Michael has asked us to weave a tale about winter chills for Tale Weaver 102. And, as it can be factual, I’m using a post I first published on January 31, 2011 about the great ice storm of 1998, though there have been since great ice storms in 2007, 2009, 2011, 2013, and 2016.
I was going to shorten it, but decided to leave it long. Don’t feel like reading long, then choose a shorter response to enjoy.
From January 31, 1011:
Image via Wikipedia
60 mm = 2 inches
In January 1998, we were subletting a tiny apartment in the once attic of a 19th century house in Eastern Ontario while I finished my contract instructorship with an university. On the night of January 5, the weather folks were calling for “significant” freezing rain; this was the beginning of the ice storm of 1998 that impacted Ontario east to Nova Scotia, upstate New York, and Maine.
By midnight, we could hear the crashing of ice-weighted limbs and trees. Over our tiny skylight, trees swayed under their load of ice, rocked by the wind. By then, the power had been out for several hours, and we moved our mattress towards the door to our apartment and waited for the thunderous bangs of shattered trees to stop, the ice-pellet rain to let up, the dawn to come.
Off in the direction of the university, we could see an eerie glow in the sky (all else was blackness). As the university shared a power plant with the local hospital, we thought the light must be coming from the campus.
With first light, we were able to begin to comprehend the massive impact of the storm: the huge tree from across the alley now had been sheared in two. Electrical wires hung like unclasped necklaces down to the ground. Our little car, parked out back, was incased in ice and surrounded by walls of sticks. A much larger branch, caught up in the telephone wires that were were still strung to our house, dangled over her roof. But nothing, it appeared, had actually made contact with the car.
Unnerved by the storm, and the continued crash of falling branches/trees, cold, and coffee-less, we decided to trek to my office just in case the power was still on in that building on campus. On a good day, it was a short, pleasant walk through a park, down a couple of streets, then a quick trip across the campus.
We packed two knapsacks with supplies (the department had a small kitchen area with bar fridge, microwave, two burner stove, and sink), and opened the house’s front door onto a scene from the aftermath of a bomb attack. The street was almost impassable on foot, littered with thousands of branches, shattered tree trunks, smashed and flattened cars. Everything was coated with a thick patina of ice.
There was silence, stillness; except for the continued snap, crash, crackle of ice-weary branches hitting the ground, shattering icecoats into a million pieces. We walked down the middle of the street, each step so carefully taken to avoid debris or falling.
Often ice on winter bare trees makes for a show of diamonds and glitter. Here, it marked hunchbacked young trees frozen to the ground. Ancient trees ruptured. Light poles and telephone poles drunkenly listed to one side or the other. Transformers exploded and burnt black. It was the landscape of nightmares and war zones.
We made it to my office, warm and brightly light, and basically moved in for the 3 weeks it took to get the power back to our apartment; even longer for phone service. We slept on piles of blankets on my office floor, cooked our meals in the kitchen area, listened to the radio, and made treks out into the frozen world – the weather remained cold, giving no chance for surfaces to lose their straight jackets of ice.
We rescued our car, branch still dangling over the roof. As if she realized it was her only shot at freedom, the little car (with a running start) made up and over a large pile of branches blocking the escape route. She had become entangled in some downed wires on our first attempt. We parked her in a parking lot near my office that had NO trees within falling distance.
That evening, heading back to our new home from downtown having run errands, we noticed candles flickering in the window of a small pub we sometimes frequented. Exhausted, we tried the door: yes, they were open with a generator out back helping to keep the beer cold, and allowing the kitchen to offer up two choices for dinner: chili with garlic bread or a hot turkey sandwich with cole slaw. The much coveted large armchair seats in the front window were vacant – most folks had either left town or were hunkered down – and we had two of the best meals we’ve ever eaten. Not by the quality of the food so much as the quality of the experience.
We were safe, our car was safe. Leaving the taps open seemed to have saved the plumbing in our apartment from freezing and breaking. We were surviving the great ice storm (even if we didn’t yet realize how long it would be until life returned to normal. And, for many folks in the country, it was months, not weeks, til the power came back on).
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We now rent a tiny house under the sweeping branches of tall maples and oaks. In the past ten years, these trees have survived two major hurricanes, one super-storm, fronts passing through with wind gusts at 55 mph +, directly overhead and close by lightening, and ice storms. Ice storms turning the trees, bushes, and cedars into patrons at an grand ball draped in light-catching diamond necklaces and earrings, The magical glow of a thousand sparklets of light.
