Let it Snow: The Blizzard of 1978

This winter had a head start this year, dumping snow on us before its official kickoff on Dec. 21. Now 2010 has started with a solid week of impressively frigid temperatures. It's amazing to think that just a under a couple of months ago, the coldest climate I was experiencing was that last aisle in Shop-Rite, looking for the salsa/sour cream combo. 

I'm not trying to jinx us to get more snow—I sort of hate the stuff. Instead, perhaps my writing about it, will repel it, and ward it off. Or maybe it will just fall on Roseland.

When we had that big storm that began in our area on Dec. 19, I awoke the following morning, bundled up and went outside not as Ron the Writer, but Ron the Perturbed Snow Clearer. As I did a survey, I was amazed at the height of the snow bank that was now the end of my driveway and said to no one in particular, "this is like the '70s."

I'm no weather service, but I suppose we've been fairly lucky with regard to brutal winters and crushing snow storms. We've had a fair share of snow routs—early 1994, for example.

But then, there's 1978.

Ah, "The Blizzard of 1978"—yes, that's the official name of a snow storm we had that year. Not only is that a great name for a band (you read it here first), but it's indicative of the severity of the storm—unlike hurricanes, snow fronts don't get there own names every time. 

I suppose one would have had to been a child to look back on it fondly, and luckily I was—it was awesome.

The Caldwells Flake Out

I'll never forget that morning in February when I put on my Sears N.Y. Giants football coat, hat and gloves combo and went outside to see what Mother Nature had brought us. There was so much snow (a reported three feet), it was hard to tell where the stairs from the porch ended and the walkway met the driveway. It was engrossing, almost disorienting.

Although I was only 8, I had a pretty good sense of responsibility, and set out to shovel the driveway, and only the driveway—laws hadn't come into effect yet about having to clear sidewalks, but perhaps because on the heels of this storm, did very soon thereafter. Besides, no one ever used the sidewalks—the "you darn kids" looks on the neighbors' faces when trying to drive to their homes bore this point out perfectly.

Now, shovels in the '70s were a different animal. Plastic hadn't quite taken as the material of choice; shovels were heavy metal scooper and wood-handled beasts. Many houses also had an odd dirt-digging shovel of some kind in their respective snow clearing arsenals, although ironically, one would never see anyone using them for what they were actually intended. The snow shovels made a good "work is being done here" sound—or in this storm's case, perhaps the sound of someone getting a heart attack or a hernia. Consumer-level snow blowers were available, but not yet commonplace. When writing this, I checked my personal copy of the 1978 Sears Wishbook for reference—there's no snow blowers to be found, though my Giants jacket is on page 59.

As I struggled with the driveway, members of the West Caldwell Department of Public Works appeared in two trucks making their way around the block to clear the snow from the street—and as often is the case for homeowners, make a mess at the end of the driveway. They hadn't come through our street the night before—it may have been the timing of the storm, or maybe they were occupied somewhere else.

The two trucks worked in concert and almost incessantly—it was one of those multiple-pass jobs. 

After a decent amount of toil that was cut short by frost-bite, and deciding to do only half of the driveway, I turned into a home contractor.

I had focused on putting much of the snow in one spot on the side of the driveway, and it was time to create an igloo. Size wise, it was more of a snow condo or a big teepee. It took hours to dig into the snow mountain on the side of my driveway, but it was worth it. Inside it was surprisingly warm (the eskimos know what they're doing) and it was dead silent. It was time and space stopped inside that thing. 

Where were my pals? None of my friends had shown up yet. I suddenly remembered that I had to give a friend an 8-track tape I had borrowed, Kiss' Love Gun. I went inside and grabbed it, and set out to bring it back to him.  

The snow banks on the sides of Whitaker Place were 5 to 6 feet high. They looked like snow castles. I walked on top of them to get to my friend's house at the end of the block. Soon enough, a group of us were walking on the piles.

I was surprised at one point to see my father on the porch, calling to me. My dad? He worked overnight and well into the day ... what was he doing home?

My Father Gives Up

The old man told me that he has "abandoned the Ford" and needed to go get it, and asked if I wanted to go along. I said sure, and in a little while, off we went—on foot. We only went as far as a neighbor, who would be giving us a lift part of the way, and from there, we'd take the bus.

My father worked for a bakery called Pechter's in Harrison—to get there, he ordinarily took Interstate 280 to get there and often told me of how the highway could be a bit treacherous in bad weather like rain. The blizzard was so bad, deliveries were canceled the night before, so he headed home. He took Bloomfield Avenue up from Harrison instead of 280, and only got as far as Montclair. At that point, he left the car on the side of the road, walked and hitch-hiked the rest of the way home.

I was surprised that he had to "abandon" the car—after all, he had snow tires on the '72 LTD. Boat that it was, in snow and rain, the car was more like a another traveler of the sea—a fish. After a valiant effort to make it home, the hilly part of Bloomfield Avenue was just too much.

As a side note, remember snow tires? Weren't they the coolest thing? A whole other line of tires just for snow! They were big and chunky, and during the rest of the year they would just sit in the garage, these strange things until required. Then, after the winter, it looked incredibly odd to see them on cars. The gas mileage must have been even more terrible with these things.

What made them turn extinct by the '80s? Front-wheel drive?

How about people putting chains their regular tires, before snow tires? Crazy stuff.

Anyway, my father and I made it to the Ford. Once there, the old man popped open the trunk, pulled out a shovel, and dug out the car, which was buried.

We then hopped in, and headed toward home. Then, we went in a "train."

Once back in The Caldwells, we stopped for lunch at the Train Restaurant, which is now called the Train Diner.

The old man knew the owner at the time, and filled him in on the happenings of the day, as I filled my plate with ketchup.

Today, I may not be a super fan of the snow and the cold, but every time we have a big storm or blizzard, I look at my kids and think of the extra bit of time they're getting with their dad—and I don't have to abandon my car to do it!

Related Links

1. A press release by the National Weather Service from 1998, marking the 20th anniversary of the Blizzard of 1978:

http://www.publicaffairs.noaa.gov/pr98/feb98/noaa98-r203.html

2. Wikipedia's "snowblower" entry

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Snow_blower#History

3. Wikipedia's entry for the "Northeastern Untied States Blizzard of 1978" - this is not to be confused with the "Great Blizzard of 1978"

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Northeastern_United_States_blizzard_of_1978 

The Remember When Quiz

It's 1982, and you've come done with "Pac Man Fever" and other sort of video game addictions and afflictions—where can you go for treatment? Name five places in The Caldwells that had video games during the early '80s!