By Peggy Carroll
Whenever the conversation turns to climate change and freaky weather patterns, my thoughts turn to Easter. And snow. And more than a little panic.
Especially when the holiday comes so early, as it did this year, I wonder: Will people be wearing boots and hoods to the Easter Parade?
By rights, there should not be snow. Though Easter is a movable feast – I know, because of my 12 years in Catholic schools that Easter falls on the first Sunday after the first full moon of spring — it definitely is in spring.
But sometimes, it does not act that way. Especially when it comes at the end of March and March decides to exit like a lion.
Like that Easter more than 40 years ago.
It had been a fairly mild morning, a little chilly but not really cold. We went to church – a family of six all dressed in springtime finery. It was an era when people still wore “Easter outfits” – crisp new dresses for the girls, shirts and ties for the boys, women in new suits and flowery hats and men – well, in whatever they wore.
The plan was to drive to Clifton to my parents house. Then the man in our family, a New York Times reporter, was to drive to New York to appear on a Sunday morning television news program.
In one hour, the world changed. When we stepped out of church, it was was snowing, really, really snowing. There were already several inches on the ground. And the father wanted to change the plans. He decided that it would be best if he just took the rest of the family home and he went on to New York alone.
The kids would have none of that. They gave a collective wail. So the father got behind the wheel of our turquoise and white 1968 Ford Galaxy convertible. ( I know, not really a family car, but we loved it.) We got as far as Punch Bowl Road when that lovely car got stuck. And refused to move forward. Father jumped out and began to push. Our pre-teen son tried to help.
And I was told to steer.
Did you know that there is nothing in driver training that tells you what you must do when someone is pushing your car and you are behind the steering wheel?
I had only done it once before. It had not been a success.
That was a time when we had a much different car – a 1953 two-door Chevie, an obstinate little car with an aversion to the cold. It absolutely refused to start when the temperature dipped below 40 degrees.
Obviously, it was not what you would call reliable. Then, one day it refused to start at a particularly crucial time. Both of us had to get to work and calling a garage was not an option. New York newspapers were on strake, I was making $1.50 an hour part-time, and the father was working all hours at a temporary job to pay the mortgage.
So he told me to steer and he would push.
I did and he did – out unto the street. Then he stopped, put up the hood and was doing something inside. I thought it would help if I again tried to start the car and I turned the key. I did not know that the something he was doing was with the fan belt.
He said something not appropriate for this website
We ended up in the ER. His middle finger was broken.
Now you have to know that his typing is very old-fashioned. He uses his two index fingers. And I was told by one of his co-workers that every time he hit a key on the teletype he was using, he also hit that broken middle finger.
That’s why the co-worker heard my name repeatedly.
Now, on that snowy Easter years later, I sat frozen behind the wheel, certain I would do something wrong. And I must say, I prayed a little.
Blessedly, the car slid a bit and then slowly moved through the snow.
We got to Clifton and the father got to the television program. We all saw him as he walked, a little late, into the studio. There was still a bit of snow in his hair. It was dripping. The kids thought it was very funny.
The next day when I drove into Morristown, there was still some snow on the side streets. Apparently, clearing had been sporadic. After all, it was Easter. It was spring. It would soon go away as suddenly as it had come.
Climate, you know, changes.
