VERMONT WINTAH 1973

Vermont Wintah 1973

A blizzard buried Montreal
The temp was arctic.
Minus zero.
I was staying with two New Zealanders
Across the street
From the Winston Churchill Pub
Only forty feet
Going out for beer was a gamble.
Life, death or frozen limbs.

The snow was chest high.
More storms on the way
A day of sun came.
I said good-bye to my friends
To Marie-claire
A waitress at the pub
"I'll be back in the spring."
I hitchhiked south.
Boston bound.
Grey low clouds
Overhead
Snow dropped like clots of cream

A farmer took me to the border.
I was waved through the frontier.
I stood on the America side.
There were no cars
No trucks
Only snow.
And cold
And the cold wind.
It was getting dark.
I was freezing
Bones shivering
My tears were ice. No traffic and snow and cold.

Headlights
An Oldsmobile Toranado
Front end transmission
A Rocket V8
Over 4000 pounds.
It was made for the snow.
It stopped
The lock popped up
I brushed off the snow
Sat inside.
It ws warm

The driver was an old woman.

Her headlights barely pierced the snow.

"My name's Meryl. You want to drive? You can drive in this."

"I'm from Maine."

We switched seats.

I drove 20 mph.

The only vehicle on the road.

Into the night.

To Burlington.

I stayed the night

Meryl had stew slow cooking on the stove.

She started a fire in the living room.

We talked about the cold.

The snow howled around her house.

The fire burned in the fireplace.

The room smelled on New England

The North

Wintah

1973.

Gone the Tundra

WINTER 2011

My early youth was spent along the coast of Maine. Winters were harsh. My father was native to Westbrook and every autumn would say, "There are two seasons in Maine. Winter and preparing for winter."

He had learned this adage from his father and his father from his father, for no matter how corny the comment sounds it is true in Maine.

My family headed south to Boston in the summer of 1960. The season lasted weeks longer in our South Shore suburb. Winter was shorter than in Falmouth Foresides across the harbor from Portland's Eastern Promenade. We lived in a land of four seasons and my mother loved the change in the weather.

"Just wait a few minutes in Boston and the weather will change." My mother was a proud Bostonian. Her mother came from the lands north of the Connemara and said of her Ireland, "It was either raining, just finished raining, or about the start raining."

The weather is a safe subject. A beautiful day owes little to religion. It is a gift from Nature and I moved farther south to New York in 1976 to fall in love with a painter from Pennsylvania. Ro left her Brooklyn Heights apartment several hours before my arrival. There was no letter of explanation. I could have returned back to Boston, except April was early spring in New York and the end of winter along the Charles River.

I've lived many places since that day; Paris, Hamburg, Key West, Perpignan, Isla Mujeres, Bali, Sumatra, Thailand, and Palm Beach. Weather differs in each location, but I'm used to the temperate climate of New York. It has been my home for over 30 years.

Winter was never much of a concern in New York. A scattering of snow here and there during the season. Global warming had transformed the five boroughs to a semi-tropical climate throughout the summer of 2010. The temperature rarely hit the high 90s. I threw the air-conditioner in the street. The harvest of tomatoes were glorious and I swam at Fort Tilton into October. The local meteorologists offered no predictions for the winter of 2010-2011. Their crystal ball of their science offered a mere ten days window into the future.

The first snowfall was on November 16. Light snowflakes swirling on the wind. December for the most part was normal. Average High: 44°F and Average Low: 32°F. Christmas in Boston was cold, but nothing arctic. I awoke on December 26 and my nephew was on the phone. His flight to Washington had been canceled due to an extreme weather alert. A major blizzard was aiming at the US capitol. 24-36 inches of snow. New York was next in line. I had been planning to leave Boston the following day, however the Weather Channel was predicting storm of the century status for the impending blizzard. My nephew and I evacuated Boston on the 11am Fung Wah bus.

The journey usually takes about 4 hours. The snow hit I-95 south of New Haven. We didn't reach Chinatown until 3pm. Good time, but I had spoken with Ms. Carolina down south and she had said that the snow was heavy. I offered my nephew a bed in Fort Greene. He had work the next day. We bid good-bye with a hug and I took a taxi across the river. The driver dropped me at Frank's Lounge for a drink. My landlord and his family had flown west to California for the holidays. They were out of harm's way.One beer turned into four and I finally exited from my local drinking hole into a full-blown blizzard.

I barely made it home and the next morning I woke to a winter wonderland. 24 inches of white stuff. Nature had shut down New York. The mayor was pissed at the city workers for their response to the emergency, but the trains weren't running and the mayor is a fuckhead. He fired the EMS chief to appease the right-wing press who were blaming the lack of services on the unions rather than the epic snow fall.

January had its share of ice and snow. Winter was seemingly endless. I landed at JFK from Thailand. The airport was only accepting international flights. The entire Northeast was shut down.

Cars remained buried until the beginning of February. The city was the frontier of the tundra. Some meteorologists spoke about the New Ice Age. The Far North was very close last week. I left the city on a freezing cold morning. Winter had a month more to go at least.

