The Blizzard of ‘93

I always wanted one of those t-shirts that said, “I Survived the Blizzard of ’93,” because we did, with the help of a special friend.  Today is the 30th anniversary.  I present this story, in honor of her. 

“What a rip-off,” I told my friend Tony on the evening of March 12, 1993.  “I can’t believe it’s snowing on a Friday.  We’re gonna be stuck inside all weekend, and then it will melt just in time for school on Monday.”

                Tony made an excited noise.  “No.  We’re gonna get a ton of snow overnight.”

                “Then why aren’t all the weather people saying that?” 

                “They will be soon.”

                Tony was really into forecasting the weather.  He wanted to become a meteorologist after college.  He watched Matt Hinkin and Margie Ison with the same fervor some people watched televangelists.

                I knew him well enough to know he took his hobby seriously, but it was safer to stay pessimistic.

                “Anything is possible, I guess,” I told him.  “Unfortunately, I still think I’ll be trying not to fall asleep in Biology come Monday morning.”

                “I’ve gotta go,” Tony said abruptly.  “I need to get back outside and evaluate the conditions.”

                “Bye, Tony Baloney.” 

                I hung up the phone and grabbed the worn-out, coverless Stephen King paperback off my bedroom floor.  I had read it a dozen times.  For some reason, a terrifying eternal evil creature who took the shape of a clown comforted me the same way soothing music might comfort a normal teenager.  Supernatural evil seemed kind of charming when matched against the real-life horror of a half-dozen bounced checks and a whole week until payday. 

                This had recently happened because Mom had taken a chance on a full tank of gas at Weigel’s.  We had been coasting on fumes.  Stuff like this happened all the time, and I felt powerless to stop it.  I tried to look on the bright side by hoping things would work out somehow.  They usually did.

Sort of.

                I read for a while and then flipped my book face down, leaving it open on the bed.  I drifted off to sleep with the lights still on.  That clown would never scare me, God, I told Him. I would just flip him the bird and go back to worrying about the trailer payment. My prayers were always half commentary and half petition.  I praised God only when I really had something to celebrate.  Please let us be able to afford all the overdraft fees and not have any more bounced checks this month.  InJesusnameIpray, amen.

                When I woke up the next morning, my overhead light was dark.  At first, I thought Mom had come into my room during the night and turned it off, but I also noticed a chill in the air.  Why was it so cold?

                I draped my blanket around my shoulders while my feet fished for the legs of the dirty jeans I had left on the floor.  Partially dressed, I wandered into the living room with the blanket still around me.

                Mom and Sissy were curled up on the couch next to each other.  Cookie was next to Sissy, her snout resting on her haunches.  The need for warmth had transformed her long hound body from a kielbasa into a sausage patty.

                “The power’s out,” said Mom, “and it’s snowing.”

I looked out the rectangular window of our front door.  Everything was covered in snow – the deck, the car, the street.  Even our holly bushes, tough even in their brown and wilted state, were indistinguishable under the inches of powder.  There was nothing to see except cotton balls of various size.  

                “Tony was right,” I said, astonished.  “He said we were going to get a ton of snow.”

                “Well, what else did he say?” asked Mom.  “Is this gonna melt soon so KUB can get the power back on?  I need to make you girls something to eat, unless Cookie wants to share her breakfast.”

                Cookie, upon hearing her name in the same sentence as the word breakfast, thumped her tail in delight. 

                “He didn’t say, but I don’t think so.”  I began to feel worried.  Trailers weren’t as well-insulated as regular houses.  If the power stayed off for hours, or even days, we could be in trouble.  We didn’t have a kerosene heater or anything else to keep us warm, and there was no way Mom could drive our Mercury Topaz up the hill of our trailer park – or even out of the driveway.

                “What are we going to do?”  I asked.

                Mom thought quickly.  She was always good in a crisis.  It was a by-product of her hardscrabble upbringing.  “I’m gonna call Wanda before these phones go out,” she said.  “Maybe she can come get us in her mail truck.”

