Reading of the 50th anniversary of the blizzard of ’67, I was flooded (blizzarded?) by memories, most of them pleasant. The day started like any other, getting ready for school. As my father drove our carpool to Bowen High, the snow was heavy and the going was slow. We finally got there, only to learn that school was canceled. We trudged to the bus stop and made it home, cold and wet, hours later.
That first day, my father’s car was buried in snow, so he came home in a delivery truck from his business. Along the way, he took some stranded neighbors home, giving new meaning to the words “pickup truck.” In the days that followed, we played board games, shoveled the drifting snow, uncovered the buried cars, and took pictures to document this incredible event. One I especially remember shows me sitting on the roof of my mom’s car with my legs straight out ahead, resting on top of a snowdrift.
We had a few more days of quality family time before returning to normalcy. Because we had food, water and a nice warm house, I have nostalgia for the great blizzard of ’67, but I realize that others were not as lucky. To me, it was kind of a lark and something to tell my children I survived. And now I have!
— Sheryl Slone Tarkoff, Chicago
