Blizzard of Thoughts
Just the word brings back so much in the way of remembering. The Blizzard of '77 was epic...and despite the horror of it for the adults it was a lot of fun for a 12-year-old kid.
Two weeks off from school.
Monopoly games with the entire family.
Street hockey in the blowing and drifting cold.
When they started talking about the 'polar vortex' over the weekend it brought a feeling with it.
They weren't kidding.
And here in Western New York if all the conditions line up just right...we're at the mercy of old man winter.
As the travel bans started coming in, and after Kathy stumbled through the door after a nearly two hour 15-mile trip home, we were safe.
I started thinking about the kids most of all and what they'd remember of being locked in the house.
On Monday night, just before midnight, I tried looking out my bedroom window and I thought of my Dad and a conversation we had long ago.
Me: It must be terrible to freeze to death.
Dad: Why do you think like that?
Me: Would you rather freeze to death or burn to death?
Dad: Neither, you stupid bastard.
And we had both laughed.
We shared so many of those types of moments through the years. We were both so consistent in our thoughts. We traded arguments and philosophies and it has frequently occurred to me that he was often on the other side of the argument.
I suspect he was doing that on purpose.
As I recalled that single conversation I saw him in all his glory. Tall and proud and sarcastic and loving and jovial.
"You and Sam have the same discussions almost word for word," My beautiful wife said.
Here I was thinking about Dad and me, but she was right.
The same discussion now, started by Sam (or any of my boys) would probably go the same way.
And we would also laugh.
On Tuesday morning Matt finally got out of bed.
I summoned Sam.
"Tell Matt I need the newspaper and a can of chew," I said.
Sam was happy to deliver the news, knowing that I didn't really want Matt to go but that he'd worry about heading out.
Then I forgot about it.
A half an hour later I passed Matt in the hall. He was dressed for the North Pole.
"What're you doing?" I asked.
"Going to the store," he said.
"There's a travel ban," I answered.
"You don't really want the paper and chew?"
"As fun as it would be to see you try, I was joking."
"It took me 20 minutes to get dressed! Sam! I'm gonna' kill you!!"
And then it sort of hit me.
Perhaps 36 or so years from now one of them will be looking out the window at a coming storm.
And they'll think of their old man.
And smile.
Two weeks off from school.
Monopoly games with the entire family.
Street hockey in the blowing and drifting cold.
When they started talking about the 'polar vortex' over the weekend it brought a feeling with it.
They weren't kidding.
And here in Western New York if all the conditions line up just right...we're at the mercy of old man winter.
As the travel bans started coming in, and after Kathy stumbled through the door after a nearly two hour 15-mile trip home, we were safe.
I started thinking about the kids most of all and what they'd remember of being locked in the house.
On Monday night, just before midnight, I tried looking out my bedroom window and I thought of my Dad and a conversation we had long ago.
Me: It must be terrible to freeze to death.
Dad: Why do you think like that?
Me: Would you rather freeze to death or burn to death?
Dad: Neither, you stupid bastard.
And we had both laughed.
We shared so many of those types of moments through the years. We were both so consistent in our thoughts. We traded arguments and philosophies and it has frequently occurred to me that he was often on the other side of the argument.
I suspect he was doing that on purpose.
As I recalled that single conversation I saw him in all his glory. Tall and proud and sarcastic and loving and jovial.
"You and Sam have the same discussions almost word for word," My beautiful wife said.
Here I was thinking about Dad and me, but she was right.
The same discussion now, started by Sam (or any of my boys) would probably go the same way.
And we would also laugh.
On Tuesday morning Matt finally got out of bed.
I summoned Sam.
"Tell Matt I need the newspaper and a can of chew," I said.
Sam was happy to deliver the news, knowing that I didn't really want Matt to go but that he'd worry about heading out.
Then I forgot about it.
A half an hour later I passed Matt in the hall. He was dressed for the North Pole.
"What're you doing?" I asked.
"Going to the store," he said.
"There's a travel ban," I answered.
"You don't really want the paper and chew?"
"As fun as it would be to see you try, I was joking."
"It took me 20 minutes to get dressed! Sam! I'm gonna' kill you!!"
And then it sort of hit me.
Perhaps 36 or so years from now one of them will be looking out the window at a coming storm.
And they'll think of their old man.
And smile.
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