Weather hates us: Blizzard of ’78

Watching bits and pieces of the Hurricane Irene coverage the past few days makes me think of the two greatest weather events of my lifetime so far: The Blizzard of ’78 and the ice storm of 2005.

A lot of people in this part of the Midwest have compared the two in the years since the January 2005 ice storm and most people I’ve spoken with say that in some ways the blizzard was less harrowing. The loss of electric power for most of us during the ice storm — we were lucky and only without power for three or four days, although some were in the dark and cold for a week or more — was worse than being cooped up at home after the Blizzard.

Although I’m not signing up for a recurrence of either, I think I’d prefer to relive the Blizzard of ’78 if I had to choose. The January 1978 blizzard — up to 20 inches of snow across much of Central Indiana, whipped by high winds into road-closing drifts that often reached to the rooflines of homes — paralyzed much of the state.

But aside from keeping us out of school for days, the blizzard had other good (bad?) effects. My family, which lived on a farm in the country at the time, was pretty well prepared and didn’t go without necessities. My brothers had borrowed some friends’ snow shoes and made forays out a few times, walking the two miles to the Marsh at Southway Plaza, the nearest grocery store.

Eventually a snow plow got down South Walnut Street and we managed to get out. I don’t think I’ll ever forget what a surreal first trip we made down the newly-0pened road. The snow had drifted higher than the tops of cars and the plow had made a virtual tunnel, open at the top, one lane wide all the way to town. There were a couple of wider spots to allow cars to pull over for the passage of the sparse other traffic.

In the decades since the blizzard — certainly by the time of the ice storm — I knew that weather emergencies were no longer an impromptu vacation from school and responsibilities. Now we still have to get to work and school. Life goes on, even after a weather disaster.

So I’m feeling for people on the East Coast who are dealing with damage and, long after the 24/7 news coverage ends, will be picking up the pieces.

By the way, I don’t have any Blizzard of ’78 pictures. The photos included here are from northern Indiana and were found on a website about the Blizzard. But they’re very representational of how I remember roads and driveways to be once we had tunneled our way out.

Are we bigger slobs every generation?

My maternal grandfather, James Albert Stewart, was a manual laborer most of his life. He lived a hardscrabble existence in Tennessee before moving to Muncie and then worked, along with his wife, Ida, in the town’s dirty, hot factories. He was by no means a dandy.

Yet in the years I remember him best, after he was retired, my grandfather dressed in black slacks, a white dress shirt, a thin black tie and (sometimes) a jacket and hat every day. Not just for attending the Baptist church on Sunday. Every day. He would get dressed up and ride the bus downtown and pass the time in stores and coffee shops, dressed in a manner most people these days would associate with the Blues Brothers or the Men in Black. That was how men dressed back then.

My mom and dad were more casual than my grandfather but still pretty “dressy.” Mom wore dresses to church and Dad wore a tie and jacket on Sunday but during the week Mom wore slacks and blouses and Dad wore work pants and shirts.

Five days a week, I’m likely to be wearing khaki pants and oxford shirts, which may be why I love being able to wear shorts (or jeans) and knit polo shirts on weekends. I have a rack full of ties but break them out only occasionally.

Sensing a trend here?

To carry the dressing-down timeline a bit further, I see people in their 20s who seem to live in shin-length shorts and concert Ts. Or even worse, pajama pants and T-shirts. Nothing says, “I just rolled out of bed and I think I brushed my teeth” like pajama pants worn out in public.

I don’t long for a return to the days of white shirts and fedoras, despite my fondness for the TV show “Mad Men.” But I’m officially tired of people wearing Nike pool shoes everywhere but the pool and wearing ratty jeans to mortuary calling hours.

I’m gonna continue to dress down on weekends and days off. You’re not going to see me sporting spats and a cummerbund (okay, maybe the latter in case I’m best man in a wedding again) anytime soon.

But if you see me on the street in pajama pants, please wake me up gently because I’m sleepwalking.

Rockin’ your world

Today’s earthquake packed a lot of entertainment into just a few seconds.

