Tuesday, December 18, 2007

The Blizzard of 1950: Time to Head South!

Now, this looks just like what I remember of the winter of 1950 east of Cleveland, Ohio.

My father had to cut through the screen door of the kitchen to hollow out the snow that had banked six feet high and prevented the door from being opened.

We (the neighborhood kids in Euclid) made snow igloos and tunnels that lasted until spring. Snowball fights? Are you kidding? Sledding? You betcha.

Nothing moved on the road for days. No school. Food ran low and neighbors shared. The milkman finally appeared and we were able to buy milk and bread.

My father dropped his glasses next to the car in the snow and didn't find them until spring. There was no way to get to work.

My mother said it was time to head back south of the Mason-Dixon line. We left that summer.

According to one history of Cleveland,

The 5-day 1950 Thanksgiving blizzard began when an arctic air mass lowered temperatures to 7 degrees. The next day, 24 Nov., low pressure from Virginia moved into Ohio, causing a blizzard with high winds and heavy snow which closed the airport. Mayor Thomas Burke called for the National Guard and mobilized snow removal equipment to clear the 22.1" of snow brought by the storm; however, snow drifts and over 10,000 abandoned cars blocked the effort.

Burke declared a state of emergency, banned unnecessary travel, and later asked downtown businesses to stagger hours to reduce transit burdens. Nonessential cars were banned downtown. The storm weakened on Monday, but most area schools closed. The storm ended, and all guardsmen were dismissed by Wednesday, but Cleveland schools remained closed all week to keep children off transit lines. The auto ban lasted until the last CTS line reopened on Saturday; while parking problems remained, police no longer monitored traffic. Normal conditions returned as the temperature hit 53 degrees. The storm had paralyzed the area for a week and cost over $1 million and 23 lives.

Friday, December 7, 2007

If Not for Pearl Harbor, I Wouldn't Be Here

Strange to imagine the scene on December 8th.

My 20-year-old father, Al Stone, sits in a classroom at Cleveland College (now part of Case Western Reserve) as the professor turns up the radio to broadcast FDR's famous "Day of Infamy" speech. He and most of his classmates head for enlistment as soon as possible. The Army Air Corps rejects him for his eyesight. His father says the only real men are in the Marines anyway.

South to Parris Island, then to Camp Lejune, the USO, and a first-year high school teacher with red hair and the last name of Abernethy. Voila.

How many more thousands of World War II stories are like this?