I admit it. I love snow. I think it’s one of the most beautiful things that nature has to offer. As soon as those first gentle flakes start to fall, I’m usually in my car, driving back roads through the country and soaking in the quiet magic of a new snowfall. Friends and family have often accused me of being insane, rolling their eyes in disgust when I express excitement over the fact that there’s a storm in our forecast.
However, last week’s big blizzard in southern New England – variously described by local news outlets as a “snowicane”, “snowpocalypse”, or “bomb cyclone” – did cause me to question whether my love for snow could be souring.
This recent storm has been compared to one I experienced when I was living in Massachusetts back in the winter of 1978, a record-setting blizzard that descended on us with very little advance warning. I was at my university when afternoon classes got cancelled due to the snow emergency. Although I lived in the city of Fall River, about 15 miles from campus, the blizzard hit with such speed and force that I panicked and went to my friend Debbie’s house in New Bedford, which was only a couple of miles away. It seemed like the safer bet at the time and in a few short hours the blizzard buried us in 27” of snow, roads were impassible for days, and a travel ban went into effect, forbidding non-essential travel for the next three days.
After spending only a few hours at what I thought was the sanctuary of Debbie’s house, I realized I’d made a terrible mistake. You never really know someone till you’re trapped with them in close quarters during a natural disaster! I became uncomfortably aware that Debbie seemed to have set her sights set on me as a potential love interest. My suspicions were confirmed when her mother, an eccentric woman who worked in a factory that produced casings for bomb shells – I’m not making this up – began asking me to call her “mom”. I felt a slowly-building panic at the realization that I could actually be stranded here with these two for days , so after a fitful night’s sleep, I decided to carry out an escape plan.
The first thing the next morning, I grabbed a shovel and spent hours digging my car out of three-to-four-foot snow drifts. I’d parked on a side street that had yet to be plowed, but fueled by pure desperation, I shoveled a path almost a full city block long and wide enough for my car to navigate until I reached a major cross-street. It took hours, and though Debbie and her mom kept reminding me that even if I could get my car out, roads were dangerous and the travel ban was still in effect, their warnings fell on deaf ears. I honestly believed that my escape from Debbie’s place qualified as “essential travel” and was prepared to make my case to any police officer who might happen to stop me as I tried to drive the 15 miles to my apartment in Fall River. With a cheerful wave at Debbie and “mom” as they faded from view in my rear-view mirror, I managed to reach home with no problem, overcome with relief and gratitude as I closed the door behind me and entered the silence of my own apartment.
Almost 50 years later, I am now living in New Bedford. In January we had an impressive storm that dropped a foot of snow but surprisingly posed only a minor inconvenience. I easily dug my car out of its space and left town for a planned road trip to Virginia the day after the storm. Roads were fine the whole way down the coast, and because people were probably worried about driving conditions, traffic was light and the trip was easy. And with apologies to all my friends and family, I thought the snow that was clinging to everything as I left New England and drove down through Pennsylvania and Virginia looked beautiful!
Last week, news outlets began issuing urgent warnings about an upcoming blizzard, but I wasn’t overly concerned. After all, I’d survived the Blizzard of ‘78 with only a few persistent symptoms of PTSD thanks to Debbie and “mom” more so than the snow itself, and our lovely January storm had just left me wanting more, so I was looking forward to this approaching storm. I did fill my gas tank and fought the apocalyptic hordes to grab a few essentials at the grocery store in anticipation that things might be difficult for a day or so. Then I settled into my La-Z-Boy recliner and tuned in to a Yule Log Fireplace channel on TV. I lit the Christmas tree lights (yes, I still haven’t taken my tree down… maybe by St. Patrick’s Day?) and waited for the first flakes to fall.
Late Sunday night, it began. I watched millions of blowing snowflakes begin angrily swirling in the glow of the streetlights. I heard the wind screeching and howling and weather reports stated that the wind speeds in this storm were comparable to those observed in a Category 2 hurricane! I sat up most of the night watching the storm before finally falling asleep in the recliner.
As the first light dawned on Monday morning, I realized that I couldn’t see anything through the living room windows. In fact, every window in my apartment was completely covered and crusted over with blowing snow and ice. I went to the back porch door and in my entire life, I don’t think I’ve ever seen it snowing that hard or accumulating that quickly. Visibility was a few yards at best, and I saw that the entire side of the two-story house next door was coated in snow just like my windows. I probably should have gone outside to make a dent in shoveling the porches and the walkway at this point, but one look at the raging storm outside and having not slept, I opted to close the door, go to bed and sleep for much of the day.
Late that afternoon, I looked out my front door and could barely find my car. It was buried in about two feet of snow, with drifts twice that high creeping up onto the hood. Again, I considered going out to try and do a bit of shoveling, but the snow was still coming down at almost an inch and hour and not one of my neighbors had even attempted to begin digging out, so I decided to wait until morning when the storm was over.
