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Posts Tagged ‘snow’

The winter storm that professional weather-promoters nicknamed Jonas dropped 26 inches of snow onto my back deck in a 24-hour period last month.

I know this for a fact because my grandfather helped me measure it.

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The storm was still going when I took this. I didn’t get a shot of the snow all the way up to 26 inches, but I like to think you will believe me.

I imagine many families have small “heirlooms” — items that are not formally handed down, but that make their way from house to house, find their small niche in life and drift comfortably along for years.

Things like potholders. Or those holder-things you put casserole dishes on when they’re fresh out of the oven, so they don’t scorch the table (their proper name escapes me.) Or modest two-level bookshelves. Or bottle openers. Or folding card tables topped with sticky vinyl.

Or, in this case, a yardstick.

I couldn’t tell you how it ended up in my hands. But pretty much since I moved out of dorms and into homes of my own, I’ve had the same yardstick.

It doesn’t get a lot of use for anything but snowstorms, so it stands a pretty good chance of getting passed on again … unlike my other grandpa’s novelty New York Football Giants bottle opener, whose NY logo has been worn to nothing over the course of thousands of beers.

But that’s a story for some other time.

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There is no Stamford Savings Bank any more. The institution still exists, but has been renamed First County Bank.

It doesn’t appear that the phone number on the yardstick was retained by any of First County’s 15 current branches, either, so don’t call it if you’re in the market for mortgage rates or certificates of deposit.

The actual piece of wood is not antique in any way, shape or form. I believe it dates to a specific window between May 1983 and April 1985.

The first date — if the Interwebs are correct — is when Stamford Savings Bank opened a new branch at 1110 Hope Street, in the Springdale neighborhood of Stamford, across the street from my grandparents’ house at 1107. (My cousin John, who is in the building trade in Stamford and who has shown up on this blog before, was apparently involved in the building’s construction.)

And the second date was when my grandparents, having sold the old home for demolition, moved out to start a new life in western New York.

The current Google Earth view of 1110 Hope Street.

The current Google Earth view of 1110 Hope Street. The former Springdale Methodist Church, which I’ve recently been told is closing, is to the right.

I have no concrete proof that my grandpa did his banking at Stamford Savings, as his financial records are long gone.

But I’m fairly certain the yardstick came from him. The bank was across the street, after all. And in my dad’s words:

My folks strongly felt a part of Springdale, and if there was a branch in Springdale, would likely have put their money there.  Although that being said, I think both of your grandfathers were of the type that started a new checking account at the bank du jour to get the free toaster.

(D’oh! I could have been handed down a toaster. Wouldn’t’a helped me measure the snow last month, though.)

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It’s been a challenging winter for a lot of people, including me.

As I write this, the Lehigh Valley is about nine inches shy of setting a new record for its snowiest winter ever.

Temperatures this winter have threatened or surpassed records for cold, as well, and the local electric company reported a new one-day record for power demand. (A fair amount of the heating in central and eastern Pennsylvania runs on electricity.)

I used to eat these winters for breakfast when I was a kid in upstate New York. They were just standard operating procedure. I had no more idea than a penguin has that other climates existed.

And I still profess, as an adult, to like this weather. I watch hockey; I wear layers; I eschew a snowblower and hump the snow myself. I’m not near moving to Florida yet. I declare I never will, me, stomping my boot in the ice and setting my jaw firmly against the cold wind.

But … these real severe winters are not as much fun as they used to be. I can only close my eyes and pretend I’m in Quebec (or Rochester) so many times. I can only go back outside to clean up the snowplow’s wet, heavy leavings so many times.

And mentally evoking the hardy ancestors on the New England and French-Canadian branches of my family tree doesn’t work any more.

Tabarnac! they say. You look back too much. Stop invoking your ancestry as though it meant something. We lived our lives; this one is yours. Go live it as if someone 200 years later was looking back at you. And stop whining.

It was nice this past weekend — close to 50 degrees on Saturday, with an invigorating breeze. It felt like the dawn of spring.

But, as my grandpa’s calendar reminds me, we’re not out of the woods. Winter can stick around for weeks yet.

March 29, 1970.

March 29, 1970.

I seriously don’t know what I’ll do if we get nine inches of snow on Easter, in one of those snowstorms that begins with the work day and ends close to bedtime.

Well, yeah, I know what I’ll do. I’ll put on a flannel shirt and my trashy jeans, and go out to the driveway again, and spit defiantly into the snowbank, and start shoveling. That’s what my grandpa did in 1970, give or take a few details.

It will seem like a cold eternity … but I will once again shovel until the driveway and sidewalks and mailbox are cleared.

And when the snow finally melts, I will treasure the first crocuses of the permanent spring as though they were the Stanley Cup.

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It is Nov. 29 as I write this; and within the past 24 hours, I have seen mentions on social media of the possibility of a big winter storm sometime between Dec. 10 and 15.

I guess, by the time you read this, we’ll all know whether it happened.

Even if we’re not looking back at a big storm, we’re always looking forward to the potential of one at this time of year.

I don’t know how the cult of the white Christmas got started. Was it the song that did it, or did people pray for snow on Dec. 25 before the song was written?

Either way, this is the time of year when those of us who are accustomed to snow (and who celebrate Christmas) start hoping for a storm at least big enough to coat the ground on Dec. 25.

Since snow is on my brain — and the formal start of winter is just a few days away — I thought it would be appropriate to go looking for a real whopper of a snowstorm on my grandfather’s calendars.

The one I chose didn’t happen in December, but the calendar entry captures the moment pretty nicely anyway.

February 14-15, 1962.

February 14-15, 1962.

(Apropos de nada, I like the differing dimensions of the two hearts on the Feb. 14 Valentine’s Day drawing. Kinda suggests that the ideal love partnership does not involve two perfect twins, but rather two sides that each bring something different to the table.)

Anyway, looks like Stamford got socked pretty good. Twelve inches of snow meant two days of no school and one day of no work. No nuthin’, even. Love the snow crowding the TV antennas — that’s a nice period touch.

This wasn’t the worst storm of the season, as it turned out. Just three weeks later, the Ash Wednesday Storm of 1962 would devastate chunks of the Atlantic seaboard, kill 40 people, and bring heavy rains and flooding to Stamford.

March 5-7, 1962.

March 5-7, 1962.

Nor’easters are something totally different; I’m trying to keep my mind off those.

Instead, I’ll imagine thick flakes of driving snow piling up quickly on roofs and streets and pine trees; and heavy gray skies giving way to darkness; and the hush of a snow-covered morning on an atypically quiet street; and the momentary confusion in the mind of a corporate workhorse as he realizes there will be no draftsman’s table waiting for him that day.

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