Let It Snow

LET IT SNOW

A chill runs down my spine when the seasonal temperature drops. I automatically search the sky for signs of ballooning clouds—a nervous response, like a doctor’s knee-jerk test; whack—kick, whack—kick. An unconscious instinct I had developed driving Metro buses twenty-seven adventurous winters. Seattle’s long, gray, rainy season would immobilize traffic during an unexpected snowfall. City hills, slopes, and inclines, turned into icy rollercoaster mountains, requiring a non-stop drive to the top, and careful steering in slow-motion descent. Now retired, frozen memories thaw while I search for a warmer sweater, cuddle under a blanket, and hold a hot cup of coffee. I stopped wishing for a white Christmas many years ago.

I’ll never forget December 18, 1990. I was driving an articulated coach—sixty feet long, bending like an accordion bellows near the middle—at times the back end swung with the enthusiasm of a catwalk model’s hips. The route was continually busy, with zones serving a variety of schools and businesses, from Ballard to the south end. Trips were crowded with little standing room, containing a blur of attitudes from smart-mouthed teenagers to slow moving senior citizens doing their best—counting change out loud, slowly dropping one-coin-at-a-time into the fare box. Some days felt like Ted Mack’s Amateur Hour, watching a variety of ad-libbed performances. I could only daydream I had a long hook to remove bad actors from the bus.

Snow began falling around two o’clock that cold afternoon when I stopped at the south end layover. Due to the overload, most of my rest-break was erased. I had enough time to rush into the women’s room, then get coffee and a snack for the north end layover in a residential neighborhood.

Snowfall began to stick on the street. My foot thumped involuntarily at the sight of flakes falling. More than once on icy roads, I had experienced the heart-pounding sensation of sliding sideways down a Seattle hill. Passengers’ screams were followed by relieved cheers as I coasted safely to stop at the bottom of a hill; a steering-feat as I released clinched fingers, watching blood return to white-knuckles regaining their natural color.

A never-let-them-see-you-sweat driver, I watched snowflakes that seemed as big as plates fall onto the road. In less than a half-hour, the bus rear end was swinging like a diver ready to jack-knife into a snowdrift. As I slid into the zone at 23rd and Jackson, I was unable to exit with madly spinning tires—the bus was going nowhere. An all-call on the radio announced the system was overloaded. The words, “Don’t call unless it is an emergency,” meant the bus would stay parked until a maintenance truck arrived to put on chains. Passengers exited, going in every direction. Within a few steps, they were blanketed in billowing snowflakes, covered in a frozen shroud of snow.

Hours alone with a newspaper, doing the crossword puzzles, drinking stale, cold coffee, and finishing a few small snacks, I watched snow blow, whirling into deep piles. Wind-blown, ice-crusted people struggled in the deepening drifts as they walked near the bus. I opened the front door, inviting everyone passing by to step aboard to warm-up. I sat in the driver’s seat, having enthusiastic conversations, including with a few people I would have been worried to pick up on a regular day. The swirling snow made us all equals, providing friendly moments of humanity as we thawed out. People seemed extra frisky from experiencing the unusual snowstorm.

After about six hours of waiting for a Metro chain truck, a bus with two drivers stopped, asking if I wanted a ride to the base. I jumped in their bus, ready for a slow ride on Jackson Street. The bus rolled down the hill, slipping and sliding, the two drivers whooping it up like cowboys in a rodeo. Their bravado didn’t impress me. I was sure they were as shaken as I had been. When the bus skidded to a stop, I asked to be let out, informing them I had forgotten something important on the bus and wanted to retrieve my property. I walked back, preferring to sit out the storm alone.

As I struggled against the wind-beating snow, a Volkswagen Beetle drove up next to me. The driver rolled down his window, asking, “Do you need a ride up the hill?” My usual response would have been to say “no,” but I was so frozen I couldn’t move my lips. I nodded yes, gratefully sitting in the front seat of his toasty car.

The driver told me he was a fireman from Mercer Island, on his way home. He parked behind the bus, letting me know he would stay until the bus warmed up. I had never, at any time, hitched a ride. Never, ever. We sat on the bus, waiting for the heat to kick in, when my rescuer asked, “Have you had dinner tonight?” What was he going to do, go get pizza?

I mumbled, “No. I did eat a small bag of Frito’s.” I was still shaking from the cold.

He smiled, “I have a couple of MRE’s in the car. Do you want to give one a try?” I looked at him like he was speaking a foreign language. Seeing my confusion, “MRE’s are Army chow. MRE is short for ‘meals ready to eat.’ They’re pretty good, like what astronauts eat.” I always wanted to be an astronaut. Eating like one would be as close as I would ever get. Star Trek was calling. Beam me aboard, Scotty! My rescuer braved the storm to get outer-space meals from his car. Opening his magic bag, he pulled out a little stove and put it in the center of the aisle. He lit a small can of Sterno, warming tasty stews. Perfect for a snowy night with a gallant fireman.

The fireman drove away, sure to save more snow-blown people. No one walked by for hours. A supervisor with a van full of drivers, picked me up. He drove to the base, maintaining a slow steady ride in a deep white-out of endless snow. I stayed at the base four days and nights, driving a variety of routes with chained tires gripping roads in ever changing icy weather. I didn’t have pets at home to worry about and didn’t want to end up in a ditch alone in my car. The price was right when staying at the base: free. I watched TV, slept on a couch, took showers, and ate vending machine food—like a luxury vacation at the North Pole.

The deep snow from the Artic Express of December 18, 1990 provided a memorable adventure at the bus stop on 23rd and Jackson, including conversations with snow-crusted people resembling Frosty the Snowman. It brought a rare chance to have an astronaut dinner cooked by a heroic fireman. Unexpected snow in Seattle, oh what a time that was.

April Ryan is a retired Seattle bus driver and an active writer and poet, often published in Northwest Prime Time and Sharing Stories.

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