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| artwork by Ava Branstner |
This week marks the 30th anniversary of the great Halloween Blizzard of 1991. In a nasty hit-and-run, Old Man Winter vomited approximately 1,736 inches of snow (my own rough estimate) on Minnesota. I'm embarrassed to say it took me by surprise.
That Halloween morning was straight out of a 1965 folk song: all the leaves were brown and the sky was gray. I was 22 years old and neck deep in my studies at the University of Minnesota. Also, I was a total putz.
As the concrete sky blanched to the east, I slogged down St. Francis Boulevard in my '77 Ford Granada, radio blasting, making my commute to school. To my irritation, my usual morning show was interrupted by Wally the Weatherman, who blustered on about a "winter storm warning!"
Winter storm warning? Pshhht! I grumbled. I was a native Minnesotan. Snow had never stopped me before and I had classes to attend.
Did I mention I was a putz?
When I walked out of the lecture hall that afternoon, I was greeted by a cold, feathery drizzle leaking from blueberry clouds. Rumbling homeward, Wally the Weatherman was abuzz, spewing phrases from my Granada's radio like "blizzard warning!" and "perfect storm!"
Nothing more than meteorologic hyperbole, I assured myself.
Like I said, I was a putz.
By the time I splashed the Granada into my apartment complex's puddled parking lot, Wally the Weatherman was practically soiling himself with excitement: "Snowmageddon!"
Snowmageddon? That's cute, I chuckled under my breath.
Inside my cozy shoebox abode, I microwaved a cup of ramen noodles and sat the card table in my cramped kitchen.
As I slurped my fake Chinese food, I studied the dying light from my living room window. The afternoon drizzle intensified to pounding rain. Then, like a ninja shapeshifter, the pounding rain quickly morphed into snowflakes.
Heavy flakes. Big flakes. Millions of them.
I breathed a deep sigh, pulled the curtain closed and cracked open my lecture notes. Just a little snow, I yawned to myself.
What a putz.
As night descended, the snow ogres unleashed a frozen tempest over Minnesota.
Next morning, I nuked a mug of Folgers instant crystals and clicked on my stereo. It was time for the Friday Funday show, which I enjoyed listening to before heading to class.
Instead of my program, the hyperventilating Wally the Weatherman (when did he sleep?) poured from my speakers, babbling on about "road closures!" and "record setting snow!" I peered through the curtain, but saw only the inkwell of predawn darkness.
I sucked down my Folgers and went off the seize the day. I couldn't be late for class.
The first sign of trouble was 22 inches of packed snow blocking the lobby door which prevented me from getting out of my apartment building.
The second sign of trouble was illuminated by the outdoor security lights. Through the thickly falling flakes, I could barely make out an ice cream meadow where the parking lot used to be. Interrupting the sparkling smoothness were perfectly rectangular mounds, each representing an innocent automobile buried alive overnight (my precious Granada!).
Good Lord! I gasped, in a moment of epiphany. Wally the Weatherman was right. It's a freaking snowpocalypse!
My lecture started in half and hour. Mild panic gripped my gut.
I corkscrewed my body around the lobby door, only to find myself planted like a scarecrow in white stuff up to my hips. Snowflakes peppered my eyes and a stiff wind sucked life out of my lungs. Like a putz, all I had on my feet were sneakers and flimsy leather gloves covered my hands.
By the time I lumbered to the unmarked grave of my Granada, I was wheezing like a concertina, blinded by snow cataracts and a creek of snot involuntarily flowed from my nose.
Yes, a shovel would have been handy. No, I didn't have one. What a putz.
I had no choice, so I started digging the heavy, sticky crap by hand, but within minutes my fingers turned blue, my Nike-covered toes were numb and I was sweating like Nixon under my jacket.
After ten minutes of battle, the chunky white parachutes pelting down from the cornflower sky won the day. My sleeves were stuffed ice packs, one of my gloves had disappeared into the albino abyss and the sweat from my forehead competed with the frost on my eyelashes.
Clearly this was a job for Superman, but he was probably snowed in as well.
I was defeated. I would miss my class and I would wear a dunce hat the rest of my days. I was a card carrying putz.
I trudged back to my apartment deflated, broken and frozen.
Little did I know at that exact moment, ghostly radio waves high above carried a familiar voice, bringing good tidings for comfort and joy: All classes at the University of Minnesota were canceled for Friday, November 1st, 1991.
Thank you, Wally the Weatherman. I won't be a putz again.
