I can vividly remember the needless fuss most people would make over hurricanes when I was growing up in the Northeast.
Fathers would jam into the local markets, gobbling up all the bottled water, canned goods and the primo sugar-filled cereals. Families would duct-tape their windows with big X’s, hide the children in the basement’s nuclear-safe room and wonder if they’d live to see another day.
Inevitably, the hurricane would squeeze out a couple of raindrops, if it ever actually showed up, and knock over a couple of lawn chairs.
I expected a similar scenario to play out over this “blizzard” deal last week.
As the snowflakes dropped – and dropped and dropped – Wednesday, I left downtown wholly confident that my little Honda would traverse the snow and make it back to my Stapleton home before “Identity” had even started on TV.
Down Colfax Avenue I flew, laughing dismis sively when I heard that Gov. Bill Owens had called out the National Guard. Geez, why not redeploy the Marines? Call the X-Men, maybe? What was everyone getting so excited about?
Then, approaching my neighborhood: a hiccup. I found myself wedged behind – and I say this without any reservation or hint of exaggeration – the most inept driver this world has ever known.
Ever.
And if you doubt the veracity of that statement, understand that he attempted a U-turn on a one-way street in nearly 2 feet of snow. He was, of course, stuck.
My altruistic instincts kicked in and I jumped out to help him. A young mom soon joined me. We worked for around 20 minutes, digging, pushing and rocking until Mr. Magoo was dislodged and on his way to, undoubtedly, create some irreparable damage elsewhere.
When I returned to my car, I was feeling good about myself. That was fun. I was one of those guys that helped out. Cool.
Apparently, the mitzvah wasn’t enough to put the kibosh on the negative weather-karma I had accumulated. And karma struck hard. Since my window had iced over while I was helping out, I didn’t even notice the snowbank that I crashed into full steam.
My car sat motionless, except for the wheels, which I spun furiously in hopes of escaping. After a couple of minutes of sitting – expecting, as I often do, for a solution to magically appear – I realized there was no easy fix.
Worse – far worse – I’d have to call my wife. A woman who only mere hours ago was mercilessly mocked by me for suggesting I pack an extra blanket, some water and snacks in the car in case I got “stuck.”
“We don’t live in Idaho, honey. Take it easy.”
As I struggled to decide if I would rather die in a cold grave or face my gloating better half, a man appeared with a shovel. His name is Greg. A neighbor of mine, he lives only a handful of houses away, yet we’d never spoken. And if he hadn’t come out to help me, we might never have met.
Soon my wife (yes, I called her), came by as well. A neighbor was watching our kids. And I admit it … it was also fun digging out my car.
The next few days, a cheery atmosphere hovered over the neighborhood. Many of us had an extra day with our wives, children and friends. Neighbors spoke outside. Dogs were free to roam.
You won’t typically find much sentimentality – or any, actually – in my column. But I was sort of glad to get stuck. Sort of glad that approximately 100 feet of snow fell on us. Sort of glad I was wrong about the storm.
Though expensive, and a horrible inconvenience for many, a blizzard is not a tragedy. Watching a citywide hassle generate a large outpouring of goodwill is inspiring.
Even for a hard-boiled cynic.
A cynic with a newfound trust of meteorologists and four-wheel-drive vehicles, by the way.
David Harsanyi’s column appears Monday and Thursday. Reach him at 303-954-1255 or dharsanyi@denverpost.com.
