Footprints Beneath the Dust

Blizzard of 1978

A Birthday Gift to My Husband

I remember the blizzard of 1978, mostly because it was the eve of my husband’s forty-third birthday and he was so concerned about the weather forecast that he nearly forgot about the date, to eat and to sleep. You see, he was the manager of an LP Gas company and sole delivery driver of said home fuel. Many people, some with small children or sick family members depended on him to bring their fuel and keep them warm.

It was not common practice for Barney to bring the big delivery truck home, for obvious reasons, but that night he was prompted to do so. The snow started to blanket the ground with the forecast of 4-6 inches of accumulation, not uncommon in the northern half of Indiana. I believe that amount had fallen before sundown, and throughout the night many more snowy inches stacked up outside our home. By morning we were literally snowed in. The drifts had covered the porch to the roof. Despite the urging, the front door would not open. Somehow, Barney made it out the back door into drifts towering over his six-foot-one head.

Time has dimmed the details of his laborious task of freeing his family from the cold, white cocoon, but he miraculously shoveled our porch and sidewalk out to the towering snowdrifts that enveloped the neighborhood.

Over the police scanner came a continuous roar of frantic voices of those who were not prepared for the storm. I remember an emergency crew mounting snowmobiles to get to those in dire need. We listened to calls from people out of medicine, many without food and even a plea from a pregnant woman in labor. The workers were doing their best to keep everyone safe.

Meanwhile, our phone began to ring. Everyone was suddenly out of gas. Many were panicky, afraid that the gas in their tank would not be enough to outlast the storm. Others were truly cold.

All the while my husband paced the floor, racking his brain for a solution. Another customer dialed our number. A farmer with much at stake if his gas ran out. My husband sadly related his predicament to this gentleman.  A pause at the other end of the line was followed by a determined plea.

“If I can get your truck out, will you bring me gas?” the farmer asked.

Barney readily agreed. Donning his heaviest clothes, he filed out into the storm, determined to conquer the massive drifts surrounding the delivery truck.

At that time, we lived in the big town of Hartford City, Indiana, a quiet little berg of friendly folk and smiling faces. Directly across the street lived the street commissioner and two doors to the east lived our mayor/town barber.

Somewhere around noon the groan of heavy equipment sounded outside of our house. Barney took the large lunch I had packed and set out for a wild ride into the deep white yonder. True to his word, the farmer had climbed into his backhoe, charting a course where no man had gone before. Down his country road, through several miles of highway and onto our city street he pushed the ten to twelve foot drifts to the side, making a path for my husband and his loaded truck. Unfortunately, the path ended a few feet short of my car, and our important neighbor’s driveways. It would be at least two weeks before I could unearth my vehicle.

That was the last I saw of my husband for more than twelve hours. Well after midnight he came home. I fed him a warm meal and he climbed into bed, shivering for about four hours until it was time to get up and start all over again. He worked twenty hour days for what seemed an eternity.

During the aftermath of the blizzard I was privileged to go with Barney a time or two to make deliveries. I guess you could consider it our “date night”, being we had had so little time together. I watched as he pulled the heavy equipment around barns and houses, digging to find the gas tank and connect the hose. I was astonished to find we had been walking over top of cars buried so deep in the drifts that we didn’t know they were there. It bore a bazaar resemblance to the Star Wars planet of Hoth, except I didn’t have a Tauntaun to ride.

After the snow had finally settled into its frozen, meringue-like peeks, I emptied our five-gallon water storage containers for Barney to take to a local dairy farm where the milk was being dumped on the ground. The roads were not yet semi-truck friendly, but the cows still had to be milked twice a day. The farmer gladly filled the jugs with fresh milk. Barney delivered some of the jugs to the hospital and a few other places around town that were in need. My son, Joseph and I busied ourselves baking homemade yeast bread and delivering one loaf and a quart of milk to each of our neighbors. The shelves of the grocery stores had been barren since the day before the blizzard arrived.

Although it was a tough time for many, my husband high on the list, it was a time of unity. Neighbors helping neighbors, strangers helping one another and people finding common ground. To my knowledge not a single life was lost but many friendships formed.

When we look back on the “blizzards” of the past, I guess it stands to reason that spectacular rainbows show even brighter after the darkest storms.

     Virginia’s tree-covered mountains are ancient, some of the oldest in the world, I’ve been told. Trees cover most every inch that has not been cleared by man or nature. I watch the gentle breeze tickle the tops of the massive Oak trees, dislodging long forgotten secrets lingering in the towering branches. Secrets left by man and creature since life began. If I sit motionless I can almost feel the ground tremble as a carnivorous dinosaur tears through the underbrush in search of his hapless dinner. I hear dry leaves crunch beneath fleeting hooves as the whoosh of an arrow slices through the forest. A newborn baby whimpers in the chill of a dark night, nestled in his mother’s arm while his parents huddle around a sputtering campfire. The long forgotten sounds of children’s laughter, dogs barking, timber falling, filters through the growing trees and the world turns a few more times. Shots from a soldier’s musket ricochets through the night. Cannon’s blast as a call to charge and courageous shouts are suspended in time. Smoke-filled silence hangs like a banner of honor over the tragic scene. Somewhere a fatherless child cries.

      Like the towering trees that line the crest of the mountain, life changes with the seasons. As a wrinkled, naked baby enters the unfamiliar world, another soul slips from this life into the great hereafter.

      The mountains will stand long after my mortal body is laid to rest. Maybe the mountains will hold the secrets of my life, sprinkling them about as the gentle wind tickles their uppermost branches.