barn, the mowed yard, the red tractor shed, the work shed, and the chicken house.

My mother, Helen Jeffery Collins, grew up near Crab Orchard on a farm with her one brother and three sisters.  Mom always said she never wanted to live on a farm again --ever!  We lived south of San Francisco with every convenience: a phone on a private line, running water from hot and cold spigots, showers, flush toilets, electricity, and forced air heat.  We walked to a neighborhood school with a classroom for every elementary grade level, a library, an auditorium, and a cafeteria.

Despite my mother's aversion to farm life, she waited eagerly for letters from her Nebraska family. Summer's joy was complete when Mom and Dad would pack us into the car for a vacation at the farm.  Singing and laughing with uncharacteristic liberty, my mother, a reflective and reticent woman, visibly glowed as we drew near Crab Orchard.  

Today an oil painting of the farm hangs in my study, a reminder of many escapades and explorations.  My brother Gary once lured my brother Burt and me to the top of the windmill where, frozen with fear, we yelled in vain to be rescued.  Against all rules, we repeatedly chased sows into a cedar grove until Grandpa discovered us and herded us into the house for a lecture about irritated sows and vulnerable piglets.  Hidden among cedar and oak trees lay abandoned, rusty farm equipment, where we invented wild adventures with happy endings.

Our arrival inspired Sunday family picnics on the front lawn and softball games.  I learned to milk a cow, pluck chickens, and haul water.  My brothers and I searched for litters of kittens in the hay loft and played hide and seek in fields of tall corn. If properly bribed, we would gather eggs from feisty hens.  Once we even attended the nearby one room school house with our cousins.

Running water was primitive.  A cistern stored water for cooking and bathing.  In the kitchen on the counter, a dipper hung on the edge of an enamel bucket.  Everyone drank from the common dipper.  When the level in the bucket was low,  my grandmother would send me to fetch more water from the well in the front yard. 

Honeysuckle sweetened the air.  Blue morning glories hung on the fence. The windmill's rusty squeaks mixed with clucking chickens and bawling calves.  I'd raise and lower the pump handle, feel its pressure, and listen for the rhythmic rush of rising water until -- swoosh -- cool water filled the bucket half-way, a proper child's portion of a bucket's burden.

Grandma's kitchen smelled of fresh bread, cherry pies, fried chicken, and corn pudding.  Grandpa's pungent work shed smelled of hot coals, heated iron, grease, and horse manure.  The night air buzzed with insects and tree frogs while we slept on cots on the screened front porch, a summer farm's version of air conditioning.

It was a sweet and wondrous place for city kids and a terrible responsibility for the adults -- this farm, homesteaded in the 1890's and virtually abandoned to nature today, the barn still standing as sturdy as ever but all else dissolving slowly into dust.

Yes, I can drive to the farm, from anywhere, from San Francisco, from Omaha, or from Bowling Green where I live today in modern comfort.  But I wouldn't want to stop at the old Jeffery farm along the Lewiston to Crab road, not today -- because the place vibrates in memory.  It's not possible to purchase back what once was.

The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel

My father was always scheming, always exploring, always day-dreaming.  When his eighty-year-old brain failed to grasp and retain current information, he reverted to plans, planted long ago in his fertile mind, which might explain his late life obsession with Egypt.

Although Dad's checkbook lay atop his desk, his bank account had been closed when he entered assisted living.  He had lost his driver's license for driving through too many stop signs and parking his truck in the middle of the road.  Nevertheless, he was determined to go to Egypt.  He would call his travel agent and tell her to research tours to Egypt.  This kind woman would play along, over and over.  It was his final trip to somewhere exotic, and to nowhere.

He'd call me and say, "I'm going to Egypt.  I set it up today."  I would ask when he was going.  He'd drift off for a few minutes into another story and then tell me again he was going to Egypt.  "I've always wanted to go to Egypt."

Egypt was Dad's Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.

I'd like to believe everyone desires magical moments, some spark of libidinous joy, something marvelous and wonderful, not just the recognition of such moments, but also their creation.

I've always wanted to tell the story of one elderly woman who chose not to tell her visitors on the day of her birthday that she had discovered her caretaker had predeceased her that morning.  Why spoil a perfectly good day with the dreadful news that Rosa was dead in an adjoining room?

