Just in the winter of the late 1940s, a bitter snow storm gripped Central New York; the roads were almost entirely covered with blowing snow.
I was just a young boy, living on a small farm about 3 miles outside of the Town of Groton, NY; I had heard the wind bending the trees outside my widows, and I knew that the schools probably would be closed that next day.
Early in the morning, as I awakened and prepared to move from my upstairs bedroom, and retrace my grand father's steps to the old barn where there were a team of horses, five cows, a 3 month old calf in a little pen just inside the barn door...I entered to see that old lantern hanging loosely on the twain cord which swung back and forth, as I slowly closed the barn door. After finishing our chores we returned to the house where grand mother had already made some meager breakfast for both of us. I changed my clothes and went out of the front porch and waited to see if I could hear that snow plow with it's large v-shaped snow blade come up the long hill, out of Peruville, and up the hill heading in my direction.
The driver was a large man, with huge arms which were needed to guide the steering wheel, with no power steering. The truck he was driving was an old Mac Truck, loaded down in the back, and all four wheels had chains wrapped around them for more traction. I could her him switching gears often, as he had to back up and then move forward again banging against another high snow drift. I knew that a yellow school bus was patiently waiting for that snow plow to clear the road of snow drifts, even though it kept snowing harder as they both made their way closer to where I was patiently waiting for both of them.
Then, I knew the snow plow had made it to the top of the hill, because I heard the driver shift into another higher gear, and now I could hear it rumbling around the bend that would lead straight down to where I was waiting in deep snow, about half way between the front porch and the snow-bound road. Suddenly, with the roar of all that power, the snow plow came by, slashing away at the ice and snow, tearing them so much so that little bits of ice came bouncing toward my feet and a couple of those jags of ice finally stopped just short of where I was standing.
Then came the yellow school bus, with many children already on board. The driver quickly opened the side door, and I took the two steps up and started down the isle where there was only a few seats left to sit in; I found one and sat down next to another young boy who always was a farmer's son. It was good to see him again and we chatted about the weather and how we both had finished out chores, and then we compared what we had in the small brown paper bags to see what we could share for our lunch together.
We both were in third grade, and the school was up on a hill and not far from the Smith-Corona Typewriter Company where many workers were from Groton, Locke, and Moravia. My father was one of them. He had left 53 Central Street in Moravia, with my step-mother and another man that he picked up on Grove Street; then he would drive faster than he should and let his passengers out in front of the factory, park his car in back of a garage across the street, and trot into the front doors of the factory. They all had a time-clock to take a card with their names on it, insert it in the time-clock and the time would be punched into a column which showed the time and the date. They would stay in that factory until five in the afternoon, and then when a steam whistle blew, out the front door they all would hurry to their cars, or some from Groton would simply walk home.
We left school about 3 in the afternoon, and back on the same yellow bus, that would retract the same roads which it took early that morning. By that time, more snow drifts had blown across the roads, but s snow-plow would be waiting to lead the way along those narrow country roads, stopping at each house where the students lived. Mine was the last stop, and so it had taken more than an hour to where I finally jumped off the bus and made my way into the old farm house, where I once again, would change my clothes into my clothes I would need to go and help my grand father do the chores again.
Supper was always very tasty; as my grand mother would make a large pot of navy bean soup, with a little bits of pork thrown in and some fresh baked bread, real butter, and a big glass of real milk for me. With no electricity, granddad would light a single lantern and place it in the middle of the dinning room table, next to the pot-bellied stove which shed a wonderful glow of red, as the wood inside it would radiate out and all around us and that dinning room table.
Then, I would crawl up on an old sofa next to the table and Lucky, our one cat, would jump up there with me and we would both lay back against the warm pillows, as my grand parents either studied a Bible, or wrote a letter to an Aunt back home in Wisconsin. It was long before I was warm and full of good food; and my granddad would open the door that would lead me back upstairs to my bed, and some heat would flow up those stairs and warm my bedroom just a little bit before he closed the door, and I would snuggle down deep in the covers and listen to hear the wind, once again, whistling around the corners of the house, and I could imagine that snow was drifting once again out in the road, and the little way from the house to the barn, where both granddad and I would retrace our steps the next morning, as we continued the same routine again, just another morning in upstate NY, waiting for the spring time, when finally green grass would push it's way up through the last of the winter/s snow.
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