Oh, The Weather Outside Is Frightful...

I don't know where you are as you read this, but here in Western New York, we are in the midst of Snow season. Considering all the jokes you hear about us on TV this time of year, you'd expect that we were experts at this, and you'd be right. The plows are out, the salt trucks are excreting their burdens, and most of the drivers are demonstrating proper Winter Driving Skills, well-honed from LOTS of experience.

The main reason we became experts at all this began 30 years ago yesterday: the infamous [or legendary, depending on your view of living through an historic event] Blizzard Of '77. The local office of the National Weather Service put together a meteorologic-ally oriented account ten years ago that stands as a good summary of events; http://www.wbuf.noaa.gov/bzpns.htm. USA Today has a more general summary in its archives: http://www.usatoday.com/weather/wbufbliz.htm. But, as in any historic events, the best accounts are from those who went through it. Or, in the following story, a certain Craven Little Coward who managed to get out...

In the Winter of 1977, I was a sophomore at Gannon College [now Gannon University], in Erie, Pennsylvania. I'd come home for January Break, which had passed, for the most part, without any incident. I was planning to head back Sunday the 29Th for the resumption of classes the following day. Friday, however, I began to wonder if my plans would have to change. I'd felt cold. I'd seen snow. But nobody had ever seen anything like this.

In another entry, I've noted that Western New Yorkers normally need at least a foot of snow dropped on us, and the records at the Airport weather office state that only about 12 inches fell during the entire four days. But this snow didn't stay on the ground. It swirled. It blew in every direction, including straight up. With the winds, it became dangerously cold outdoors. It was impossible to get anywhere by car (remember, this was before the SUV, when virtually the only four-wheel-drive vehicles were Jeep runabouts), and very difficult to travel on foot.

Saturday morning, with all the neighborhood stores closed, my father (God rest him!) and I set off on foot for the nearest supermarket, about three-quarters of a mile away. We dragged my childhood sled behind us, figuring [correctly, as it turned out] that the store wasn't going to hassle anyone using anything to help bring groceries home. I don't remember what, if anything, my father and I talked about on the way. There was no point asking him if he had ever experienced anything like this: no one in memory had. We got home without incident, and with a sled-full of groceries.

Sunday, the Bishop of Buffalo excused Catholics from services [in fact, he basically encouraged them to stay home], a first in recent memory. With the morning cleared out of obligations, talk soon turned to my plans. Conditions were worst to the south of Buffalo and, while things were not wonderful, by any means, some roads had actually been plowed (miraculously including the one we lived on).I'd like to think I tried to talk my father out of what seemed like an insane trip: from our home, on the edges of South Buffalo, to the bus station (which locals will remember was then located on Main Street).

But my father was insistent. In retrospect, I think he wanted to prove that he was tougher than any storm. Or maybe he was just getting antsy from Cabin Fever. Anyway, with the help of a couple of neighbors, who dug us out of a monstrously high snow drift, we got our car (a station wagon he'd bought at a city auction, it had formerly been used by a Fire Battalion Captain. The dashboard was full of covered-over spaces, labelled with words like: "Siren", "Lights", etc. It was painted Fire Engine Red which, I suppose, would have made it easy to find in case we did end up in a snow bank) moving, and we were on our way. Some roads were still unplowed, of course, but my father, whose knowledge of Buffalo had been honed by a couple of stints as a cab driver, somehow kept us moving, and somehow got us to the bus station.

As you'd expect, the scene at the bus station was chaotic. Travellers from everywhere who'd gotten as far as Buffalo were desperately trying to get out. I scrambled through the mass of humanity, asked if the bus to Erie was still running, and was told it was still scheduled. Just before it was time to board, the PA announcer came on. He said that Greyhound would make no guarantees to get passengers out of the area [given the weather, probably a fair thing to note]. and that any tickets used, even for a failed trip, were non-refundable. After a brief discussion, my father decided that it was worth a try.

I remember telling him to be careful on the drive home, and to stay inside during the rest of the storm [he ended up going into work the next night, at the VA Hospital, crossing most of the snow-buried city in the process. He was frequently tougher than he let on...]. He told me to be careful, and to call if the trip was a failure. The first part of the ride, as far as the nearby lake port of Fredonia, was a nightmare. For once I kept the light off, giving up my chance to read, so that I could see how far this storm was ranging. I was sadly to be disappointed. By the time the bus reached Fredonia, we were looking at damp, but snow-free, pavement! The rest of the trip passed without incident and, if memory serves me right, we were only ten minutes or so late.