The flight to West Palm Beach lasted a little more than two hours. Palm Beach was cooler than normal. I swam off Chilean Avenue. The sea was warmer than the air. I got a tan. The sun sucked out my aches and pains. A lingering cough disappeared in the warmth. I swam several times. The Sunshine State was the fountain of youth. I returned to New York.

No feeling about the weather.

The air was cold, but there was no snow. The tundra had been vanquished by several rain storms and a short thaw. Tonight the weathermen have been calling for snow. A dusting. I'm walking over the Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan. Winter is over this year.

Brave words for the end of February.

Blizzard Conditions

In 2015 no snow fell on Christmas Day in New York.

None fell on New Year's Day north in Duchess County either, although snow clung under the rocky shadows in the woods.

The North Atlantic states were experiencing an extraordinarily warm winter, despite my prayers to pagan snow gods.

Two days ago the weathermen predicted a change. It had nothing to do with my prayers.

A spectacular Nor'easter was scheduled to up the Eastern Seaboard spraying epic snowfalls on the coast

They were not wrong.

Washington DC recorded 24' of the white stuff, while Fort Greene in Brooklyn was covered by 30", which was the second deepest snowfall ever to hit New York. Mayor DeBlasio declared an emergency and the city shut down for the duration of the blizzard.

As the snow tapped off in the evening, I emerged from the Fort Greene Observatory to see the accumulation of snow on the street as well as find someplace open.

Motorists were obeying the mayor's edict and not a single car was on Lafayette Avenue.

Now out of the house I thought about getting a drink.

A beer.

Fort Greene was known for its bars.

One had to be open.

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Blizzard of 77 Slideshow

During the last big storm residents of the Upper East Side complained about snow removal. The new mayor replied that they received the smae service as any communities in the five boroughs. The filthy rich immediately accused DeBlasio of class warfare.

Today a fierce storm descended on New York City.

By noon over eight inches had fallen on the sidewalks of Fort Greene, however in truth this winter weather freak was a Girl Scout in comparison to the Buffalo Blizzard of 1977 as seen in the above slide show.

Even New York City was shut down by the billions of cubic inches of snow blowing off a frozen Lake Erie. I tried to visit my family with my hillbilly girlfriend in Boston and my father asked, "How are you getting here?"

"By train." My parents lived close to the 128 station.

"And from there?"

"You'll drive me." My father had been brought up in Maine.

Snow was on the ground most of the year.

"No, I won't. All the roads are closed."

"Closed?" The snow was deep in New York. It was definitely deeper in the Blue Hills south of Boston.

"Route 28 has one lane open for emergency vehicles. My picking you up is not an emergency."

"Okay." I hung up and opted to stay put in the East Village.

Alice and I ate at Veselkas and went to CBGBs for a good time.

The city was ours.

No cars, no police, no commuters.

It was not so much fun for the people of Buffalo, where 29 people died during the blizzard.

As the winter ended an urban myth emerged from the disaster.

Supposedly a father had left his house to buy milk for his children. He never returned that night or the next week or the ensuing month. Dark-hearted neighbors suggested that the husband had taken advantage of the snow emergency to flee his wife. The Spring thaw proved them wrong. The man was found frozen to death only feet away from his house with a carton of milk in his arm.

True or not, then again as James A Steele said,"All stories are true if interesting."

December 29, 1978 - East Village - Journal Entry

Disco was king on 1978. Rock and roll was a distant second and punk barely scratched the airwaves. Everyone was into Disco. Donna Summer, a Dorchester native, ruled the charts with MacArthur Park and Last Dance, Chic took over in December with Le Freak. The shout for Disco echoed across the country and world. While Jimi Hendrix had played the National Anthem soloing with her teeth at Woodstock nine years ago, thankfully no one disco covered GOD BLESS AMERICA or THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER.

Rock's dilemma is that the genre has stagnated with the corporate middle-of-the-road all stars simply recording formula stadium rock. Only metal and punk fight the trend with the old aged executives taking the easy path for profit. The radio is all MOR and Disco. Where have Motown and Stax and Philly gone? After the race uprisings of the 60s and 70s, white people didn't want to see blacks anywhere. The NBA is dying and disco has no politics to it.

I sit at home listening to the old 45s, playing solitaire, and await a phone call from an unknown source saving me from further ruin. None come, and solitaire loses its appeal once you cheat at it.

Tonight I'm going to CBGBs. I haven't been there since last Friday's peyote trip with Bill Yusk. Completely fried.

Rock and roll decay The Rolling Stones mellow Mainstream The Beatles dead Still on the radio Fucking Rockie Raccoon The stars of the 60s Fat, drunk, or dead Useless, boring, or wasted. Not Van Halen or Black Sabbath Certainly not Iggy Or the Dead Boys. They'll never make it on the AM charts.

Drinking beer has temporarily killed my thirst. In the world Iran awaits the Shah's death. Taiwan feels betrayed by our treaty with Red China. Murders never-ending murders across the USA. Fuck it. No one cares about anything,

The old wind shivers through the drafty windows. I wait for the clock to hit 11, then I'll head over to CBGBs. The Theater. The Dictators and the Dead Boys.

