The Big Snow
What follows is a brief excerpt from a chapter of the memoir I hope to complete before I die, get bored with writing, or die from the boredom. I am not writing this memoir for publication. It is an extended love letter to my family. Friends will be welcome to read as much or as little of it as they wish. I hope to make it available in two formats: as an ebook and as a big-bottomed PDF. Its current working title is “While Making Other Plans.” (Fans of John Lennon will recognize the reference.)[1]
This excerpt stems from my memories of the record-breaking and roof-collapsing snowfall of December 23-24, 1968. The video that follows it was created from Super 8mm film shot by my Grandpa Cagle. The video and that this event is on my mind—it was a fun one for my family, but is associated with a sad memory—are reasons I chose to share this fragment of what I am writing.
This is a draft. I’ve not yet shown the chapter of which it is a part to my volunteer and very talented editor. In addition to the sorts of errors he catches, it may contain errors of fact (did my grandparents even have a camp trailer in ’68?). Changes will be made, I’m sure.
A white and blue Christmas
My Grandparents Cagle and Aunt Chris visited us in December of 1968. Chrissy was almost four, several months younger than Randy. We had been to Victorville at least once since our move north, but this was their first time visiting us. I don’t see how the eight of us slept in our small house. It’s possible my grandparents had towed their camp trailer and slept in it.
The Redding area is surrounded on three sides by mountains. Snow-capped Mount Shasta and Lassen Peak are visible year-round. But snowfall in the valley is unusual. This was a very unusual year. Starting on the evening of December 23, at least 15 inches of snow fell on the area. This was a record-setting storm, and the event is still vividly remembered by those who experienced it.
Silent video courtesy of Grandpa Cagle’s Super 8mm camera shows my dad goofing off in our front yard like a kid—which, at age 27, he was—and our toy poodle George struggling to wade through deep snow. The four youngest of us frolic as we slip, slide, and fall while engaged in an epic snowball fight. Epic on a kid-sized scale, that is. Mostly we hurl slushy bombs in the direction of the camera and filmographer: he appears to be in no danger of being hit. Randy and Chrissy have trouble just walking through the heavy and wet snow, but Rhonda and I are heaving clumps of snow with obvious enthusiasm. The battle ends shortly after a snowball hits the back of Randy’s neck and slides under his coat—much to his displeasure. There is no proof whatsoever that I threw it.
While we kids were thrilled with the snow, and while many in the area were delighted by a white Christmas, the storm did its damage. The least of it was the loss of our eucalyptus tree (I took pride in its status as the tallest tree on the block).
The snow was wet and very heavy (quite unlike the dry, powdery stuff usual in my adopted home of Minnesota). Our tree wasn’t the only one—or thing—to fall under its weight. The flat roofs of several Redding buildings collapsed, including ones above a bowling alley and two large supermarkets. The storm virtually shut down travel in the unprepared towns of the county, but as far as I know it was responsible for just one death.
The death was no less tragic for being “just one.” There was nothing just about it. A boy and his brother left their home on the night of the storm to play in the snow. They weren’t dressed for the weather, and somehow were unable make their way back inside. They must’ve been in bad shape by the time they were found, and one passed away four weeks later. The surviving boy stands to my immediate right in a class portrait taken that year. He was always a quiet boy, and the loss of his brother—one year younger and, I imagine, his best friend—must have made him more so. When he returned to my third-grade classroom after the tragedy, I was unable to look at him for fear I’d catch his eye—I was so sad for him, and terrified by the suddenness and capriciousness of death he represented.
Many times over the years I’ve thought of this little boy and of the little boy I was at that time. I deeply regret that I didn’t have the courage to befriend, offer sympathy, and show love to him.
Jimmy, I hope you are okay.
—
Notes
- The inspiration is a lyric Lennon addresses directly to his son Sean in the song “Beautiful Boy (Darling Boy)” from the album Double Fantasy:
Life is what happens to you
While you’re busy making other plans [^]
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