It
was one of those storms that dive down from Canada along the Front Range of the
Rockies and run smack into moist air up from the Gulf, howling winds driving
horizontal snow, obliterating the world in stinging whiteness before drifting
east over the limitless flatness of Nebraska. It was a memorable blizzard, but
we were safe and warm, even cozy in the old house on Bent Avenue just blocks
away from the Capitol building.
The
radio, my mother’s constant companion, said the city would be snowed in for two
or three days. Of course, schools were closed. The state government sent its workers
home, downtown was deserted, the grocery stores locked, the weight of the snow tearing
their canvas awnings from their walls.
The pass over Sherman Hill to the west was buried and blowing snow on
Highway 30 across Nebraska would close in behind the plows for days. The mainline
of the Union Pacific, of course, stayed open behind the giant plows harnessed to
the most powerful steam locomotives ever built, but little good it did for
local deliveries because the switching and humping yards were smothered and the
switches frozen.
My
mother was most concerned about our food supplies. As a child of rural poverty
and the scarred veteran of the Depression, she feared hunger with a consuming
dread. She always kept the pantry shelves groaning with canned goods as a hedge
against any catastrophe. There were netted bushel bags of potatoes and plenty
of sacks of flour and sugar, cans of coffee, huge boxes of powdered milk. We
might run out of meat—most of the winter’s side of beef was cut up and wrapped
in white paper, our name written neatly in grease pencil, in the city’s central
locker. The milkman might fail to make his rounds and mom might not be able to
drive out to the little farmstead on Crow Creek for her weekly eggs. Less
farsighted neighbors, panicked by the storm, might strip the little
neighborhood grocery stores before the snows closed the streets. But we would
not starve.
Mom
was most concerned with bread. There would be no soft white Rainbo Bread or the
dry, scratchy whole wheat that my Dad liked toasted with his breakfast. So out
came the big milk white mixing bowl and Mom’s sturdiest wooden spoon and the
glass loaf pans greased with butter and floured. She was going to bake us
enough bread for the duration. Soon the whole house was filled with the rich
and unforgettable smell of bread baking,
an aroma so compelling that ever
after at the merest skiff
of snow would bring my brother
and I rushing to our mother
asking, “Is it time for the bread yet?”
Our old house at 2805 Bent Avenue seems little changed but somehow smaller than I remember.
The
loaves were not perfect. Mom did not bake often enough to for that. Perhaps there was too much yeast, but they
had risen too quickly with too much air. A large bubble separated the top crust
from the rest of the loaves, large enough for a child to stick his hand
through. But it did not matter. Dad sliced the first loaf with our sharpest
knife as soon as it was cool enough not to simply tear. Still, it was warm
enough to give off visible rays of heat and to melt the thick pats of butter we
smeared on each slice. We ate the whole loaf in one sitting like animals, as if
it was the last food in the world. The rest of the loaves were carefully
wrapped in wax paper and would be strictly rationed for the duration of the
emergency.
Two
days after the incessant wind stopped driving the snow into heaps and piles,
the city streets were open. Dad in his red and black checkered hunting coat and
seldom seen ear-flap cap and the other men on the block shoveled out the
garages and cleared the alley to the street with heavy short handled coal
shuttle shovels. The city slowly came awake.
School reopened.
Mom
prepared my brother Tim and I for school as she would on any winter morning.
She built us in careful layers. First there were our usual shorts then cotton
long handle underwear. Then came the long sleeved, broad striped polo shirts
tucked into the first of two layers of corduroy pants. Mom washed the pants
every night in the wringer washing machine then mounted them on metal
stretchers to dry over the big heating grate in the floor of the dining room.
The pants were still warm from the blast of coal fired air when we pulled them
on. Then she attached our elastic suspenders.
The suspenders were sources of great embarrassment to my brother and me. The other kids had given them up for leather
belts after kindergarten. My mother claimed that belts would not work for us,
as she told all of her friends, because, “These boys don’t have enough butt to
keep their pants up.” We put on a thick
pair of socks over a thin one. These
were our indoor clothes.