Iowa Ain’t All That 2024

A high hovering over Greenland blocked the Arctic jet stream and the southern diversion plunged the Center of the USA into severe sub-zero temperatures. The low in Iowa for the 2024 Presidential Caucus was anywhere from -13 to -30 breaking all records. The media have been rattling on about the importance of the GOP vote for months, despite the fact that Iowa Republican electorate has less votes than the bourough of Brooklyn.

The day came and went with the lowest turnout ever in the event's history. 50% or 55,000 votes won the caucus for Trump. Mostly evangelicals who consider the embattled billionaire to be the Orange Messiah. The media declared that result to be a landslide. Iowa has 752,249 registered Republicans, meaning that the winner for the delegates for the 2024 GOP convention garnered 7% of those voters willing to go outside in the freezing cold.

93% of the Iowa voters didn't vote for Trump.

"And that's called victory," commented Ty Spaulding from Hawaii.

A helluvah landslide. Joe Biden didn't even show up in Iowa. He's not even registered for New Hampshire.

ps Bismarck North Dakota has a population of 55,000 and was even colder than Des Moines, the capitol of Iowa, which has a population of 214,000. Trump received 6600 votes there. Landslide is over 70%.

NEW YORK SNOW DAY by Peter Nolan Smith

In the winter of 2010 I woke early to snow flakes fluttering against the window of my Brooklyn bedroom. Beyond the glass a winter storm was decorating the city white. I thought about going back to sleep, except the telephone rang.

It was my boss' son, Richie Boy.

"I hope you're calling to tell me not to come in work." I loved no-work snow days.

"No, I have a customer coming into the store at 9:30. He's buying a Rolex."

"And you aren't coming in?" Richie Boy never showed before the crack of 11.

"Not until later." I was more into 10am.

"How much snow is there?"

"Twelve inches so far. Can you make it?"

"If the trains are running, yes." I hung up, made a cup of tea, got dressed for the weather, and called my family in Thailand. My son Fenway was getting ready for school. His mother listened to my description of the storm and said, "I never see snow."

"I don't think you'd like it." The coldest it got in Sri Racha was the low 70s.

"I think I die. You come here soon. I keep you warm."

I hung up, finished my tea, and headed to the Atlantic Terminal. Trains were running slow, but running so there was no chance of a snow day for me. It was a good way to start out the morning and I headed out of the Fort Greene

The train ride into the city took an hour instead of 30 minutes. Richie Boy's customer was already at the store. These Wall Street types didn't like wasting time even in a blizzard. He didn't thank me for coming into the city and I spun the dial of the safe slower than normal. I wasn't making a penny from the sale. It was 100% Richie Boy's deal. After pulling open the door I took out the watch. It was in a box. The banker tried it on. It was a late gift from his bonus.

"You have the money."

He handed over an envelope. $10,000 wasn't much of a wad in hundreds. I count it three times and said, "You're good to go."

Neither of us said good-bye.

I looked outside, as I set up the jewelry in the window. The snow wasn't letting up and I doubted Richie Boy was getting here before 1.

The phone rang.

I checked the number. It was a client calling to ask where was his Fedex package. I answered the phone and told the realtor that his wife's gift might be stuck at the depot.

"But Richie said it would get here today."

"The snowstorm is an act of God." I had to blame it on someone and who better than God.

The customer cursed me and I said, "I'll call Fedex soon and get back to you."

"I'm not happy."

"Good morning?" Andrea asked from across the aisle.

We were the only two people in the exchange other than the two guards.

"Yeah, lovely. I thought I was going to have a snow day, instead I get yelled at by a customer who wants his package now."

"Who wants what now?" Richie clomped into the store in his snowboarding gear. He saw the cash on the desk and stuck it in his pocket. He had bills to pay.

I told him about the package in limbo.

"Let's see if we can save it from purgatory." Richie called Fedex and asked the rep about options. "Can a customer can pick up the package from 11th Ave and 42nd Street."

That was FedEx's main depot.

I groaning thinking that Richie Boy wanted me to pick up the package. He blamed me for the package's status, not remembering that he had ordered Monday delivery to save on shipping. Americans loved to blame everything on someone other than themselves. I bit my tongue. I had four kids to feed. They were more important than my pride.

"Where you going?" Richie Boy asked without putting down the telephone. The only time of day his ear was free was when he's asleep.

"To pick up the package." I figured the go-come back would take two hours.

"Let the prick pick it up." Richie Boy hung up the phone. His ear was boiling red. Better his than mine. I have no one talking in my head while I sleep.

"You're right about that." I don't talk about any customers like that, although Richie Boy's father considers all Gs are POS or pieces of shit and they proved him right more often than not.

Richie Boy made another sale. We closed early. The snow was gaining on the rock salt and shovels. His wife was waiting at home. A bottle of wine would be my companion for the night. Later a telephone call would join me with Mem. She would know from the tone of my voice that I had been drinking.

"It's a snow day."

Mem was smart.

She knows what that means and she knows me.

I love snow.

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