Cranston, Rhode Island
I know it sounds weird, considering I was 17 and ought to remember, but I don't have many memories of the blizzard.
I remember getting out of school a bit early. I know I was driving my much-loathed Datsun 510 station wagon. If any car deserved the name "No-va" it was that car. I think I offered the two brothers who lived next door a ride home, because I'm sure they pushed me there. I seem to recall a strategy session where we argued about the relative inclines of various routes for our mile-and-a-quarter drive home through mountainous Warwick. I know I wasn't feeling well and decided to call in sick to my part-time cashier job at a supermarket. My boss went ballistic, but my mom trumped him and home I stayed, getting sicker all the while.
My dad made it home that night from East Providence, but my mom couldn't make the drive across the city. Supper, my dad assures me now, was macaroni and cheese, which he said was his "specialty." Either that or corn pancakes, because that was his full culinary repertoire. I'm sure we had plenty of food because my mother shopped sales in a big way and we were always stocked up.
We lost power for just a few hours, and eventually I ended up sick in bed. Thankfully a few days later my brother slashed his hand opening a can of dog food and off to the hospital we went. He got his stitches, I got my antibiotics, we picked up my mom and home we went, several days before others were allowed to drive. From that point on at least we ate well. No offense to my dad's, ah, cooking.
Boring, boring, boring. My dad's drive home from work was more exciting than all my blizzard memories combined.
Originally posted in the alt.rhode_island newsgroup, February 6, 2003.