Snowpocalypse of 1967

The Great Blizzard of 1967 was a kid's dream come true. It may have been a magical time for my 9-year-old friends and me, but it was nerve-racking for the adults. A few days before the January blizzard struck the rural areas of northwestern Indiana, it was a balmy 65 degrees. I remember racing home from school and making the biggest decision ever -- bike or jump rope.

What a difference a few days would make. On Jan. 26, the weatherman predicted a drop in temperatures and a was not promising. That would never be enough snow to build opposing snow forts and provide an adequate supply of snowballs for a good fight. At school, we watched the snow accumulate while eating our lunch-box sandwiches and overhearing the teachers use frightening words like "gusts," "paralyzing," "stranded," and "blizzard!" Then, sweet words came to our ears: "School is dismissed."

Arriving home after what I can only describe as a death-defying bus ride, I found my mom already in the kitchen baking and preparing meals to survive the week. A short time later, my older brother, Larry, and sister, Gloria, blew through the front door, gasping for breaths between shouts, "No -- school -- tomorrow!"

We scurried through the house like giddy mice, searching for the things on Mom's list: blankets, candles, shovels, buckets and, among other things, her 1940s muskrat fur coat to be used for a comforter. Dad came home from work hours later than usual with stories of whiteouts, 50-mile-per-hour winds, and deserted cars.

The following day, after a recordsetting snowfall of 23 inches and massive 15-foot snowdrifts, my dad and brother got to work on the snow. They tunneled out the driveway and continued into the streets of our subdivision while neighbors pressed their noses against their windows to watch. Where does Mr. Bender think he's going? everyone wondered.

Finally, every neighbor with a shovel joined him and cleared a one-lane path to the abandoned U.S. Highway 30. Later, they formed a sled team and trekked over the tundralike landscape to a small convenience store about 2 miles away. The mission proved a bust after finding store shelves emptied. They returned with only a few loaves of bread and a couple of gallons of milk for 12 families.

Besides enjoying the weeklong school closure, I still reminisce about the silence the snowstorm brought. There were no car or truck sounds roaring down the thoroughfares or airplanes flying overhead. I could only hear the echoes of laughter and screams from sledding hills and unending snowball fights.

The most memorable surprise from the blizzard was my brother's larger-thanlife snowman. Larry's inspiration grew after the local radio station, WJJD out of Chicago, Ill., advertised a snowman contest. The chosen winner for the largest snowman promoting the station’s call letters would receive a free black-andwhite portable Sharp TV.

On the first day of building, Larry received help from Gloria and me to fill the enormous base of his snowman. Once we could only reach the top on tiptoe, we moved to the bucket brigade, filling buckets with snow and handing them to Larry while he stood on a ladder. Gloria and I surrendered early with sore backs and cold feet; we did not have our brother's determination.

Within days, he finished the 25-foottall snowman that extended up beyond our rooftop. Larry added a red plastic bow tie, a cardboard hat and buttons, and arms made of surplus lumber wrapped in white sheets. Larry enjoyed the crowds of people streaming by to take pictures in front of his giant snowman.

At last, his new TV arrived, with the WJJD broadcaster announcing over the airwaves that Larry Bender was their first-place winner. Though news of Larry's accomplishments traveled quickly, so did the devastating news that my big brother had received his draft notice for the Vietnam War.

I still reflect on the difference one day or one year can make. Shortly after Larry departed for Vietnam in April 1968, northwest Indiana was hit with another significant snowstorm right before Easter. My dad suggested we build another snowman, one that would make his son proud.

The 20-foot snow bunny (ears included) was hollowed out like an igloo and served as my fort for weeks until warmer temps threatened its collapse. We were the only home in Merrillville, Ind., to have a basketball-size clump of snow still melting on their front lawn on June 1.

Our snowman bunny didn't receive any prizes or awards, but the pictures did win the approval of some of our bravest men a world away -- my brother and his buddies with the 101st Airborne Division.