Next
came a thick plaid flannel shirt and we struggled to drag the second pair of
corduroys over the first. Mom carefully tied our black Oxfords, then came the
battle to get our galoshes on, our pant legs tucked into the tops of the rubber
boots, and each of the four metal buckles securely closed. Next were our thick
wool coats with quilted linings and big buttons the size of half-dollars. My
coat was brown, my brother’s blue. We each had caps. Mine was brown leather
with lamb’s wool earflaps, a strap that snapped tightly under the chin and a
visor. Tim a had gray cloth cap with a low, flat crown and knitted earflaps
that folded down from the outside of the cap. He had a small, shiny badge with a
skier on the front of the cap. Our mittens were rubberized cloth with flannel
linings and a wide elastic band around the wrist. They were stiff and extended
far beyond our fingertips rendering our hands totally useless for anything at
all.
Mid-'50's snow clothes.
Thus
encased, we were sent on our way to school with strict instructions to stay on
the shoveled sidewalks and to take extra care when crossing streets. It was two
blocks down Bent and one block over to Churchill Elementary School. We
obediently kept to the canyons of the sidewalks for at least half a block.
Other
kids emerged from their houses, similarly swaddled. We became a group and then
a party. Emboldened, we cast off from the beaten track. We breasted the chest
high snow, plunged into drifts over our heads, slogged and struggled through
virgin whiteness. We pretended we were pioneers trapped on the plains, our
wagons marooned, our horses foundered as we desperately sought shelter. As the
weaker children dropped back, we imagined that their frozen bodies would be
found come spring contorted in agony.
Churchill Elementary school, the old playground equipment long ago replaced.
Then,
suddenly, the yellow brick mass of Churchill School loomed ahead of us. We were
saved. The schoolyard was surrounded by old cottonwoods and knurled locusts
onto which a few black bean-like pods still clung. Snow was over the seats of
the swings, covered the merrygo-round, and sat on the low end of the
teeter-totters. The high slide towered over the yard, its steep slope
disappearing into the whiteness. The sweep of gravel where we played tag or war
was knee deep and the snow would remain until it was trampled down by the
squealing, laughing hoards and finally melted in the spring.
Walkers
like us from the old part of Cheyenne straggled into the schoolyard. A big blue
bus from the Air Force base pulled up with its load. But only about half of the
yellow school busses made it. The in-town kids made it but those from rural areas
were still snowed in and might be for days. Finally the Principal came out to
the top of the front stairs and rang her brass hand bell. We surged past her through the double doors.
Churchill
had two main floors. Third, fourth, and fifth grade classes we on the first
floor. Up the broad wooden staircase,
smooth semi-circles worn in the planks, were the first and second grades.
Kindergarten, with its tile
floors, low acoustic
ceiling and florescent
lights, occupied a new classroom constructed next to the coal
bin in the basement. My brother and I trudged up to separate first
grade classes across the hall from one another.
Once
upstairs, we were herded into the cloakroom hidden behind the blackboard at the
head of the classroom. The room was narrow and dim, illuminated by a single
bulb dangling from a cord from the ceiling. A narrow shelf ran along each of
the long walls and underneath a row of wire hooks. At the end of the cloakroom
the end of a steam radiator, which pierced the wall from the classroom, hissed
and pumped out waves of tropical heat. After the first moments the stench of
wet wool permeated the room.
On
regular days, thirty students dealt with their coats and boots in that space.
Fewer had made it that day, but our teacher still had to struggle with the
layers of wet clothes and boots of more than twenty of us. Most of us could get
out of our coats, but some needed long scarves unwound and zippers resisted the
best efforts of young hands. Mittens and gloves had to be carefully retrieved
from the floor and stuffed into the correct coat pockets. Caps had to be placed
on the right hook with the right coat.
The
worst was the boots. Black four-buckle overshoes, the snow packed into the
buckles so that prying them open split fingernails and ripped flesh. Then each
boot must be pulled off in an earnest wrestling match. Inevitably the shoe
carne off with the boot and needed to be extracted by force. Meanwhile we stood
in our stocking feet in pools of melting snow nearly overcome by the stifling
heat of the room. After pulling off our second, soaking corduroys and peeling
out of our flannel shirts, we tried to jam our wet feet back into our leather
shoes. We tried to remember just how the fox chased the rabbit-over, under,
around the loops-but generally failed to tie our shoes. So our teacher, kneeling
in puddles tied them for us.