Now I’m being kind of facetious about the ‘quake, which was centered in Virginia but felt waaaaay over here in Indiana, because the latest news reports indicate no injuries and little damage. As one Internet quipster said, the tremors would be wildly over-reported because they were felt in DC and NYC and I suppose there’s some truth to that.

But even here, where the New Madrid fault sometimes kicks up a rumble or two, today’s earthquake felt like a real rock-and-roller.

Maybe it’s because I was on the fourth floor, but today’s ‘quake felt different than the few I’ve experienced before. Those were shakers. Probably thanks to my elevated position, this one felt like more like a wave. A friend and I looked at each other and, we later determined, were thinking the same thing at the same time: I’m feeling dizzy.

Afterward, among a flurry of conversations — both in person, on Facebook and Twitter — I enjoyed trading stories about what we felt and when.

I don’t wish an earthquake on us or anybody and I know the New Madrid fault could really throw us for a loop someday.

But today’s quake gave us all something to talk about that wasn’t politics or the economy or war. It made us all feel like we were sharing an experience instead of arguing about an experience.

Except for you people who didn’t feel it, that is. You guys are just weird.

Just for fun: Jonny Quest

Here we go again: Last night, I tried to post the opening credits of the classic animated series “Jonny Quest,” but for some reason wasn’t able to.

Since it seems to be working tonight, here’s a few thoughts:

“Jonny Quest” debuted on TV in 1964 and lasted only a season, but it is one of the most-repeated, most-imitated and idolized ostensibly-for-kids shows ever. It’s influenced a couple of generations of animated shows and there’s even been talk of a live-action movie version.

If the show was before your time or below your radar, the stories focused on Jonny, a pre-teen whose dad, Benton Quest, was a government scientist. Government agent Roger “Race” Bannon was Jonny’s bodyguard and teacher and Hadji was Jonny’s adopted brother.

The show was great wish-fullfillment for a kid like me but also just plain fun as the Quest clan jetted around the world, encountering sinister plots, evil scientists, maniacal despots and mysterious happenings.

“Jonny Quest,” along with “Star Trek” and old Universal monster movies, helped activate the geek gene in a lot of us.

Trickle down: Ice in urinals

Here’s something that few men and even fewer women have ever seen. I’ve only seen it a couple of times.

Ice in the urinal.

I’ve written about this before on Facebook, but i noticed it again last week, so I thought I would mention it here.

If you’ve been to La Hacienda, the longtime Mexican eatery on Muncie’s south side — and you’re a guy — you’ve noticed the ice in the urinal there. The bar and restaurant is one of the few in this area that I’ve noticed that dumps ice cubes in its urinal.

But why?

The prevailing theories behind the practice of ice in urinals are:

The ice, as it melts, provides what amounts to a continuous flush.

The very fact that the ice needs regular replenishing indicates to patrons that the staff is checking the restroom.

The cold discourages drain flies.

And because it’s fun to melt the ice, guys are more likely to, you know, actually aim.

So now you know.

But I wonder: Is there an equivalent in the women’s restroom?

 

Bookstore apocalypse: Making a run for the Borders

Boy, things were hopping at the Borders bookstore today.

If that statement makes you go “Huh?” then you’ve been paying attention to news about the book-selling industry. Borders, the nation’s second-largest chain, announced in July it would shut down and close its nearly 400 stores.

Experts say the company made a lot of bad moves in the past decade, including its response to the Internet. First Amazon kicked the butts of most big chain stores and now e-books are outselling paper and cardboard books.

While I have a real appreciation for some bookstores — Powell’s in Portland, Oregon, Tattered Cover in Denver, Malaprops in Asheville, North Carolina, to name a few — I can’t say I felt a special affinity for Borders. Barnes and Noble feels more like a “real” bookstore to me.

But I hate to see a bookstore go out of business. The closing of a bookstore means one less place to browse and touch and sample and buy books.

I’ve certainly contributed to the downfall of bookstores. While we still buy books, I’ve tried to save money in recent years by stepping up my library use.

So it was with mixed emotions that I found myself, out of the blue, at the going out of business sale at Borders today.

