A remembered ride home in a snow storm

                   The wind chill in Buffalo right now is in the minus digits. The wind speed is in the 60-mph range. It is dubbed by meteorologists as “a generational storm.” Watching it, from the chilly but manageable environs of Southwest Florida, made me remember what it was like. I remembered one memorable ride home in the snow, some years back. I was at work in down town Buffalo. It went this way.



Along about three o’clock a message came from The Emergency Services Department advising us that we were to urge all employees to go home at three o’clock. It was the first inkling for me that we were in for it. I debated whether or not to stay in the office and ride out the storm. Like all gamblers, I decided to make a run for it to the South Towns, hoping to beat the advance of the storm. It was to be my first error of the day.



The building elevators were jammed. The feeling was one of “catching the last life boat” on a sinking ship. Everyone knew it was a race to get home before the weather locked us in. We got to our cars easily enough and then turned on to Franklin Street. The traffic was heavy and slow moving, but it is that way on most days, so I had no cause for immediate alarm. I turned right onto Court St. and headed East across Main St., finally managing to reach the Elm Street Arterial. The traffic was heavy but still moving. I made it to Seneca street and opted to take the “surface streets” rather than the Thruway. It wasn’t one of my better decisions. Very quickly, traffic ground to a halt. The heavy wet snow exploded above us with frequent lightning bursts and powerful gusts of wind.



The distance forward was measured in inches, sometimes even a few feet. The windshield kept fogging over and the snow and ice would encrust and freeze the wipers and windows. I had to constantly exit the car, brushing the accumulations of snow and ice from the windows and wipers during the frequent periods of standing dead still while the storm exploded over our heads.



One of the radio stations began to take calls and offered to coordinate help for stranded motorists. Unlike the blizzard of 77’, cell phones were a fixture in many of the stalled cars. A constant novena of pleas for help drifted out over the sodden and frozen air waves. The snow was piling up underneath us and the path forward was along two deep and frozen ruts in the heavy snow. As we approached each intersection, the competing current of vehicles crossing the intersection fought against our tide southward us on Seneca St. Each intersection became a battle of wills and spinning tires as the conga line inched forward. Periodically, some cowboy in a four-wheel drive would roar down the opposite lane facing oncoming traffic and tempting the fates and a head on collision in the blinding snow. Fortunately, there weren’t many of these yahoos about. 



The casual pedestrians were angels in the snow. A welcome push from one, to a skidding vehicle, might make the difference on whether or not it made those last few inches up the icy incline of the bridge. Bless them for their selfless spirit, they always seem to spring up like dandelions in Buffalo emergencies. It is a frontier spirit of overcoming shared adversities that is an admirable quality of Buffalo people. 

The feeling of sitting in an immovable car on a rut that was leading nowhere, hour after hour, was one of impotent frustration at the inability to affect one’s fate. I can now more properly empathize with those several unfortunate souls, in the blizzard of ‘77, who sat in their stalled or stranded vehicles, hour after hour, watching the fuel supply evaporate and the wind and the snow howl around them until icy calm brought them final surcease.



As you are sitting there in the storm, you don’t really think of yourself in mortal danger. It was only when I ventured outside to clear the windows and wiper blades every few minutes that I felt the full force of the storm. I was not dressed properly for the weather and wouldn’t have long survived the storm should I be forced to abandon the vehicle. I looked over carefully the buildings and enterprises that I might have to seek refuge in. A fire station at Elk and Seneca looked promising.







But, I crept forward ever so slowly until I barely managed to crest the slippery ridge of the intersection at Smith and Seneca Streets. It was there that I almost gave up. Traffic was creeping North from Seneca, East from Smith and South from the immobile conga line that I sat in. All three streams were attempting to merge into the one creeping lane headed east on Smith street to a fate and a destination I knew not. It was one of those moments in time when you either accede to your fate or roll the dice and set a course against the tide. I have never been much in favor of letting fate decide my course.









Impulsively, I decided to roll the dice and slid onto Smith St., headed West into the face of the storm. Maybe I could find a way out of this mess. The snow ruts were well over 15” deep as I bumped along. Several cars ahead of me sat immobile, wheels spinning in place. Too many years of mild Winters and “all weather radials.” I was thankful for the front wheel drive and the powerful traction of the lower gears of my Ford Escort. I managed to slide around the spinning wheels and slalom into the intersection of Smith and Elk Streets. A burst of engine power carried me over the bridge there and I was free. 







Ahead of me lay the open expanse of Elk Street. It was “open,” because no plows had yet gone down there yet and the “path” consisted of two ruts in the 15” of snow. I didn’t stop to think about the problem, just concentrated on keeping my car in the two ruts and heading onward away from the stalled line of cars. Most vehicles have a tendency to “fishtail” side to side in the snow. It is an art to constantly turn into the skid and correct anew without spinning out of control in a hopeless 360-degree spin that would bury you in a snow bank. In the distance, through the flurries, I could see the neon lights of the “Three J’s” bar. I knew that South Buffalo, my boy hood home, lay dead ahead. For the very first time, I thought that I just might make it home this night.



