The Blizzard and the Angel

Today is a snowy day, the first of the winter season. Not much snow falls where I live now—on average 16 inches a year—a pittance compared with what I grew up with in New Hampshire. Back then, by this time of year, the plows had made snowbanks six feet high, and the drifts against our house had obscured the view from first-floor windows. To be seen as he moved from one street to another, my father tied a red bandanna to the aerial of his snow-chained Chevrolet. Chains were in fashion then, and legal too.

The biggest snow was in 1978. At least, that is what I am told. I missed that one. The largest one I have vivid memories of was far from New England, at Winnipeg, Manitoba. I had flown there to lead a weekend workshop. The workshop began on a November Friday in 1986. It would go until late Saturday afternoon. But there was some doubt. By the start of the meeting, it was already snowing heavily. That did not dissuade people from coming. (Where I live now, if forecasters signal the slightest suspicion of coming snow, every business, school and church closes immediately.) However, by the time we emerged an hour and a half later, the snowplows and salt trucks were out in force, and a strong wind had joined up with the ever more heavily falling snow. The person assigned to drive me to my hotel near the airport reported the storm would last through Sunday. "We'll be canceling the rest of the workshop," he said. "You can count on it." He was right. By Sunday every road was closed.

When, before dawn on Monday morning, I went to the hotel lobby, I discovered it had become a refugee camp for stranded employees. They were asleep in every couch and corner. At the desk I asked the clerk, "Will you please call a taxi for the airport? I have a big meeting in Boston today, and my plane leaves at seven. The clerk said, "The airport is still closed."

"That's OK," I said, "The terminal will be open, and there are still three hours until my flight. By then they will have a runway open. Besides, I have my suitcase packed and with me."

So, the clerk called the taxi company, but they would not dispatch a cab. "Sorry sir," he said. "The roads are still impassable. I suggest you check with me around nine."

There was nothing to do. I started for the elevator. However, at that moment, a man appeared at the hotel entrance, and in a voice clear and loud enough to fill the room said, "I am here for the one who needs a ride to the airport."

 

"That's me!" I said without thinking.

"Have you got your bag?"

"Right here."

"Let’s go!"

I wonder what the clerk thought as I went out the door into the dark accompanying a man with a ragged coat and several days growth of beard—a complete stranger to me and, no doubt, to him too. But, then, Winnipeg is a friendly place. He probably thought nothing of it. The man led me to an old pickup truck. And although, it looked as weather-worn as a graveyard fence and ready for the scrapyard, its smoke and shudder said it was running and ready.

"How did you know I needed a ride?"

"I didn’t. But I love taking my my four-wheel drive for a spin in the snow, and when I came by the hotel, I had a feeling."

"I’m glad you came by. Thanks for listening to the feeling!"

"You bet," he said.

I glanced across the seat at my impromptu "chauffeur." That is what he was that morning in his snow-proof limo. Why, he even had a chauffeur's obligatory cap and coat. But there the analogy ends. Up close, he was scruffier than he had seemed in the low-lit lobby. The cap was vintage John Deere. The coat was rumpled Shar Pei. And the boots he wore were gnarly as a stump. So, not chauffeur, but Samaritan would do!

We did not have far to go, so I got my questions in quickly. They must have gone something like this:

"What’s your name?"

"Michael."

"Do you have a family?"

"Just my father."

"Are you always this spontaneous?"

"Winging it is fun."

Except for my thanks and his refusal of payment, that was the end of our conversation. We were already at the terminal. Upon climbing out of the truck, I found the counters open, the runway cleared, and my plane on time. I made my meeting.

Afterward, I told my wife about my Samaritan and his limo.

"He was probably an angel," she said.

"Judging from his hands and fingernails, he seemed more like a mechanic," I replied.

"No," she said. He was definitely an angel."