Commentary by Ward Degler
It was a warm and sunny day. The temperature had climbed into the upper 60s for the 10th day. The weather guy on the radio sounded grim.
“It’s going to get cold, and you may have snow on Thanksgiving,” he said. I felt like I had swallowed an ice cube.
Rewind to 1978. I lived on a farm in Minnesota. It had been warm for weeks leading up to Thanksgiving. I was accustomed to doing chores in my short sleeves. I assumed Thanksgiving would be just another beautiful, warm fall day.
Then on Wednesday evening, the temperature plummeted to below freezing. The wind blew through the night, and dawn brought a world of white. The farm looked like a Christmas card.
By noon, it was still snowing, and a phone call informed us our Thanksgiving dinner guests would not be coming to the farm that day. Moreover, I couldn’t get to town 5 miles away to pick up our order at the bakery. I couldn’t even get out of my driveway.
Throughout the day and into the night, it continued to snow. By Friday morning, giant drifts blocked the drive. I managed to get the tractor started and spent most of the day clearing the driveway. Not that I was going to go anywhere because the county road remained snowbound until Sunday afternoon.
For the next week, the wind blew nonstop and drifted the driveway closed. I had to plow every morning before work and every evening after returning home.
The following year, I moved away from the farm and Minnesota to the more temperate region of Indiana. I thought there would be no more heavy snow and clogged driveways there.
And definitely no snow on Thanksgiving.