At the Seneca Street exit of the Niagara Thruway, I expected to see a line of cars leaving the Thruway, but there was not a one. Either all Southbound traffic had cleared the area in the five hours I had sat stalled on Seneca Street or worse, the traffic was stalled on the Thruway and no one could get off. I said a silent prayer for fellow travelers and wished them god speed.



I sailed through the intersection of Elk and Bailey, bouncing along in the deep ruts and praying that the Lord would guide me straight and true. It is always interesting how close to the Lord you become when you really need him to help you out.



At Elk and Seneca, I expected another solid line of traffic from downtown, but there wasn’t any at all. The intersection of Bailey and Seneca must be the barrier that was blocking all South bound traffic. I wondered, somewhat peevishly, why someone in an official capacity hadn’t tried to unplug these bottlenecks and keep the traffic moving. Perhaps in the heat of the storm, there are only so many things that an overwhelmed municipality can cope with. The rest, as in frontier days, is reliance upon our own courage and resourcefulness.



I made the turn onto Seneca St., and sailed Southward in ruts that were at least passable. Several urchins tried desperately to grab onto my car’s bumpers for that dangerous ride, but I managed to elude them with bursts of speed. I felt for all the world like a Pony Express Rider making a mad dash through a hostile countryside.



As I crossed the border into West Seneca, my relief was palpable. The roads were crusted with snow, but passable. Without effort, I made the corner of Seneca and Ridge, almost home. A turn East onto Ridge and a few blocks over and I slid into my own street, just shy of Union Road. The street hadn’t been plowed yet. Ruefully, I thought that I would get bogged down after all I had been through. But, I slalomed into my driveway and turned off the ignition, happy to be home and safe.





My wife was waiting for me, concern etched on her face. I wasn’t one of the high-tech drivers who was equipped with a cell phone. Like relatives and loved ones of the thousands of other travelers abroad on this foul evening, she had been left to worry about me in silence.



Stiffly, I exited the car and walked into my home. It had never seemed so welcome and warm as it was tonight. I changed from my wet clothes and made some hot cinnamon tea, letting the tensed muscles of my shoulders relax for the first time in many hours. Although I was glad to be home, I thought of the many thousands of those who were left back on the roads, stuck in traffic that would not move.



We watched the weather reports and special updates on all three television channels. T.V. news showed abandoned cars that lay all over downtown Buffalo, making any attempt to traverse these streets all but impossible. This was going to be one hell of a clean-up job on the morrow. Later that night, the wind and awful snow gradually migrated Southward, giving the City of Buffalo a much -needed break. 



Hundreds of school kids had been stranded on their buses in a futile attempt to get them home. They had been taken to schools, fast food restaurants, fire stations and any other place that would offer them warmth and safety. Western New Yorkers are at their best in times like these, offering generously of themselves to help others in need. 



Anxious parents flooded the lines looking for the children. The 911 system crashed from overuse and the media attempted to fill the void and disburse helpful information in its periodic updates. Lots of people had remained in their downtown offices, warm and dry. Theirs had been the intelligent decision. Many of us who sat in the storm wished more than once that we had stayed in our offices and ridden out the storm.



In some ways, this storm had been worse than the Blizzard of 1977. Thousands upon thousands of motorists had been caught trying to escape downtown Buffalo and been stranded in this event. Like all calamities, it had been a confluence of many events that had produced the catastrophe. What we should have done, or not done, will be debated endlessly over the ensuing weeks and months until this memory too fades into the dim recesses of local history.



And now Wednesday morning, the clean-up begins in earnest. Tow trucks will clear the roadways. Great fleets, of heavy winged snow plows, will clear the accumulations from the streets and highways. Tons of road salt pepper the streets. The roar of snow blowers, like the buzz of angry bees, can be heard throughout the neighborhoods. Snow shovels, manned by brightly clad residents, furiously nibble away at the clogged sidewalks and driveways. When you finish, of course, the plows will thunder by and fill your drive way with snow, once again, at no extra charge. You need a sense of humor during Winter in Western New York.



When we were children, the heavy snows came with great regularity. Then sometimes, scores of neighbors would band together and shovel out the dead-end street where we lived. The plows were usually hopelessly behind. It would take them days to reach us. It breeds a kinship among us here, in Western New York. It's a feeling of overcoming shared elemental hardships. Like cleaning up after earthquakes, tornadoes or floods, it generates a fierce pride of self-sufficiency. We are a hardier people here in Western New York. We bend with the wind and persevere. We are a people who live in harmony with the ferocity of nature and prosper in spite of it.



                                                                    -30-

                                                             (2,134 words)



                                                         Joseph. Xavier Martin