As I awoke on Tuesday morning, I could hear Maureen McGovern famous theme song from the famous disaster film, The Poseidon Adventure running through my mind:
“There’s got to be a morning after if we can hold on through the night. We have a chance to find the sunshine. Let’s keep on looking for the light…”
Looking out the living room window, I was nearly blinded by the brilliant sunshine, which seemed even brighter as it reflected off the blanket of white that was the street in front of my house. New Bedford had received a record 37” of snow over the past day or so, and the winds had created enormous drifts everywhere. Surveying the scene, I wondered whether even the biggest, baddest snow plow would ever be able to tackle all this snow and dig us out of this mess.
I attempted to open both my front and back doors, only to find them jammed by many inches of drifted snow. I had to push hard to get my arm out there with a broom and awkwardly brush enough snow out of the way so that I could eventually squeeze my body out onto the porch to start shoveling. I managed to clear the stairs and the path from my back door out to the sidewalk, but at the entrance to the yard, snow drifts had created a wall about four feet deep, and I gave up at that point. It dawned on me that it might be a couple of days before I’d be able to get to the sidewalk and try to excavate my car from the spot where I’d parked.
Confident that a heart attack from all my shoveling was not imminent, I had some breakfast. As I was returning to my living room, I did a double take when I noticed someone pushing huge piles of snow off the roof of my car. I went out again to investigate and found that my next-door neighbor had not only dug his own car out, but was halfway done with mine. Before I could even question or protest, he said, “Don’t worry. I’ve got it! You just go inside and relax. I’ll take care of all of this.”
Though I’d occasionally seen this guy in the neighborhood, I’d never exchanged more than a casual “hello” with him. I introduced myself and learned that my hero’s name was Danny. I’d brought my shovel out with me, intending to help him – the least I could do given that he was in the process of shoveling MY car out of the drifts. But he politely and firmly explained that he likes doing this kind of physical work, he was bored being cooped up inside for two days, he was enjoying the sun and fresh air, and he loves working by himself and enjoying the quiet. There was no arguing with him, so after half-heartedly pushing a few stray chunks of snow out of the way, I obeyed his orders and went back inside.
I consulted social media to see what was happening around the area and learned that in nearby Fall River they were dealing with 41″ of snow and residents were up in arms that streets weren’t being plowed quickly enough. I had a good chuckle when I read an update on New Bedford’s city news page. City Hall, the library, all retail stores and all schools were of course closed, but it also said that no Dunkin’ Donuts locations in the city were open. I realized now that I was living through a natural disaster of epic proportions. When New Englanders are deprived of their Dunkin fix, we’re in crisis mode!
Later in the day other neighbors finally wandered outside and started digging their cars out. Danny was still busy as well, but I was unnerved by the fact that as they shoveled, everyone was throwing the snow into the middle of our still-unplowed street. I’d just watched a news conference during which the mayor implored people NOT to do this, as it would impede getting the streets plowed. I was tempted to speak up, but when good Samaritans are digging you out of a blizzard, it seems wrong to find fault with where they are putting all that snow. So, I quietly watched as my neighbors created a pile of snow at least five feet high down the entire length of our block. I couldn’t imagine how any plow would ever be able to deal with this. However, I noticed that our major cross street hadn’t been plowed either, so there was no way that any of us were going anywhere anytime soon, even though our cars were now totally accessible!
To my amazement, when I woke up on Wednesday, I saw that a snowplow had indeed come down my street. Of course, the plow had left a wall of snow on either side of the street, sealing our cars between it and the curb. Before I could even get dressed, Danny was out there again shoveling through a five-foot wall of hardened snow. I went out to assist, but again he told me that he had all day to do this and that I should just leave him to it.
By late on Wednesday afternoon, Danny had successfully torn down the wall, and I was finally able to get in my car and make a trip to the grocery store, feeling like I’d just been sprung from prison. I was in awe of the mountains of snow that had been created by the plows. I’ve seen bunny slopes at ski resorts that weren’t this high! Side streets were still a little dicey and it was often hard to see whether there was oncoming traffic at intersections due to the huge snow piles.
And so, the Blizzard of ’26 is over and New England is getting back to normal. By Friday and Saturday, we experienced temperatures close to 50 degrees, making some progress in shrinking all those piles of snow. On Sunday morning it snowed for a couple hours, though there was no additional accumulation and by midnight the temperature dropped to just 9 degrees! Yep, New England’s own special brand of “normal” weather. And I am happy to report that all Dunkin’ Donuts shops are open for business once again.
I will admit that the blizzard persuaded this diehard snow lover that we’ve probably had quite enough snow for one winter. But ultimately it hasn’t changed my mind – and so while I will not say it out loud in front of my snow-weary friends and family, I still think it’s beautiful!
MATT: AT HOME IN THE WORLD 