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The Big Storm

Copyright 2003, W. David Tarver

Last Saturday evening, my fiancée Kishna and I went up to New York to attend a concert by some young classical vocalists at Carnegie Hall. We were traveling in the midst of a fierce snowstorm, but I wasn’t going to let that stop us. After all, I’m from Michigan, where we have real snowstorms, and I’m the son of a mailman (neither rain, nor snow, nor dark of night…). Kishna, on the other hand, grew up in Los Angeles, and she absolutely hates the winter. Despite being bundled up from head to toe, she was suffering. Anxious to make her feel better about our ordeal, I told her my Big Storm story. It goes like this:

The year was 1967. The place, Flint, Michigan. I was a fourteen year-old kid with a big paper route – 92 customers. Every day, the truck from the Flint Journal would come and drop my newspaper stack in front of my house at 813 East 6th Street. Every day, that is, except the day of the Big Storm.

The Big Storm was the storm of the century in Flint, and there was no television hype to announce its coming. The Big Storm just came. The snow came so thick and so fast that you could barely see your hand in front of your face. On the day of the Big Storm, I never gave a thought to canceling my newspaper deliveries. The Flint Journal didn’t give a thought to it either. They called me to say that, given the heavy snow, they wouldn’t be delivering my newspapers to the front of the house. They would deliver my papers instead to the nearest intersection, at 6th street and Avon. This was a minor inconvenience for me, but I understood, because the snow was already pretty heavy and cars were having trouble getting down 6th street.

I took my red wagon down to the corner and waited for the delivery of my newspaper stack. My wagon was a prized possession. It had a sturdy steel undercarriage and big, businesslike wheels. It had a varnished pine carriage and removable red slats on the sides and back. My wagon was perfect for delivering the Flint Journal, because I could get all 92 papers in there at one time – even the Sunday edition! I stood at the corner of 6th and Avon with my wagon and waited for my stack. It never came.

After a while, I went back to the house and called the folks at the Journal. "I don’t know what happened to your stack", the dispatcher said. "Go back down to the corner and we’ll send the truck around again". After downing a cup of hot chocolate, I dutifully took my wagon back down to the corner and waited for my stack. It never came. Now the snow was really getting quite heavy, and I was having trouble pulling my wagon through it. This was getting ridiculous! I went back to the house and called the Journal again. For a third time, they said they would send my papers to the corner of 6th and Avon. For a third time, I trudged back down there with my wagon and waited. My stack never came.

I fought the snow all the way back to my house and called the Journal again. I was really getting peeved. "We have to try something else", I told the dispatcher. This just isn’t working, and the snow is getting heavier and heavier". Dispatch was ready with a solution. "Go to the other corner, at 6th and Lapeer, and we’ll drop your stack there". At this point, I was ready to try anything. Lapeer was a busier street, so it would be easier than Avon for the delivery truck to get through. On the other hand, Lapeer was farther away from my house. I dragged my wagon through the drifting snow all the way up to Lapeer, but the struggle was worth it. There at the corner of 6th and Lapeer, wrapped in wildly fluttering orange coversheets, was my stack of newspapers. Halleluiah!

I piled the newspapers in my wagon and set off on my delivery route. By now, the snow was more than waist high, and I pretty much had to slide the wagon on top of it. It was tough, tough going, but those doggone papers got delivered.

The next spring, the snow from the Big Storm began to thaw. Water from the melting snow formed little rivulets and then full-fledged rivers. One day on my way to school, I noticed an orange piece of paper sticking through the snow at 6th and Avon. On closer inspection, I noticed a stack of newspapers. I got on my knees and started digging through the snow like an anxious archaeologist. There in the melting snow was a full stack of 92 Flint Journals! I kept digging. There was another full stack, and then another. The Flint Journal guys had delivered my papers to 6th and Avon, just like they said. They delivered them three times. The snow was coming down so hard that it covered each stack before I got there.

I ended the story by saying to Kishna, "Now that was a storm!"

Kishna listened intently to the entire story, rolled her eyes, and gave me The Look. The Look said, "You know what you can do with your Big Storm". We finished our trip to New York in safety – and in silence.

David Tarver

Red Bank, NJ

December 9, 2003