This recent cold spell with its blizzards and icy roads brings to mind the harrowing tales of our ancestors. We've heard them tell of tying twine from house to barn in order to find their way during a prairie whiteout, of farmers perishing of hypothermia, lost in their own yard, of cattle dying huddled en masse against a fenceline. Until we experience the harshness of the elements ourselves, we sometimes dismiss the telling. My children were of the sort to recite, tongue in cheek, ìWhen I was a kid, I had to walk to school 10 miles, in my bare feet, uphill both ways!î Not considering the truth in the memories, they assumed tall tales were all that ignited their great-grandparents' and great-uncle's stories.We lived through some memorable storms on the farm near Westward Ho. Dad had put plastic on all the downstairs windows for extra warmth and one night the howling gales tore it off. With what he had left over, he recovered the windows, nailing it up on the inside. We already had ice -inch thick. The house was heated with wood and coal, with an oil heater in the living room. During that particular storm we all moved downstairs to huddle in blankets around the stoves, except Larry, who chose to remain upstairs. His blankets froze to the wall.Dad was out as soon as the storm stopped, digging us out with his little Allis-Chalmers tractor and blade. He went farm to farm to our elderly neighbours, to plow their yards and check if they were OK. When we moved into town, he was the first one to fire up the snow blower and clear the drive, ours and most of the neighbours' on the block. He had about 10 customers who were absolutely dependent on his determination to fight the elements.Early into our marriage Rob and I lived in a tiny house in Calgary, rented from the large church next door. During one of our super storms, my husband was stranded out of town. Not unduly concerned I nipped across to our community corner store for milk and the few necessities one has with a toddler in the house. The next morning was clear and bright and I thought I'd go shovel us out. I couldn't get out of the house for the snow packed in against the doors. I called my brother-in-law, who came from across the city to dig me out. I may have been able to climb out one of the windows, but didn't want to discover too late that I couldn't, half in and half out.Once I returned to Olds there were more mild winters than wicked ones. However, two years running we were overwhelmed yet again with cold and more snow than places to throw it. One of those winters I shovelled till the piled snow was nearly over my head. I felt like the narrow path was a maze to nowhere. We never exited a building without first checking overhead. Most buildings had mountainous snowpack overhanging the roofs. That was one problem I didn't face while living in Peace River. There my roof was the steep chalet type, covered in tin. I was frequently startled with the whoosh of avalanche cascading past my window. Here in Olds my kids went up to clear snow off the roof. We were afraid of the accumulated weight.That winter my car was blocked in at work with the suddenness of the onslaught. It took Dad to get me home. He couldn't get into the yard at the lodge. My friend and I floundered out to the street and tumbled into his half-ton truck. He wrestled his way down the centre of the road, breaking trail and got as close to my house as he could. I lived on a crescent which was inaccessible. Two weeks later yet another storm saw my car securely barricaded in its garage off the alley. The alley was completely impassable for days. Again it was Dad to the rescue.It was near impossible to get out the front, far easier stumbling down the alley. The entire area was fenced and the drifting wasn't quite so severe, only thigh deep. Coming home through the backyard I aimed for the biggest mound of snow, assuming that the steps were under there somewhere. We were fortunate to have a neighbour who had access to a Bobcat. He cleared a few swaths whenever he could. He hardly finished the first trek when he had to begin again.In the spring, which seemed a long time in coming, we had to laugh. We had carved a meandering trail from the front door to the crescent, which more closely resembled a sticky bun or overflowing cream puff. With the eventual thaw we discovered our trail was roughly parallel to our sidewalk. We had missed it altogether.