We decided to visit Hamilton Town Center on the north side of Indianapolis and were walking around when we realized that Borders — not Barnes and Noble — was the bookstore at that mall. We figured it would already be closed but it wasn’t. It is in its death throes.

“Going out of business” banners and signs are plastered everywhere and shoppers bustled about, checking out the somewhat-depleted shelves.

We bought some books, DVDs and CDs. Yes, it was like shopping in an elephants graveyard, times three. And no, there wasn’t a rack of eight-track tapes, thank you very much.

As we made our purchases and the clerk behind the register thanked us and wished us a good day, I wondered if he didn’t really mean, “Thanks for coming by! Too bad you didn’t spend a hundred bucks here when it counted!”

New school year, old memories

This time of year – particularly as a parent of a school-age kid — my thoughts dwell on the beginning of a new school year.

And not just any school year, but my first grade year.

I didn’t go to kindergarten — something about where my birthday fell made me too young for one year’s incoming class and too old for the next, apparently — so first grade was my introduction to school, obviously, but also to the big wide world out there.

I had a fairly isolated existence before I started school. I grew up on 20 acres of farm land that was mine to roam. I had a 100-year-old barn to explore and livestock to watch, including chickens that seemed determined to claw my eyes out. I think about those scary little suckers every time I have a chicken nugget.

So joining the school population in first grade was thrilling and terrifying at the same time.

Mrs. Schull — Marjorie Schull to the grown-ups — was my guide through this new world. I still remember Mrs. Schull’s patient teachings of letters and numbers and, oddly enough, the mechanics of functioning in the world of school.

Early in the year — maybe even the first day — Mrs. Schull used a plastic cafeteria lunch tray to show us how to go through the cafeteria line. I still remember that she used a pencil to show us where to put our utensils. Strangely, I remember her telling us that when we boys grew up, we would carry a wallet in our back pants pockets and that our pockets would have a button on them to secure that wallet. I still remember being resistant to that idea. For some reason that I can’t remember, I didn’t want a button on my back pocket.

The early 1990s-era building where our elementary classes were held is long gone now, but the structure — where I attended classes until we moved to a brand new elementary in fourth grade — looms large in my memory: Its three stories, steep but wide wooden stairways, mammoth windows and hissing, spitting radiators linger in my dreams.

I found a photo of the building on the Cowan Facebook page. It’s at the top of this blog entry. I’m kind of dumbfounded by how small the building looks. I remember it as larger-than-life. Mrs. Schull too.

And of course. Mrs. Schull was right about the button on my pockets. I have one or two on the back of almost every pair of pants I own.

Hunter S. Thompson: When the going gets weird

… the weird turn pro.

Any fan of “gonzo” journalist Hunter S. Thompson will recognize that line from the self-proclaimed “hillbilly” writer and early practitioner of the art of participatory journalism.

My favorite of Thompson’s writing is still the 1972 classic “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” in which the drug-crazed journalist and his Samoan lawyer crash a convention of district attorneys.

That book, like much of Thompson’s work, began life as an article in Rolling Stone. This week, the Internet site Gothamist published a 1971 letter, purportedly written by Thompson, on Rolling Stone stationery, to Mike Peterson, a South Bend man who had submitted an article to the magazine.

Thompson was a master of excess in every way, but especially in his writing. Nevertheless, the letter is a classic, a blistering rejection note that manages to be delightful at the same time. Who wouldn’t want to send a letter like this to an unworthy correspondent? Who wouldn’t want to have this type of rejection letter in his or her file?

Forewarned: The language is as vulgar and abusive as it is creative.

Abandoned Six Flags New Orleans

I couldn’t post the “LA Light” video and not post one of the creepiest, most effective videos I’ve seen online.

This is a tour of the former Six Flags amusement park near New Orleans. The park was closed in 2005 when Hurricane Katrina was bearing down on Louisiana and never reopened.

Watch this video and try not to think about the end of the world.

Beautiful “LA Light”

Here’s a beautiful video of Los Angeles at night by Colin Rich.