                Mom had met Wanda at church years before, when we were brand new to Karns and to the Methodist church.  Although the Karns Methodists were not as flashy as the Baptists we had left behind in South Knoxville, they were serious about their faith and committed to helping people in need.  Plus, their method of baptism was sprinkling, not immersion, which I preferred.  My crunchy perm behaved the best with minimal hair-washing.

                Wanda had adopted us into her already large family, inviting us for Sunday supper anytime we wanted and encouraging us to reach out if we needed anything.  We loved her and had come to rely on her. 

Wanda worked at the post office.  The three of us were delighted by her homemade mail truck, outfitted with two steering wheels so she could deliver the mail on either side of the road.  We had never known a female letter carrier before.  We considered every Lerner’s catalog or utility bill she delivered a presorted blow to the patriarchy, and we were proud to know her and call her our friend. 

Mom picked up the receiver and dialed Wanda’s number.  Each boop of the touchtone phone was louder than usual since there was no background noise.  I heard Wanda pick up and say hello.

“Hey woman, it’s Linda,” said Mom.  “Listen, the trailer lost power and it’s getting colder in here.  Me and the girls want to know if you might be able to come pick us up in your mail truck and take us over to your house.”

“And Cookie, too,” I said loudly.  I didn’t think Mom would leave Cookie behind, but I had seen her suddenly cut bait in the name of survival many times over the years.  I wasn’t taking any chances.

“And Cookie,” Mom added.  “Do y’all have power?”  She paused.  “Mmm-hmm. Yep.  Really?  Well, I’ll be boogered.  Are you sure you don’t mind?  Ok.  We’ll be ready.”  Mom placed the receiver back into its plastic bottom. 

“Girls, get ready.  Wanda’s son has a truck with a 4-wheel drive.  His family’s there because their power’s out, too.  He’s gonna come by and pick us up.  We need to pack enough clothes for a few days, just in case.”

“We’re taking Cookie, right?” I asked.

“Good Lord, Heather Pooh.  Yes.”

Mom, Sissy, and I headed to our rooms to pack.  I didn’t have a suitcase, so I dumped all the items out of my backpack instead.  I looked at the Algebra and World History books that had tumbled out on the bed.  Should I take them?  I waffled, then begrudgingly put them back.  I added some underclothes and my other pair of jeans, my Stevie Ray Vaughan shirt, and a flannel. 

My paperback wouldn’t fit, but I didn’t mind.  Wanda had an entire shelf of V.C. Andrews hardbacks and old yearbooks in her living room.  I’d have plenty to read there.

“Mom?” I yelled across the house.  “Is my Jimi Hendrix shirt dry?”  We had a washer, but our dryer was broken, so all the wet laundry in the house got hung up in Mom’s walk-in closet until it was no longer soaking.  It was a great inconvenience, one brought to us by Poverty™.

“Yes!” she yelled back, “and so is your turtleneck.” 

I made my way to the other side of the trailer and retrieved my stiff clothing.  I tossed the blanket off my shoulders and onto Mom’s bed.  I pulled the dingy white turtleneck over my head.

My Hendrix shirt crackled as I rolled it up.  There was still a touch of dampness around the neck and under the arms, but I stuffed it into the backpack’s opening anyway.  I headed back to my room and unzipped the front pocket.  I grabbed a handful of pens, pencils, and a week’s worth of notes passed between classes, replacing them with my toothbrush and our toothpaste. 

“I packed the toothpaste!”  I told them.  I would feel weird using another family’s Colgate.

After I finished packing, I helped Mom load a Kroger bag with Cookie’s wet food, and we sat and waited for Wanda’s son, Wayne.

Thirty minutes passed before we heard the truck engine outside.  Wanda’s house was normally only ten minutes away. 

“There’s Wayne!” Mom and I said simultaneously.  We locked up the house and carefully made our way to the truck.  Cookie, who had gingerly made her way down the two deck stairs, was immediately chest-deep in the soft snow.  Sissy put her backpack down and scooped Cookie into her arms.

