Stella, the blizzard of ’17, didn’t quite make it into the record books, and for that we are all grateful for we got a snow day (Gilda was able to work from home) with not as much pain and travail as forecast, though I did feel bad for those who traveled into Manhattan by train only to learn too late that Metro-North was cancelling afternoon outbound service from Grand Central Terminal. How they would get home bewildered me.
The snow dump evoked memories of two 20-inch storms back in 1978 that remain with me as lessons in commuting that nobody should experience. They were the reasons I developed a well-deserved reputation for taking snow days at the drop of a snowflake.
In January of that year, after a 20-inch snowstorm, I trudged to the train station from our apartment in downtown White Plains in plenty time for the 8:18 am transport. The train arrived on time. I sat down for the usual 35-minute commute. Four hours later, the train pooped out in the tunnel beneath Park Avenue. Snow had fallen through the grates, blocking all trains from entering Grand Central Terminal.
We couldn’t move forward or back up. Metro-North decided our only exit was vertical. All on board had to carefully climb down onto the tracks and ascend one of the emergency staircases, taking us up to Park Avenue and 72nd Street. From there I walked 15 blocks to my office at 425 Park Avenue. When I got there I discovered the office was closed. After a few minutes to thaw out, I was back on the street, slogging my way down to Grand Central, 13 blocks to the south, all the way hoping there would be a train back to White Plains.
I was lucky. Double lucky. A train was set to depart momentarily, and I had secured a seat. Four hours later it pulled into White Plains. I had spent more than nine hours commuting in the snow. I vowed to be more circumspect in future snowstorms.
I had my chance two weeks later when another 20-inch storm struck. This time I sought assurance our office would be open. I called our VP administration who, by coincidence, commuted on my same train each day. He daily drove down to White Plains from Ridgefield, Conn. If anyone would be a no-show, Mike surely would lead the pack. But his wife cheerfully reported Mike had set off for work. I reasoned I had better show up, as well.
Once again, I trudged down to the station. The 8:18 am train again arrived on time. I sat down. Once again, the trip south took four hours. This time, though, it made it all the way into Grand Central. I engaged a pay telephone (this was pre-cell phone days), called the office and discovered it was, once again, closed!
Once again, I was lucky. Double lucky. A train was set to depart momentarily, and I had secured a seat. Once again, four hours later it pulled into White Plains. Once again, I had spent more than a full work day commuting in the snow. This time, I came to the realization that snow was God’s way of telling me to slow down, that work could be done at home just as easily as in the office. I soon garnered my well-deserved reputation for taking a snow day for anything more than a dusting.
