Storm-Stayed

By Judy Carter

Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to go back to.

~John Ed Pearce

"Storm-stayed?" my husband replied with a questioning glance. "That's an odd expression." But that's what my family called it whenever you were unable to make it home because of one of those infamous winter snowstorms that regularly afflicted Southwestern Ontario when I was growing up. For children, this occasion inspired an exciting impromptu pajama party; for teenagers, the opportunity to hang out just a little longer with their friends. For adults, it was an inconvenience, but also the chance for some shared company or an extra game of cards on a blustery night. Being storm-stayed at school, however, was a whole other story.

I was ten years old and attending elementary school in a tiny village about two miles from my family's farm, when a fierce winter storm hit. (And by tiny village I mean a church, a general store that doubled as the post office, a feed mill, a small cluster of houses, and our school.) The buses had delivered us safely to school that morning, but the wind and blinding snow had come up so suddenly that we were unable to be transported home. By early afternoon it was clear that something had to be done with the entire student population and staff of the school.

The school facility could not accommodate everyone, so the inhabitants of the village rose to the challenge of providing shelter for as many people as they could. Students who lived in the village gathered together a few classmates to spend the night at their houses, and I was chosen. Yes, chosen! I felt so relieved to be among those who would not have to sleep on the hard gymnasium floor under the watchful eye of the principal. Selfishly, I gave no thought to my three sisters in the other classrooms, and didn't stop to wonder where they might end up spending the night.

Along with four other children I made the trek through fresh, deep snow, literally following in the footsteps of our classmate Joan, whose home would be our camp-out site for the night. I felt like a miniature explorer, braving the elements in search of some mysterious destination. Even in the semi-protected streets of the village the snow was heavy. Worried about losing my way, I never took my eyes off Joan's red toque bobbing along in front of me, collecting a thicker layer of snow with every step she took.

When we reached the house and shed our heavy winter clothing, we were instantly welcomed and warmed with hot chocolate. Five sets of fingers curled around steamy mugs as puddles began to form around five sets of boots in the front hall. The rest of the day was spent playing board games and, when our clothes were dry enough, creating intricate forts in the backyard snow. That night, all of the extra blankets and pillows in the house were pressed into service to keep us warm and comfortable. I had never been storm-stayed in an unfamiliar place before, but so far, the whole situation was a thrilling adventure.

And then the storm continued. The wind howled all the next day bringing with it whiteout conditions and massive accumulations of snow. Our backyard forts became great shapeless lumps. Highways were totally impassable. Hydro lines went down. The local news station offered little hope that things would clear any time soon.

By the third day, the sight of more snow outside the windows seemed to elicit a collective groan from everyone in the house. I was tired of board games and sick of playing cards. I had no desire to pull on my damp boots and trudge through thigh-high snowdrifts. I hesitated to confess that I was homesick. Joan's family had been wonderful, but they weren't my family. I missed my own warm kitchen, the familiar faces and food around our table. I wondered where my sisters had been staying and if, somehow, they had been able to make it home yet.

With my face pressed up against the kitchen window, I peered hopefully at the sky. No glimmer of blue. No weak ray of promising sun. No break in the interminable wall of white. Feeling my chin begin to quiver, I swallowed hard to stop the ache that was growing in my throat. My eyes filled with tears and my shallow breaths began to create a small circle of fog on the cold glass in front of me. I looked at it glumly without the usual impulse to draw a little happy face or trace my initials in the fog.

The voice of Joan's mother caught me off guard. Using my sweater sleeve, I quickly dried my eyes. After all she had done over the past few days, I couldn't let her see me crying. It took a moment before her words really sank in.

"Judy, your dad is on his way," she announced.

I didn't stop to ask any questions as I flew to the front hall to retrieve my coat and boots. My soggy toque was still in the coat sleeve where I had stuffed it after our most recent expedition outside into the winter wonderland.

Fully dressed and sweating slightly, I was waiting by the door when I heard the distant drone. Minutes later, my dad pulled up beside the front steps on his snowmobile, encrusted in snow from head to toe. I had no idea how he had found his way through this blizzard, or why he had decided to set out at all. After we had both thanked Joan's family, Dad handed me my helmet and I squeezed it on. I then climbed onto the snowmobile behind him and wrapped my small arms tightly around his waist. I didn't let go until we had reached the safety of our own front steps.

That evening, as the storm continued to bluster outside, we all sat down together at the kitchen table to enjoy our mother's warm, comforting meal. Mom told me later that Dad had driven to the village and back four times that day, gathering his daughters one by one and bringing them safely home. The roads were still closed, but he had blazed his own snowmobile trail to carry out his mission.

I have been snowed in on several occasions since then, but never for such an extended period of time, and never with such a timely and, in my eyes, dramatic rescue. It seems to me now that the best part of being storm-stayed is coming home again.

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