The first somber clouds formed in the morning of December 30th, edging along and blanketing the sky. Soon, very soon, said an excited voice on the radio, we would all be engulfed. The Red River Valley was in the direct path of twin “perfect storms” packing enough ferocity to cause a 100-car pile-up destined to make national news. The first impulse was to call family and friends to make sure they were safe, that they had a plan and that they had enough basic provisions.
As afternoon broke, the squalls flattened into a solid blast reaching 50 miles an hour, and you drove your car into the strength and might of a blizzard the size of a major hurricane. Two vehicles were up ahead on 19th Avenue North, a little west of Fargo’s industrial park, and it looked like trouble. Up in these parts, we’re kind of programmed to pull over and help, so that’s what happened. The first car had a flat on the left rear and a huddle of men — three quite young and one middle-aged — were trying to get the lug nuts off. The boys were bare-handed, but the man wore gloves as he strained at the rusted bolts. They had been at it for a while, and the older man’s station wagon sat ominously behind the stranded car. Inside the wagon were a worried-looking wife and three kids who were oblivious to the horrible dangers of barreling, oncoming traffic a few feet away.
“Give me back that other four-way wrench,” said the man. Just then, he cracked the last lug and one of the hapless, coatless boys struggled to position a crude jack under the chassis. A big howl of wind drowned out most of the words, but as the older man took over jacking up the creaky old Pontiac, the boys began awkwardly thanking him. One of the kids pried open a door when the spare had been put on, and pulling out a gift-case wine bottle, he called to the man. “Hey, please, you’ve got to take this, OK?”
That’s when the day’s first “help thy neighbor” epiphany struck.
“Thanks a whole lot,” the ruddy older guy shouted. “I can’t take that, though. I used to drink out of a fire hose. I’ve had enough for a lifetime. But I’ll tell you what I want you to do. I want you to promise yourselves to help the next guy when you see something like this.” He trudged back to his family in the other car and seemed to disappear momentarily in a thick gust of blinding white, like a sort of burly angel.
What a mind-blower. A member of our community put three strangers ahead of his own safety, not to mention that of his huddled family. You were just glad you were there to offer help and flag some of the traffic to slow down. You were even happier to see the family in the obsolete station wagon pull away safely, and the boys get out of harm’s way, too. The weather was a natural phenomenon, but eerily, a faint, persistent human message cut through the shouting wind.
By now, the storm had taken on a sort of unworldly beauty, a thing of wonder. But danger was everywhere, and we were all in it together. Mighty KFGO was loudly intoning about folks stranded near Milnor, cars in the ditch at the edge of Dilworth, zero visibility in Horace… and on and on. In the next few hours, you saw unlikely saints helping the elderly to their cars, and you were sure the story was repeating itself again and again… in Hillsboro, in Page, in south Fargo and Mapleton.
The cell went off. Ring, ring, ring, ring, banana phone! A daughter had programmed the ring tone, and the silly refrain didn’t fit nature’s grumpy bluster. Two old fellows were caught in a jam. One had been released unexpectedly from a hospital ER, the cupboard was bare and, of all things, the heat didn’t seem to be working. With broad swaths of snow engulfing even city streets, a trip to the far south side seemed impossible. But after some networking, news came later in the day that the food bank on 10th Avenue North had done its magic one more time. One of the stranded men, a farm boy by birth, gunned his car skillfully through the raging snow to bring back the supplies. Still later, more happy news came from the old boys — Goldmark had braved the ferocious night and fixed the heating.
Home, finally. Then, from the bowels of anxiety, there crept the realization that any of us might be hit with a power outage, or — God forbid! — a breakdown of cable TV.
Around nine p.m., the heavens radiated a bizarre illumination, probably from the lights of Fargo and Moorhead. Dead birds didn’t fall from the sky, but you could have sworn Armageddon was a couple clicks away. Johnny Cash would sing “When the Man Comes Around,” and the whirlwind would be in the thorn tree. The final beatitude was on the way, too — the night wasn’t over yet.
The car was parked, and the driving finally done, but everyone knew this was going to be a two-hitter. Yeah, we’d all be socked in for at least a couple of days between two separate storms. What? Not a cigarette in the house! No Tylenol for the aching. And not even the quart of milk a person needs to make Hamburger Helper, in all of its comforting varieties.
Visibility was now so bad that it wasn’t clear if the Petro down the road was even open. More time had passed, and with the streets dead-silent in smothering drifts, you couldn’t drive. To walk, even those few short blocks, could be dicey, and maybe even deadly.
Rescue came in the form of a shadowy chap who turned out to be a notorious punk rocker from Seattle — a kid young enough to be your son. He was knocking ice off the apartment entrance door, wearing a red T-shirt and an Ed Hardy coat that wasn’t even zipped up. He had a fierce sort of appearance at first sight, with exotic tattoos and black hair, and you could imagine what TV would have made of him. He would be cast to lead a mob of leather-jacketed skinheads and Mohawks, trashing store windows and spreading mayhem. But here he was in Fargo, North Dakota. His first words were, “How are you doing? You need any help?”
Well, it was explained, there were a couple of absent supplies.
“Hey, I’ll walk it for you. No problem.” He added, “It’s the kind of chaos I like.”
And so, he tightened his hood and trudged away toward the store, disappearing in the silent snow like a ghost.
You saw a lot of people help each other that day, and the older guy who helped the kids with their flat tire was just the first. But here was a foot soldier of rebellion turning the tables on stereotyping. Crazily, it seemed, because a howling blizzard didn’t gel with the image of a guy from the Sex Pistols road show. The gulfs of age and culture and lifestyle had melted all day, so why not now?
And someday the snow itself would melt away, along with dark memories of staggering drifts and icy loneliness. Folks usually return to their bickering and road rage and indifference. But no one can take away memory’s clear and inspiring pictures: The plumbers’ trucks, the tired troopers, the slim girls pushing a car, the dispatchers and nurses who stayed up all night — these were the sights we saw during our twin storms. Our voices, and hearts and hands seemed to work together for those two days, from Georgetown to Osgood, from Gardner to Broadway and Main. The Red River Valley was filled with the spirit of small miracles.
And who was the man that the edgy punk rocker rescued? That man was me.