Thread by @bkives

Belated Blizzard of ’86 thread …

I was 16 years old and I played in a band that played covers.

We had a gig at a house party. I was very excited, but my folks warned me not to go.

I lived in Garden City. The gig was in River Heights. They warned me I wouldn’t be able to get home.

I didn’t listen.

We set up in the house. It was empty. Whoever owned it had moved out.

There was like just enough room in the living room for our gear, the other band’s gear and some people.

It was going to be a crowded spot.

At about 9 p.m., I had to drive to Polo Park mall to get the lead singer.

He worked at Club Monaco. That was a prestige gig for a 16 year old in the 1980s. But I digress.

By the time I rolled up to the mall, the snow was coming down so heavy, I had to manually clear it from the wipers with my mitts every few blocks.

The streets were bad, but passable.

I had my sister’s Pontiac Sunbird. It had front-wheel drive. This was a big asset.

We made it back to the house party. We played the gig.

By the time we were done, the roads were a disaster.

Somehow, a guy I did not like convinced me to drive his GF home to Tuxedo.

I had little self-esteem, so I agreed. I was going to crash at the drummer’s house, anyway, who lived nearby.

Needless to say, we didn’t make it.

There was a snowdrift about a metre high where Corydon crossed the BNR line.

The Sunbird didn’t make it. We left it and made our way on foot.

All our gear was still at the house party.

We were not very bright.

Within a block, a guy driving a pickup with a lift kit and a snowplow attachment happened on us.

We asked for him to rescue the Sunbird.

“You got $30?”

This was 1986. He may as well have asked us if we had a live penguin with us.

He kept going. We kept walking.

We made it to the singer’s house.

We were relieved.

We stayed there three days, sleeping in the basement.

His mother was and is a saint.

On day three, I went out and tried to dig out the Sunbird.

It took me four hours.

As I got enough of the thing freed to try the engine, a plow came by and buried it again.

I walked back to the singer’s house, sweaty and sad.

On day four, the buses were running again. I took one home to Garden City.

We had a tow truck take the Suburd to a garage to deal with the damage.

My sister was not happy.

On day five, the car was driveable again.

I called the guys in the band.

No one had taken the gear home from the house party.

I felt sick to my stomach.

I begged my sister to take her car again. She agreed.

I went back to the house party.

The side door was propped open by snow.

I felt sick again.

I wedged myself inside.

To my amazement, all our gear was there. And some blankets. And clothing. And pizza pop wrappers.

It looked like some kids spent the blizzard in the party house. That could not have been fun.

I bent back the door and got the gear out. I wedged it into the Sunbird.

I drove it all to the drummer’s place and to the guitarist’s place.

My annoyance was tempered by my relief.

After that blizzard, the city changed the way it managed heavy snowfalls.

It keeps the plows going around the clock now. This prevents the city from shutting down. It helped in 1996 and in 1997.

But you can’t change teenage stubbornness.

I would proceed to get my stupid ass stuck in another blizzard, in 2011.

In North Dakota. In a tiny town that somehow had a bar.

With complete strangers who bought me so much beer and whiskey, I had to pour it on myself and down sinks to prevent offending them.

The lesson: when the forecast calls for a blizzard, stay off the roads.

Even if you’re 16 and you have a gig.

-30-