50 Years Later

Yesterday I took a train to Chicago and was met in Union Station by Jeff Stewart and Jan-Erik Damber. 

Though I had not seen either of them since 1967—the year I'd graduated from high school (we three were seniors together at Lyon Township in La Grange IL), I had no trouble picking them out by the Amtrak information kiosk in the main waiting room.

When I first met Janne he was an AFS student from Sweden. Today he's a (nearly) retired urologist living in Göteberg (the second largest city in Sweden, on the shores of the North Sea). Janne lived with Jeff's family during the 1966-67 school year, and my brother (Guy) and I visited the Damber family in Sweden for a few days toward the end of a nine-week European odyssey that took us to Ireland, Britain, France, Italy, Germany, Austria, Denmark and Sweden. Though many of the details of that trip have faded over the years, I recall that our stay with the Dambers was the highlight of the trip, as it was the only time we were not in a hotel, hostel, or pensione.

The most amazing part of yesterday's five-hour visit (over brie, wine and hamburgers) was the absence of strain or awkwardness. It was just interesting people sharing stories. In addition to the three wise guys, our social complement was rounded out by Jeff's wife, Steffie, and Janne's partner, Christina. The conversation flowed as easily as the wine, as we pleasurably bounced around among high school memories, catching each other up on what had unfolded in each other's lives over the course of the last five decades, commentary on the insanity of American politics, and speculation about the prospects of The Donald and Kim Jong-un—two world leaders with the ego management and temperament of oversexed cockerels—inadvertently starting a nuclear war as they posture for cameras, trade taunts, and otherwise play with matches.

Though I am foregoing the social chaos that would characterize my high school class' 50th reunion this weekend (which is why Janne and Christina are in town), it was lovely reminiscing and gradually revealing to one another the pearls of wisdom we have each carefully strung together over a lifetime of living. A leisurely dinner party for five in an Oak Park apartment, after all, offers completely different prospects than a cattle call of 300+ milling about in an antiseptic ballroom.

Once again I am reminded of why it is good to have friends, and why it is important to take the time to enjoy them.

It Snow Miracle

The US Weather Service is predicting that we'll get 13-18 inches of snow in the next 36 hours—accompanied by 30 mph winds, which should make for some Nepalese-scale drifts. Ufda!

My wife, Ma'ikwe, would call that a shit ton (that's a technical term, roughly equating to three gong loads, if I remember the conversion rates correctly). I can't ever recall a snow forecast where the low end of the range was more than a foot. It looks like we're going to really get dumped on. And I'm kinda excited about it.

We have plenty of food, plenty of wood, and plenty of good books. We even have plenty of skis, but I'm doubtful if anyone is going to brave tomorrow's whiteout for anything more adventurous than a trip to the chicken house. I plan to hunker down with a woodworking project, and not stray too far from the coffee pot.

There is something magical about being snowed in, watching flakes race by the window—from the comfort of a seat by the wood stove. Normal living is suspended. Going to town for a doughnut is out of the question. School will be canceled, and it will be a long day for Kim, our rural postal carrier. Maybe we'll start a jigsaw puzzle.

• • •

Predictions of an epic snow evoke memories of high school. When I was a senior (at Lyons Township, which we called LT, in the Chicago suburb of La Grange), we had a 24-inch snowfall Jan 26, 1967, and it paralyzed the city. It was just too much snow falling too fast, and the plows couldn't keep up. After struggling for hours on congested roadways, drivers abandoned their cars even on expressways, and pretty soon thereafter nobody was going anywhere. I remember how eerily quiet it was with no vehicle sounds for four days. The city shipped snow south in long freight trains because they had nowhere to dump it; the hopper cars they used had been built for hauling coal, but that week they were hauling cold.

The snow fell on a Thursday and my high school canceled classes Friday and Monday, representing only the second and third days in LT's 80-year history that school had been called off. It was a big deal. Maybe the blizzard heading this way will rival that monster of 44 years ago.

The title for today's blog also goes back to my days at LT. There was a popular youth center-cum-hang-out-scene just off campus called The Corral, and one of the main ways they raised operating funds was by selling tickets to a musical each spring that was written, directed, and performed by students. It would always be a pun-filled parody, and it happened that the Corral Show's musical for spring 1966 was a spoof of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs entitled, It Snow Miracle—cleverly planting the seed that would gestate nine months later into the spectacular Chicago snowfall of 1967. Life imitating Art. Or perhaps it was Nature trying to intimidate Life.

• • •

Two days from now I'm supposed to drive to Michigan, following in the wake of the storm. While the Weather Service promises that the skies will be clear by Thursday morning, who knows if the roads will be clear. Somebody's going to have to move a lot of snow to keep the highways open, and with 30 mph winds they'll have the pleasure of moving some of that snow multiple times.

It appears that here in northeast Missouri we're only going to get snow. While the amounts may be Brobdingnagian, I'm thankful that the dreaded ice belt will be south of us. There's a swath from St Louis to Indianapolis that's expecting up to an inch of ice—think prolonged power outages; overloaded tree branches snapping randomly and careening down on vehicles, roofs, and unsuspecting life forms; ice capades in two-ton vehicles at 40 mph. We're talking terror here. Interstate 70 may turn into the world's largest hockey rink and if you're driving there, you may be the puck.

All in all, I figure a shit ton of snow will be excitement enough.