When I Was A Boy...

When I was a young man, I always hated to hear older people talking about the past. I particularly disliked them saying how they had it rougher than we did, and vowed to myself never to do that. Times change, I guess. (and we forget our promises)

It was forty-four years ago, that I experienced the "Blizzard of 1967", as Chicago would eventually know it. That whole event would actually encompass more than three days of that month, not only for me but for the whole city.

The band I was with at the time, "The Morning Blues" (sometimes spelled Mourning), had been playing at the Cheetah, which was an early discotheque-type club that had taken residence in the Aragon Ballroom, on Chicago's Northside. We had been hired for a multi-week stint, and played there four nights a week: Wednesday through Saturday. Thursday was usually the slowest of the four.

On Thursday the 26th of January, though, only one or two actual customers had come into the club by our second break. This was around 9:00 p.m. It had been snowing since early that morning, and although only 4" had been predicted (not unusual for the Windy City), it had not yet stopped coming down. The club owner told us he was closing for the night, and that we'd better get moving, since the whole city was starting to close up shop. By about 9:20, we were out the door.

I can't exactly remember why, but I didn't have a ride back to the suburbs that night, and needed to catch the last train out of town, which would be pulling out around 10:40 p.m. Normally, there would have been plenty of time for me to get to the Northwestern train station, but the city was starting to actually choke on all this snow. On top of my not really being dressed for the weather (we were too cool to wear winter clothes, much less winter boots), I was having to haul a borrowed Fender Twin-Reverb amp home with me that night. The amp was pretty heavy; probably over 75 pounds.

I lugged the amp up the stairs of the "L" platform, which was located right outside the club, and waited for the train to the Loop. I don't remember having to wait for long. Soon enough, the elevated train arrived on Michigan Avenue, where I would catch a bus to the train station. The scene was starkly white, and just a tad scary. The street was absolutely deserted.

After a bit of a bone chilling wait, a bus appeared down the street through the veil of snow that continued coming down, as it had since around 5:00 a.m. that morning. It was now after 10:00 p.m. When the bus arrived at the stop, I stepped in with one or two other people, only to find that it was already filled with passengers. There was just barely standing room. Since all the seats were taken, I turned the amp with the speakers facing away from any shuffling feet, and sat down on it. I remember it being plenty warm inside the bus, no doubt due to all the bodies putting out 98.6 degrees. Still, the clock was ticking, and my nervousness had it's own chilling effect on me.

When the bus arrived at the station, I literally ran (as much as one can, with a suitcase-sized amplifier in tow) the half-block distance from the entrance to the ticket window. It was exactly 10:40 p.m., but I found to my relief that the train had not left yet. I would not have to sleep in the station, or have to wait until 5:40 in the morning for the next train.

The West Line train, which would take me to Wheaton, was not nearly as crowded as the bus had been. It would be a comfortable ride, and I might even catch up on some sleep during the trip. I settled in, and expected to be on my way shortly. Back in those days, every train had a 'smoking' car. I lit up a Camel and leaned back, relaxing as much as I could. I was still feeling the effects of a serious dose of adrenaline.

Just before 11:30 p.m., I heard a conductor explaining our obvious delay to another passenger: The tracks ahead were being cleared, and things were not going too quickly. It had now been snowing for over 18 hours. At one point, either a passenger or conductor made a "snack run", and the waiting was made a little more bearable. Passengers also started becoming more sociable. Around this time, I finally resigned myself to accept whatever came next, not that I really had a choice.

I eventually drifted off to sleep, occasionally waking up and looking at my watch. It was now hours that were ticking by. At about 2:25 in the morning, I awoke to that unmistakable feeling of the train lurching forward, and knew that we were finally getting underway. I calculated that I would arrive in Wheaton some time between 3:30 and 4:00 a.m., though the trip normally only took about 40 minutes. I was a little off.

At nearly 7:30 in the morning, the train squealed to a halt at the Wheaton train station. Plows had been busy all night, but in the brightness of the morning it was obvious that traveling by car would be dicey at best. There were no cabs available. After a short phone call to my folks' house, verifying their immobility, it was clear that I would need to trudge the last mile-and-a-half on foot. I dreaded the thought of toting that heavy amp the whole way, but I didn't worry for long. The larger storage lockers at the station were just big enough for a suitcase, and in this case the heavy Fender amplifier. After securing my load, for just two quarters, I headed off on the last leg of my journey.

The next couple days were spent digging out. The family car had been buried to the rooftop, with the drifting, and there was a whole lot of driveway and sidewalk to clear. We took our time. We also took quite a few snapshots, a few of which I still have.

I revisited my childhood a little, by doing things like repeatedly jumping off the garage roof into the deeper drifts of snow. I was nearly 20 years old at the time, but during those few days I felt half that age. There was a great feeling of freedom, for some reason. It was also a time for small adventures. At one point, we needed some groceries and it fell upon me to take our old childhood sled and pull it to the store, load it up, and pull it back home. It was almost like going back in time.

For the rest of the weekend, we did the few things that we were able to, and just enjoyed being snowed-in. By Monday, things had more or less returned to normal and Chicago went back to bravely facing the rest of the Winter the way it always has.