The white-haired mother of a friend -- we'll call the mother Miriam -- cannot be left alone at all, especially now that Miriam wants to kiss strange men in restaurants and stores.  We learned long ago to appreciate this sweet woman's sense of humor and warmth.  I imagine she had always entertained herself with secret desires and admirations.  Now that her restraint button is on OFF, she's making the most of every two legged, bearded opportunity for affection.

A musician friend of mine -- we'll call her Grace -- doesn't know what day it is, can't keep track of her purse or glasses, and depends upon others for routine directions.  Her husband sees to her every need.  Grace can walk up to a piano and play Precious Lord by memory.  If she hears music, she sways and hums.  Three weeks ago she stood up in the church sanctuary and sang the hymn Holy Spirit, Truth Divine in two services.

When Grace arrived in the early morning, she paced and fretted.  "I can't do this.  I won't remember the words.  What am I singing?"

Her accompanist was gentle and confident, "We'll be fine.  I'll play and you'll follow me."  And that's exactly what happened.  Although the hymnal was open on the music stand, and her eyes strayed to the pages, she wasn't reading the words.  She was feeling them: "Holy Spirit, love divine, Glow within this heart of mine; Kindle every high desire; Perish self in Thy  pure fire."  Her face glowed with assurance; her hands gripped an unseen spirit; her body danced with invisible angels.  She sang as if praying.

And for four stanzas, we could witness that exotic, transcendent moment when desire finds sanctuary in "pure fire" where we "shall be firmly bound, forever free."  She transported us with her and well beyond "The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel."

Why this blog? February 1, 2013

Why this blog?
February 1, 2013

I wish I had a compelling and convincing answer to that question, but honestly I don't.

I've picked up a book that tells me the voice inside my head is not me as it blathers on and on like this: "It's time to leave.  Herb's already at church. It's too early.  I don't like to arrive until people are settled.  But what will I do in the meantime? I'll wash out this pan and clean the sink. Better wear an apron. You'll need more hand lotion. This stove is a mess. Herb keeps forgetting to clean it.  You don't have time to clean the stove.  Come on, you have to go. Did you lock the door? Careful!  Ice!  What have the birds done to the car!  Yuck!  Look at the hood! The windshield is a mess. I'll have to stop at the car wash."

How exhausting!  I'm sure glad that voice isn't me!

At one level of consciousness it is me, but not the "soul" me, the solid "I am!"  Instead I've described an internal monologue of conflict that may or may not be reliable.  The narrative could run silently, beneath the surface, but for me that narrative wants an audience for reasons I don't understand.

My husband has had cardio-vascular disease for twenty-four years.  He's ten years older than I am.  He's wearing out.  He's more distracted than usual.  He's often confused and frustrated by his waning mental acuity and physical strength.  He wishes he could be more and do more.  I sometimes feel like his dart board, but above all, he's a dear, sweet man -- beloved and admired.

Last week he made me a handsome wall hanger for my necklaces.  He repairs broken toys.  He builds bird houses.  He is writing a book.  He nurtures plants in our greenhouse.  He mentors student teachers for the university.  He's a church elder.  He gives wise counsel to our children.  He is generous and unassuming, and independent to a fault.

If only I could deny what is happening before my eyes:  "Damn! what is the word? I get so tired of this.  It's a thing, a whirligig, something that spins, a...you know...out there...you know....damn!" he sputters and shakes his head and gives up.

I'd like to write about natural beauty and art, about growing things, not dying things.  I'd like to look forward, not back, but when the future cannot be managed with earthly five year plans because anything could happen, it's time to consider what is immediately vibrant and worthy.

I'm owning up to inevitable changes.  We are never alone, but sometimes I grope about in a private darkness of anxiety and uncertainty.  I wish to be brave and dependable, wise and hopeful, amusing and friendly.  Don't we all?

I've decided to pick one word from the above list -- brave.  At least today.  I'm going to be brave and tell our story.  Week by week.  Maybe our story will resonate with someone else.

Our friends are private people.  Our children won't want publicity.  I'll do my best to protect our dear ones from Hollywood scouting agents when they come knocking at our doors -- think, Julia and Julia.        Fat chance!  We haven't a thing to worry about, not on that score.  I might burn the beef stew, but I sure wouldn't write about it!