Snow Had Fallen

An Essay by Linda Burgess

As winter gives way to spring, I must share one snow story that about a late winter/early spring snow when I was probably no older than five…if that.

Our farm lay less than a quarter mile from the main highway. The one lane, gravel road that led to our house was lined with huge trees (mostly cedar) that gave the appearance of a tunnel. Though good for shade and a cool walk in summer, they sheltered the road from needed sunshine for melting snow in late winter or early spring. 

The later in the season it seemed the deeper the snow accumulated. At the time I had no idea what adults meant when they said it was a wet snow. To a little girl, snow was snow. When I played out in the snow, I always ended up wet from head to toe so I didn’t understand that “wet snow” comment. Now that I’m an adult (really just an overgrown kid), I understand moisture content, humidity, powder snow and packing, or snowman building, snow. 

It seems we had deeper and more frequent snows when I was a little girl. I’m not going down the global warming path. I was short for my age (which is hard to believe being 5’ 8” now) and I know that the snow probably wasn’t that much deeper than what we have today. It just didn’t take much for it to be deep for my short legs. Playing in the snow was terrific fun! I didn’t mind the required layers of clothes or getting wet as the snow melted on my gloves and outer layers. That’s what snow was all about for me!

Just as I didn’t understand the term “wet snow” I didn’t realize the hard work of shoveling snow or the hazards of driving snow-covered roads. Mom did. She knew Dad had about 70miles, round trip, of slick 2 lane roads to travel to/from the steel mill. I remember watching him drive out that long tunnel-looking road headed to Owensboro for his shift at the mill. On snowy days or nights, depending upon which shift he worked, I would watch till I couldn’t see him or his tail lights and marvel at the cloud of snow that swirled up behind his vehicle. He probably was driving a little faster than normal just to keep the momentum needed to overcome the snow banks. 

One day, the six of us had all been to either Louisville or Lexington (possibly both) to visit our grandparents. As we traveled home, snow began to fall as did night. There were no salt trucks or pre-treating the roads with brine solution in those days. What snow removal equipment available only worked the most traveled roads so neither the highway in/out of Centertown nor certainly not our road were cleared for traffic. So, on this particularly cold night, an unexpected snowstorm settled in over our part of Kentucky. 

State route 69 from Hartford to Centertown, a curvy stretch of 7 miles to our road, also had 6 one lane bridges. The biggest and narrowest spanned “Muddy Creek”, a creek that fed off Rough River. Dad carefully negotiated those treacherous miles and one lane bridges then made the turn of the main highway onto our road (now known as Chandle Loop) and, within 100 feet, into a snowdrift. We were stuck. He tried backing up, pulling forward, backing up and pulling forward with only minimal success. The snow formed a barrier that our Chevy couldn’t penetrate. Dad got out and pushed as Mom steered the car. In the fall, I had walked that stretch of road from the house to the highway to greet my brother and sister when they got off the school bus. I didn’t think it was very long at all, but on that snowy night, it seemed to stretch to the end of the earth. I just knew we would have to walk home in all that snow, in the dark and without our boots. I saw an adventure in my future but I sure didn’t like the idea of not having boots for that adventure. 

Dad finally got back in the car to warm up a bit. He told us to sit tight and he’d be back in just a few minutes. He knew he would have to dig the car out of the snow so he set off for the house while we waited. Of course he went for a shovel and we expected to see him and his flashlight coming back for us. What we didn’t expect was the mode of transportation. He came back riding our trusty mare, Bonnie. I didn’t have to walk the endless pike in the dark with snow up to my ears and without boots. Dad hoisted his 4 children onto the bare back of that gentle soul and sent us to the house, my big brother in command sitting in front, my sister at the back and the other 2 of us sandwiched between them. 

As gentle as that horse was, she balked at every bridge and that posed a problem. To get to the house, you had to cross a bridge over a branch of Walton Creek. Sure enough, we reached that bridge and Bonnie stopped. She had been so good with the 4 of us perched on her back but when she got to that bridge, she had reached the end of her journey. She could have gone down the short bank and crossed the creek as always but she didn’t want to do that either. She deserves credit for not endangering us. She could have slipped or jumped or bucked and lost her passengers but she stood still. 

We sat huddled on the horse while Dad dug and Mom maneuvered. It wasn’t long till the sound of spinning wheels turned to a more normal tone, its lights came into view and Mom and Dad came to our rescue. Dad lifted Mark, Janet and I off the horse and put us back in the car. He sent Ronnie on to the barn with the horse. I guess that’s one time Ronnie was less than happy to be the oldest but he was able to get Bonnie across the creek (not the bridge!) and on to the gate of the horse lot where he released her and sent her kicking snow all the way to the barn. It was a short car ride for us to the house…again about 100 feet. 

Dad’s work was not finished for the night. We had been gone for the bigger part of 2 days. We heated with a Stokermatic stove. The fire burned out with no one home to feed the coal into the hopper so the house was cold but not so cold that the water lines froze. Thank goodness for that! Dad cleaned out the firebox while Ronnie carried in a couple of buckets of coal to get the fire started. While they worked on restoring the heat, Mom started cooking and Janet, Mark and I huddled up on the couch to stay warm. 

Traditionally, when we returned from a weekend visit with grandparents, Mom cooked breakfast. That night was no exception. By the time the Stokermatic started blowing warm air, Mom served bacon, eggs, biscuits (homemade, of course) and gravy. She perked (old school, not brewed) a pot of coffee for her and Dad but had hot chocolate for the 4 of us. Warm and well-fed, we headed to bed. 

Dad didn’t have a lot of weekends off with working swing shift. Usually he had farm work to do on his days off but he did manage to make time for visiting his and Mom’s parents and giving us treasured time with our grandparents. I’m sure that he probably didn’t make it into bed until way past midnight that night and had to get up earlier than normal for his trip to work the next morning due to the road conditions.  Only as an adult can I now fully appreciate the struggles and worries Mom and Dad endured that night. I was a 5 year old adventure seeking little girl who thought it was another of her adventures rather than a trial. 

Breakfast for supper still reminds me of that snowy adventure in late winter…long, long ago.