The weather man on the local radio station had forecast a blizzard.
It was Saturday. Many folks were out shopping on this beautiful sunny day,
one that sometimes comes in March on the North Dakota prairies.
We were having an early supper when Mama said, “Well I guess
the forecast was wrong,” when it struck, coming out of a clear blue sky.
Spring was abolished instantly, as the arctic wind picked up snow
hurling it at anything in its pathway, and though we were safely home,
we were worried about those who were shopping and had lingered
to visit with other shoppers or perhaps to have coffee in the local café.
We knew that my brother and his wife and two small children
were among those stragglers. There was no way we could check
on their safety. The phones were out with that first strong blast.
It would be two days before we would hear that they were safe.
Others were not so fortunate. Some died in their cars.
Those who left their cars, perished anyway.
My last big storm, I married and moved way that next summer.