Wayne helped us with our bags and into the truck.  Our first words were ones of gratitude.

“The news is saying this is the most snow we’ve had in thirty years,” said Wayne.

“I believe that,” replied Mom.  “Are we gonna make it up the hill of the trailer park without sliding?”

“I think so, but it don’t hurt to pray.”

Wayne’s truck made it almost all the way to the top of the hill before we felt the wheels lose their grip on the road.  My heart sunk.

Please God.  Please God.  Please God.  Please God.  I crossed my fingers and toes just in case it gave my prayer extra power.

Wayne gently pressed on the accelerator.  The wheels made a popping sound, which thankfully jerked the truck forward.  We rounded the corner and cleared the hill.

We sighed with relief.  Once we were out of the trailer park, the roads improved, though not by much.  The glistening white snow covered all, and still, it continued to fall.  Wayne’s truck slowly crept down the street until we arrived at Wanda’s house.

“Have y’all had breakfast yet?”  We shook our heads.  “Well, get on in there,” Wayne said.  “Mama made ham and biscuits.” 

Sissy toddled into the house holding Cookie.  I slung both our backpacks over my shoulders and followed.  Wanda was waiting for us in the kitchen.  She reached out to each of us with a hug, swatting the upper flanks of our backs rapidly, like any Southern mammaw would.

“Do you girls mind sleeping on the floor in the living room?” she asked.  “We can give your mama the couch.” We murmured our agreement and thanks.  “And you can sleep on the floor, too, Cookie,” she continued, and we laughed.  Cookie was used to making herself at home.  Keeping her off the couch would be a challenge.

After a late breakfast, we bundled up and walked back outside.  The snow had finally stopped falling. Wayne’s kids played in the front yard, plunging butt first into the deep drifts.  Making angels was impossible; the best they could do was leave behind rounded, kid-sized holes.  I stayed close to the door and observed the blanketed neighborhood from the porch. 

Full of biscuits and jam and surprisingly content, I went back inside and sat down to watch TV.  The noon news was on.  The only story was the snow.  There were live reports from outside the studio, people-on-the-street interviews via phone, multiple animations of the radar, and continual astonishment from the weather team.  The anchors called it, “The Storm of the Century.”

I smiled, happy for Tony.  He’d make a great meteorologist one day.

Afternoon turned into evening.  Wanda made a delicious batch of chili for dinner.  I ate so much, my stomach felt like a parade balloon.  Even so, I remained content.

  After brushing our teeth, Mom, Sissy, and I got comfortable in the living room.  Mom was asleep and snoring before long, but Sissy and I stayed up to watch Saturday Night Live.  Wanda showed us how to set the sleep timer on the TV and then retired to her bedroom. 

I shimmied off my jeans under the covers.  I had forgotten to pack my nightgown, but I’d be ok.  I propped my head to the side and rested my ear on the crook of my arm.  The skits tonight were pretty good.  There was a Richmeister sketch - the annoying office guy who sat next to the copy machine - and I knew John Goodman, the host, from Roseanne.

I started to get sleepy during Weekend Update.  The last thing I saw as I closed my eyes was Chris Farley, covered in fake snow, pretending to be The Storm of the Century.

That’s so cool, I thought.  Even SNL is talking about it.

I had a sudden urge to say my prayers.  A few drops of adrenaline flicked into my bloodstream, keeping me awake for just a minute more.

We were welcome to stay at Wanda’s house as long as we wanted, which would likely be several days.  There would be plenty of warmth and plenty of food.  We wouldn’t be using the car or burning the Weigel’s unleaded that had cost our family so dearly.  And if all our needs were met this week, we wouldn’t have to write any more bounced checks for a while.

I never understand why your provision has to be so frickin’ complicated, God. But thank you.  

I wondered if the manna that had once fallen from the sky looked similar to the feathery flakes coating every inch of our region.

The gentle hum of the heater lulled me to sleep. For now, we were sustained.