The
routine for girls was only marginally simpler. Only a few mothers dared defy
convention and send their daughters to school with pants underneath their
skirts. Most girls had only knee high wool stockings for leg protection and
many would not wear hats that would crush their hair. Those who wore Mary Janes
had less trouble getting their shoes out of their boots and back on their feet,
but the ones with saddle shoes shared the same struggle as the boys.
As
the teacher completed the ritual with each child, she sent us to our desks in
the classroom. We knew what we were to do until she finished and at last joined
us. We opened the tops of our desks, each desk top attached to the back of the
chair ahead, and took out our red Big Chief tablets and our extra thick eraser-less
pencils. We were to copy, in our neatest
block letters, the lengthy passages the teacher had put on the blackboard. If
we finished, we were to start again and the steadiness of our hand was expected
to improve with each repetition. Reliable class snitches, favored girls all,
would instantly report any breach of decorum in the teacher’s absence.
None of us had any idea what were were saying when we recited the Pledge of Allegiance by rote and sang My Country 'tis of Thee.
Once
we were all reunited in the classroom, the regular morning routine commenced.
First we stood, placed our hands over our hearts and recited the Pledge of
Allegiance and sang My Country ‘tis of Thee. Not a single student in the class
understood the words to either, knowing only that it was required because of the
Flag and because most of our fathers had been in The War.
Next,
sitting at her desk the teacher read the attendance roll without looking up. We
were to answer loudly and clearly “Here” as soon as our name was spoken. Too
tardy a response or too soft a one resulted in being marked absent and absent
you were whether or not your body was in your seat.
Due
to the length of time required to get out of our wet clothes, show and tell was
limited to just two eager students. One brought something suitably educational
and uplifting, but the second boy brought the frozen (now thawing) body of some
unidentifiable small animal. He was promptly
sent to the principal.
We studied from a giant Dick and Jane reader on an easel in front of the class.
The
morning progressed through our usual classes. Reading was done from a giant
Dick and Jane book on an easel at the front of the classroom. It had a black
leatherette cover. The teacher turned the pages of the day’s story and we read
in unison. Then we started over again and students were picked to read aloud by
themselves. We did not have our own books. We would not have readers to hold in
our hands until second grade. We practiced our simple three and four letter
spelling words for the test on Friday by copying them ten times each onto our
Big Chief tablets. We copied the same words ten times every day until the test,
when we were expected to reproduce the list perfectly to earn a star on our
paper.
As
an act of mercy for our teacher, there was no outdoor morning recess. Instead
we were allowed ten minutes to color silently at our desks. One sheet of art paper
was provided each student. We each had our eight color box of Crayolas—larger
boxes and other brands were both strictly forbidden. We were free to draw what
we wished, but if we colored the sky purple or the grass orange, we would be
gently corrected.
At
noon the teacher needed to get all of the walkers back into our outside gear.
We had an hour to walk home, eat lunch and return. Bussed students ate sack lunches at their
desks and bought little glass bottles of milk for a nickel. After eating they would be loaded into their
coats and boots and sent out to the playground until our return.
Tim
and I, our clothes still wet from the morning trip, made our way home. By then
the sky had cleared. It was a brilliant blue and the sun off of the snow caused
our eyes to narrow to slits and water.
Real Hershey's Cocoa instead of instant Ovaltine was a winter treat.
At
home our mother greeted us and laid out our clothes on the heating grate to
dry. She served us hot tomato soup and melted cheese sandwiches browned in the
oven and neatly sliced into triangles. As a special treat, in honor of vanquishing
the storm, she made real Hershey’s Cocoa, not just warm Ovaltine. We ate at the kitchen table with the radio on
listening to reports of cattle in distress and attempts to feed isolated herds with
hay dropped by National Guard C-47’s and speculations on the price of
beef at the yards in Denver, Omaha, Sioux City, and Chicago.
Before
we had time to run upstairs to our room for a single toy, it was time to climb
back into our gear and repeat the whole process from the morning.
And
so it went that winter in Cheyenne.
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