We all have one of these Christmas stories. OK, all Canadians.
It’s about the time the weather wasn’t fit for man (or woman) or beast.
And we still had to get home for Christmas.
In my case, as the mists of time lift, it was when I was supposedly furthering my post-secondary education in London, Ont., but didn’t think twice about heading home to the little nearly northern Ontario town, where I’m from, for the holidays.
My travelling companion, let’s call him Richard, and I had heard the forecast before we embarked on the four-hour trip home. (He was from where I was from, too.)
The forecast was for snow, and then snow following that, then more of the white stuff.
We’d heard it all before. We were from northern Ontario, after all.
Back then (here it comes) it snowed from early October until late March. The snow was deep and crisp and even (surely that must be in the public domain by now).
It wasn’t snowing when we left, literally just minutes after we’d awakened from nodding off during history or English literature or, of course, political science. (Here’s where I could make the argument that politics is not a science, but that’s another story.)
We weren’t any groggier than normal when we left the campus (buildings, lawns, statues, great halls and pubs), so the decision we made to leave was as sound as usual (so not really sound at all).
Did I mention it wasn’t snowing?
Anyway, we had pretended to pack carefully earlier and hopped into the 'Blue Buffalo,' my semi-famous Ford Cortina, which was either built without suspension or the springs didn’t work anymore, hence the name, referring to its smooth ride.
But it did have all-weather tires. They were all the rage then because snowfall is weather and those tires could, in theory, plow through anything Mother Nature could throw at us.
The Blue Buffalo also had a great sound system. Just FM radio on the dial, no AM crap, and a cassette player, not one of those eight-track clunkers. This was before cars had CD players. (It’s come full circle now, as cars no longer play CDs.)
This was also before, long before, Highway 400 from Toronto was as many lanes as it is now and Highway 69 was only two lanes.
If you could find them in the snow.
Once it started to fall, it was evident the plows could not keep up and the Blue Buffalo, despite its all-weather tires, was slipping and sliding all over the place in four to six inches (use Imperial measurement here, shall we?) of snow.
I was gripping the steering wheel tightly, and I don’t know what Richard was doing, as my attention was on the giant transport truck in front of us on the 69 Highway, which was both shielding us from the storm and providing direction.
We had a brief conversation about the situation.
“Can you see anything,” Richard asked.
“The truck,” I responded.
“The truck or its tail lights,” he inquired.
“Its tail lights,” I answered. “And only because they’re red.”
“Should we pull over?” he asked.
“Pull over into what?” I responded. “The ditch?”
“It’s signalling to pull over,” Richard said of the transport.
“I see that.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Keep going, what else?”
I eased the Blue Buffalo around the transport, cursing the truck driver’s decision to get off the highway while the getting was good.
Of course, he didn’t pull completely off the highway and I had to swerve into the oncoming lane of traffic to get by. Luckily, there was no one coming. Or at least that I saw. And I couldn’t see a thing.
So we sailed straight into the storm. It wasn’t a snow squall, it was just snowing that hard.
The trouble was, with unplowed roads and no traffic either way, we really didn’t know where to go.
But being young men, we soldiered on.
It was probably the road signs that saved us. You know, Max. 100 Km/Hr., Hidden Intersection Ahead, Road Curves Right, and, of course, Slower Traffic Speed Up. (Just kidding with that last one.)
But that imaginary sign was us, as we were going about 40 kilometres an hour. My all-weathers worked well in these conditions.
And we weren’t in that much danger for long.
“Looks like the snow isn’t falling as hard,” Richard said.
“Why do you say that,” I asked.
“Because I can see tail lights up ahead,” he said. “We’re not the only ones out here.”
Richard, being the diplomatic type, meant “we’re not the only idiots out here, driving in a frickin’ blizzard.”
“Oh,” I said, nearly encouraged.
But he was right, the snow thinned and the road was at least visible.
We reached speeds of 60 km/h the rest of the way home. Never saw a snow plow.
I can’t remember how long it took to get home, but probably at least six hours.
And I can’t remember if our families were relieved we made it OK.
Snowstorms in those days were just part of winter.
When I dropped Richard off, he smiled and turned to me before closing the Blue Buffalo’s passenger door.
“Remind me to take the bus next time,” he said.
“OK,” I replied, “but you’d still be out there.”
He asked when we were heading back…
Bob Bruton covers city hall for BarrieToday. He wishes all a Merry Christmas, and that they make it home safely, wherever home might be.