But ice still is ominous; weather forecasts of measurable sleet, freezing rain or ice, still frighten me with images crashing limbs and broken bones. I forgot how fragile my bones have become, and the way in which a simple fall might not be. Early December 2015, I tripped on uneven sidewalk slabs (in my “world, most sidewalks are that way) resulted in breaking the tip of the greater trochanter at the top of my right femur. When a month later the pain was worse, got it checked out to discover the break.
While I still see the beauty in the sun on an ice-coated world, the need to tread carefully, and to keep fingers crossed when I am taping on my keyboard and hear the unmistakable scream of a splitting branch or breaking trunk means that my experiences from the ice storm of 1998 will remain fresh in my nostalgia daydream/nightmare “trunk”
When I first posted the Ice Storm of 1998 on January 31, 2011, I closed with:
“The weather channel and local radio are already calling the Tuesday into Wednesday oncoming storm, the storm of the decade. We might get more than a half inch of ice build up from hours of freezing rain.
The giant oaks whose trunks “seem” solidly placed in the neighboring yards spread their branches looming/lurking over our little house. High winds, thunderstorms, and heavy snow make me nervous; I have images of branches slicing through the attic.
But, calls for any amount of freezing rain sends shivers and I get unnerved all over again. My memories of the Armageddon-like landscape are still very fresh in my mind. This summer I came across a newspaper photo of our street after the storm we had kept; it was every bit as hellish as I remember. I’m not sure how I will handle the next couple of days, but at least we don’t have a skylight . . . yet.”
And, to date, we don’t have a sky light . . . .
© Lorraine; images: various news and other sources via bing
(c) Lorraine (frozen bird baths)
January 13, 2017 at 1:53 pm
I love the tale. The bike picture is awesome! I don’t remember the storm for so reason. I must have blacked out the winter thing.😀
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January 13, 2017 at 2:50 pm
Good time to black out about!
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January 13, 2017 at 2:52 pm
Lost credits for bike — another great newspaper shot is car, bench, lampposts incased in inches of ice,
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January 13, 2017 at 4:02 pm
That would be cool to see. I love the coast Guard stations frozen over
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January 12, 2017 at 10:05 am
Ah, the 1998 storm – storm of the century in some ways.
I was right in the thick of it – living in the suburbs of Montreal – waiting, for the snowfall that preceded it to end, and then when the freezing rain began, knowing – really gut level knowing – that this was going to be such a corker. And I was right – even as so many were like “nah, won’t be much of anything that we haven’t seen before – a couple of inches of ice – no biggie.” Yeah, how about at least one foot of ice???
At the time, my (now ex – yup, same one) was in business for himself – did snow removal – so first the snowstorm and hot on the heels, the ice storm. Turns out, it was a make or break deal for so many – and as our world was plunged into total darkness, some of us were out there, “on the lines” – working to clear paths, roadways, etc.
It was a battle ground, as you’ve mentioned. Incredibly beautiful and yet so destructive.
Proof of man’s ignorance in believing we can “conquer” nature – and nature can and should be exploited.
I’ll never forget any of it – days and days without sleep – the beauty and destruction – people – strangers helping out as best they could, offering shelter and basic essentials – on credit – because life stops dead still when no one has anything other than cash on hand in a world of plastic and electronics – of the tirades and impatience in absolute egotistical arrogance of the people who weren’t around, and when they finally returned, their shock, the customers who were too stupid to understand that “there was no where to go” so what does it matter if there is over foot thick slab of ice on your driveway?? the generous and “on the front lines” workers – from emergency services – police, firefighters, paramedics, municipal city workers, volunteers, and of course, the hydro staff working under such crazy conditions, trying to repair the damage that was so epic in scope – the people who were the “unsung heroes” …..
If anything, it ended up being a time for stillness – complete silence, especially after dark – ripped only by the sound of trees and utility poles snapping like matchsticks ….. but for all of it – that spring and summer? Well, the ice acted as greenhouse insulation, so when the melt happened, for all the damage? Everything was 3 times as full, green, blooming and beautiful in heralding new life, growth and having overcome the worst the weather and world had thrown at it. So each day I was out working (in landscape/gardening) was one of breathtaking beauty – and a reminder that even in the darkest of hours, in the worst of circumstances, eventually, there blossomed exquisite beauty.
Great post Lorraine. :)
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January 12, 2017 at 3:46 am
Wow a great response Lorraine, what an experience to have gone through…..nature can be beautiful and very scary at the same time can’t it..
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