Storm Larry

On Sunday, February 5, 1978, every major news network and every AM and FM radio station was flooding the airwaves with dire predictions for a rapidly approaching, massive winter storm that was going to strike the New England states beginning Monday morning. This prediction followed a winter storm that blew through New England at the end of January. A storm that accelerated the fatigue failure of the roof of the Hartford Civic Center, causing to collapse onto the empty stands and rink for the Hartford Whalers hockey team.

   I woke up 6:00 AM Monday morning, February 6th, went to my bedroom window and saw it wasn’t snowing yet, but the sky looked ominous, angry. Eating my breakfast in front of the TV, the weather people were in an excited state. Talking so fast, you could almost see the spittle flying from their mouths, waving hands as though conducting a symphony of weather maps. They created much excitement. All the while, a steady stream of school closings scrolled across the bottom of the TV screen. It was almost 7:00 AM. Time to leave my apartment and head to my place of work, a 20-minute drive.

   On the ride to work, even my favorite radio station ran through the list of school closings. WPLR in New Haven played rock & roll, 24/7/365. But nor the morning of February 6th. I switched to another rock station from Hartford to hear the same rundown of school cancellations north of New Haven. I scoffed when I heard that AMF-Cuno Division was cancelling all shifts for the day. “Hah!” I said to no one, “They cancel shifts if there’s a gentle breeze.” But looking at an even angrier sky, I envied the AMF-Cuno people.

   All the hourly and salaried people were anxious about the weather. At 7:30 in the morning, forecasters expected snow to arrive in southern Connecticut around 9:00 AM, for once the weather talkers were correct. At 9:00 AM on the dot, light snow fell. As the morning progressed, the wind picked up; the snow fell heavier. That morning, I spent more time looking out the window at the accumulating snow on the road.

   People listening to radios out in the manufacturing shop reported the state police and public works departments were urging people to go home and get off the roads. By the afternoon rush hour, the conditions were going to be “really” bad. Some of the hourly people asked their supervisors if they could punch out at noon and go home. Upper management discovered the early departures and the plant manager announced over the PA system that no one could leave early; everyone must complete their shifts. The snow continued to pile up.

   At 2:00 PM, two of my lab compatriots and I went to see the manager of our department to see if we could leave early. We were salaried after all, didn’t have to punch a clock and we promised to make up the 1 ½ hours left of our shift.

   “No,” he said without looking up from the report he was reading.

   “Shit,” we muttered under our breaths. But not low enough. His head shot up from his report and daggers flew from his eyes. We scampered away.

   By 3:00 PM, the snow was falling so heavily, visibility was almost nil. The wind was howling. The radio weather people reported winds were 50 MPH, increasing to 80 MPH by late afternoon. From the lab window, I watched the cars of the first shift workers slowly leaving the parking lot. Some fishtailing before gaining traction. The snowplows passed over the road twice, but you wouldn’t know it. Louie, in bright orange thermal coveralls, startled me when he zoomed past on his motorcycle. “Brave dude!” I thought. Thirty minutes later, plus an additional five minutes after clearing nearly 6 inches of snow off my car, I pulled out of the parking lot, fishtailing on the road like everyone else had done when they left work.

  The snow had been falling at a rate that plows could not keep up with. Snow covered secondary roads, and cars blocked tertiary roads. Many cars had skidded off the road, into each other, or slid backwards down steep inclines, unable to gain traction. Two jackknifed tractor trailers blocked the fourth road I tried, a connector between interstate highways. Making a u-turn, I headed to my last option, a less traveled tertiary road.

   Things looked promising on that road. There was not a car in sight. The snow-covered trees and small creek that meandered alongside the road made for a picturesque scene. But I was not in a photo taking mood. Suddenly, a line of six cars blocked my side of the road. A guy was walking along the line of cars, puffing clouds of condensation, as he leaned over to tell each driver something. Arriving at my car, he said, “There are two cars off the road up ahead. It’s not safe.”

   I asked whether he was a cop or a road crew member, and whether the road was blocked. “No,” he replied.

   “Step aside,” I said, “I’m gonna give it a go.”

   Maintaining a speed of 25 mph, I barely made it through the treacherous curve where the stuck cars were. I breathed easier.

   Three hours after leaving work, I was safely in my apartment, leaving only once to cross country ski over to the grocery store to get the necessities; toilet paper, milk and bread. It would be 3 days before I returned to work as the State of Connecticut dug out of Storm Larry.