The February winter storm that paralyzed a huge chunk of the country brought back memories of snow and ice events that were beautiful to kids but brutal for our parents.
Big snowfalls seemed more frequent then. Old Kodak photos preserved by generations of our family document cold winters with images of deep snow, icicles hanging from trees and back yard clothes lines and snowmen in front of white-roofed houses.
There are pictures of our dog Spunky sunken into the snow with nothing showing but her black eyes. And of Dr. Butler making a house call boot deep in the slush holding his black medical bag with a stethoscope draped around his neck.
Boys hung on to grass ropes as they pulled each other through the neighborhood on cardboard boxes and trash can covers that served as makeshift sleds.
We wore wool gloves and thick mackinaw coats that were used just a time or two by older brothers or neighbors who handed them down to us. We passed them on to younger kids the next winter.
Fresh, clean snow was gathered up in bowls for our mothers to make snow ice cream with vanilla, milk, sugar and whatever else was used to create that delicacy.
It didn’t seem that cold to us then, but we skated in our galoshes on the thick ice that covered the goldfish pond and the canal we called the minnow ditch where we swam and splashed to cool off in the summertime.
We hoped for more cold weather and snow to keep us out of school and entertained. Our mothers and dads struggled to keep us warm and fed when water pipes froze and the power went out.
All of the houses in our little community in the shadows of the paper mill were propped up on brick pillows. Our dads turned the water off when wintry weather approached trying to keep exposed pipes under the house from breaking.
The home’s heating system was comprised of a big space heater in the living room with an open natural gas flame and another that was built into the wall of the home’s only bathroom.
We collected water in buckets, bowls, pots and pans before it was turned off to use for cooking and what my mother called “sponge baths” She heated a little water on the gas stove, and we dabbed it on strategic body parts.
When the power went out as it always did, we used a flashlight to get around in the house. We kept it off most of the time to save the batteries. My mother had a candle in the kitchen to see enough to cook. I never heard or saw a generator in the neighborhood.
On the frigid nights when we were bundled up in layers of clothes but still shivering, my parents, brother and I got in the tiny bathroom, closed the door and huddled close to the wall heater.
The mill needed tons of thick tan felt to make paper and gave it away in rolls to workers after it was used. We got under layers of the felt blankets when we tried to sleep at night.
When the arctic blasts passed and things thawed out, our parents assessed the damage of ruptured water pipes, blown fuses, scorched wiring, gushing leaks on walls and floors, cracked car radiators and all the usual destruction of lingering freezes.
The neighborhood was full of welders, electricians, plumbers, mechanics, pipefitters and millwrights who pitched in to help their friends and co-workers.
They kept a massive paper mill running 24 hours a day, 365 days a year and were not challenged much by a few broken pipes and electrical problems.
Kids went back to school when the buses could run again and dreamed while stuck at their desks of new snowstorms, sledding on cardboard boxes and ice skating across frozen ponds.
REPRINTED FROM THE NATCHITOCHES TIMES