Recent signs of spring are more welcome than usual this year. This winter has been tough, not because of any single blizzard or cold snap, but because it just seemed relentless. Still, remembering the Chicago winter of 1979 kept me from grumbling much. Now that was weather worth complaining about!
Chicago’s annual snowfall averages 33 inches. Since recordkeeping began in 1899, only four Chicago snowfalls exceeded 60 inches. During the 1978-79 winter, the total was 88.4 inches. The average temperature was the second coldest recorded (by 1/10 of a degree):18.8°F. Jan. 12-14, “The Blizzard of ’79,” added 20.3 inches of new snow to 10 inches that fell on New Year’s Eve. By January’s end, more than 47 inches had accumulated; most had become compacted ice.
Chicago essentially shut down. Snow removal services for streets and the El were woefully inadequate. Emergency responders couldn’t respond. Garage roofs collapsed under the snow’s weight; so did some houses. People spent hours digging out street parking places, then barricading “their” spot with sawhorses and chairs. “Stealing” places sometimes led to fistfights, or smashed windows, fenders or slashed tires. City government’s inability to cope was the primary factor in the defeat of Mayor Michael Bilandic that spring by Jane Byrne.
It was the last semester of dental school for my husband, Peter. To graduate, students had to complete specific numbers of different procedures: crowns, fillings, dentures, etc. But little got done that January and February: either instructors didn’t make it in from the suburbs, or patients didn’t show. By mid-March, there was real fear that his entire class might not graduate on schedule.
I sang in the Chicago Symphony Chorus; luckily we weren’t rehearsing until February. But for the first time I truly experienced cabin fever. Our daughter, Anne, was three, and I was pregnant. The alley behind our two-flat, from which we accessed the garage, was impassable; for almost three months we parked in a hospital lot two blocks away. Any excursion was an ordeal, but hauling grocery bags and a lively toddler down the actual street (the ice-packed sidewalks were dangerously slippery) was horrible. At least Anne enjoyed our apartment walkway — the snow on both sides was higher than her head.
Substantial melting began in mid-March, although the last snow wouldn’t disappear until May. One day we knew the worst was over. Driving towards the hospital lot, Peter and I saw the snowplow ahead of us turn into our alley! It was a mess — almost three months of garbage hadn’t been collected — but we didn’t care.
It was worth celebrating, and we didn’t have to discuss how. Frère Jacques, a French bistro on Clark Street, was our favorite place for special times. It was a modest splurge, reasonable enough that we could eat there occasionally. The fare was classic bistro: steak with peppercorn sauce, fish encased in puff pastry scored to look like fish scales, roast chicken. I don’t remember what else we had that night, but I’m certain we had Soupe de Poisson — because we always had Soupe de Poisson. It sounds elegant, but translates as plain fish soup. Utterly delicious and a bit mysterious, it smelled of saffron and the sea. The mysteriousness was because the soup was all liquid (although it did have some body) with nothing recognizable as fish.
We lingered over coffee until closing.
Heading home on the expressway, we heard a loud pop, and the car lurched: we had a flat. Peter exited at Western Avenue and got out to change it. Our station wagon, nicknamed the Green Bomber, was on its last legs, the subject of ridicule even among impoverished dental students.
“&(#*!” Peter said behind me. The tire iron was missing. “Lock the doors and stay here; I’m going to find a gas station.” I looked around. On one side of the street stood a darkly unfinished housing project, on the other, shops locked behind iron gratings. The