Thus my memories of the Blizzard are roughly the same as most people outside the area, based on TV accounts I saw at school. My family got through the storm without incident, building up a backlog of stories that still come up from time to time.Me? All I got from it was a story about bailing out before things really got bad.

What did Buffalo get from it all? Well, it was the first snowstorm that brought out a Federal State Of Emergency declaration. It also gave most municipalities an attitude of "Never again." No one could control the weather. But I don't think any area is better prepared for snow storms. Now the streets are cleared early. The airport's snow clearing crews are so efficient, their activities are video-taped and watched by crews in other cities as an example of How To Do It when the snows come to those places. Don't get me wrong: we love our Sabres. We're thrilled when the Bills put on a great show in freezing Ralph Wilson Stadium. But the real winter sport of choice in this area is Survival. No, it's doing what we want to do despite the weather. The number of "Bunker Hunkerers" in this region is surprisingly small.

Make sure you dress warmly this morning. You never know...

Idol With The Golden Head

As I write this entry, warm as toast on the 12Th floor of a downtown Buffalo skyscraper, I note, almost with a sense of relief, that Winter has finally come to Western New York. Of course, it's never really that simple when it comes to weather here.

In October [October 13Th, to be exact], we were hit with a snowstorm. Not a big one, by this area's standards [Until you drop a foot of snow on us, you just annoy us], but big enough. Further complicating matters, most of the trees still had their leaves. When the snow coated them, the over-burdened branches of many trees gave way, bringing down power lines in the process. As a result, many communities in the area were effectively shut down, with power and telephone restoration taking as long as a week, even in Buffalo proper.

As if to make up for that pre-season fiasco, the weather since then had been positively tranquil, with temperatures no lower that 40, virtually no snow, and that lasting only a few hours. Trees were blossoming, thinking Winter had been cancelled, and moving onto the next season. Squirrels were frequently lax in storing food for the cold times. We marked one of the few "non-White" Christmases in recent memory.

This past weekend, though, we were reminded vividly exactly WHERE we were living. A bout of freezing rain and strong winds, topped off like a sundae with snow, took care of that. As noted above, though, the reaction of many, along with the occasional nasty words when they fell on the ice, was a sigh of relief. This is the weather we signed up for in January, the thinking seems to have gone. We take the snow and cold in Winter, in exchange for almost never seeing a hurricane [or even a tornado], except on TV. As a bonus, we get fairly pleasant, sunny Summers. We may grumble about the arrangements sometimes, but, given the choice between this and, say, triple-digit temperatures and winds that spread fires [like California seems to have a lot of], we usually decide to honor our part of the bargain.

Another sign of Winter, and one that usually doesn't involve gloves, is the annual return of American Idol. (For the unaware: Idol is an incredibly popular national amateur singing contest. It airs twice a week through the Winter and Spring. The winner, selected by telephone vote after weeks of televised competitions, wins a recording contract, a new car, and gets an incredible boost to start his or her singing career.)

While many people enjoy the weekly sing-offs, others [including The Woman I Love and myself] are fans of the "audition" shows. In the spirit of "discovering the next music superstar" [or something like that], almost ANYONE [within the right age group] can enter! Tens of thousands of people line up outside the venues where auditions are held, hoping for a chance to perform before the show's three judges; enthusiastic Randy Jackson, sympathetic Paula Abdul, and acerbic Simon Cowell. The "audition" shows are well-edited highlights of the various stops. Show host Ryan Secrist narrates the segments, frequently telling inspiring, funny, or doofy stories about the various contestants. And then they sing.

Or then they move their lips and emit sounds from their throats that they THINK is singing. Which is rather the point, I guess. Every year, TWIL and I watch the "auditions", and every year she makes the same observation: "Don't these people have friends?" I know exactly what she means. The loners out there, who don't have a chance to bounce their "talent" off someone else, are understandable. But shouldn't someone with a friend or two have one of them, confronted with a "performance" that might make Donald Duck sound like the next Pavarotti, gently pull that potential superstar aside and say, "Honey, look, I love you, but..."
I mean, it's not like Simon [usually] or Randy [more so lately] is going to show any mercy. What's worse, the worst of the "auditions" frequently make up the bulk of the early shows. Embarrassment in front of three or four people is one thing. Why would you risk embarrassing yourself before a TV audience estimated in the tens of millions ?

Then again, I'm now hosting two blogs...

-Mike Riley