The Blizzard
Mama was just saying, " I guess
the forecaster was wrong",
when the storm struck.
It came from a clear blue sky.
The sun had shone on one
of those false spring days
that sometimes come in March,
on the North Dakota prairies.
Spring was abolished instantly.
The Arctic wind picked up snow,
hurling it at anything
in its pathway, and though
we were safely home, we
worried about those who were
shopping and had lingered over
coffee in the cafe.
We knew that my brother and his
wife and two children
were among these stragglers.
There was no way we could check.
The phones were out
with that first blast.
Daddy tied himself to a long rope
to get to the coal pile.
We sere safe,
but knew nothing of others.
It would be two days before
phones were restored,
roads cleared and news came
that my brother and family
were safe.
Others were not so fortunate.
Some died in their cars. Those
who left their cars perished anyway.
March 15, 1941. My last big storm.
I married and moved away
that summer.
Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2009
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