ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Thursday, January 18, 1996 TAG: 9601190012
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
COLUMN: Off the clock
SOURCE: CHRIS HENSON
As early as Sunday morning, Day One of Blizzard '96, you could see the people of my neighborhood swing into action. First one, then another, then several men with bread bags tied around their feet trudged over the hill in front of our house, leaning and squinting into a blinding snow, laden with beer. A truckload of Budweiser must have been carried past my house by noon.
As I scraped ice from my '86 Bronco, one such traveler stopped to ask a question I will never forget. I see him even now, a 12-pack of Milwaukee's Best clamped under each arm, a Roman Meal bag rubber-banded around each foot, huffing his way down the road. He turned and asked:
"Say, buddy, is that thing a V-6, or what?"
Seeing my confused expression he added, "I mean the engine."
"I honestly don't know," I said, suddenly wanting a beer for myself.
I bought the Bronco from my brother in law for a dollar. Until now I thought he'd cheated me.
The next fellow coming up the road stopped to inspect my snow scraping and to set down three twelves of Miller Genuine Draft. "Looks too much like work," he said. The snow slammed against the road and the Bronco and his beer. The shovel was fused to the dull ache of my grip.
"Yeah," I managed to wheeze.
"By the way," he said, picking up his cartons again, "it is a V-6. Says so on the fender."
Sure enough, right next to the chrome horse.
Another neighbor ventured onto his front porch to check my progress. "Can I get you anything from the store?" I shouted.
"No," he sang back at me. "I've got 48 frozen dinners and two cartons of cigarettes. I'll be fine."
I got the Bronco started and, after letting it warm up, joined the other people driving on the dangerous streets in their four-by-fours. It was a sort of humble monster truck jam as we went to the store, dropped people off at work, or just did doughnuts in the K mart parking lot.
And in being mobile, even as the second foot of snow was falling, we were free. Many a driver passed me tooting his horn and waving. It was as if they were saying, "Yah Hoo! The extra $2,000 I paid for four-wheel drive on this thing IS worth it!"
Perhaps these drivers thought I was waving back in agreement. But, no. I was actually signaling turns, working the windshield wipers and trying to train the side-view mirror, all by sticking my naked hand out the window. But, in my own way I was saying, "Yah Hoo! This is the best dollar I ever spent!"
It's nothing more than a lot of gray sludge now, lining every thoroughfare in the valley. But for a week there, Blizzard '96 was downright surreal.
Take my dog Cody, for instance.
At first flake, he started barking like Lassie did when that oafish Timmy got stuck in the abandoned mine shaft.
In two feet of snow, even an 80-pound dog looks silly. Cody had to leap to get anywhere. He looked like the "Free Willy" whale, rising and plunging, his expressive tail disappearing in a spray of snow.
He would do this for minutes at a time and then stop suddenly, his nostrils flaring, his dog-breath steaming. He poked his head deep into snow banks, snuffling, perhaps detecting the scent of decaying French fries or a frozen cat.
Days later, when the snowing ended and the sun de-iced itself, our neighborhood took on a bee's-nest busy-ness. The scuffing of shovels, the chirp, chirp, chirp of chains proclaimed that we were all dealing with the snowfall, getting on with our lives.
Cody, however, unable to visit the park or find a decent spot to ``take care of business,'' was slipping into a sort of canine depression. For two days he wouldn't eat anything but Kleenex. His legs were atrophied from perching on the couch to watch his soaps. He stopped chewing his pig's ear.
By week's end, Cody's trips outside took on the drudgery of helping a belligerent old lady across the street. He would barely move himself, except to paw vacantly at the snow as if hoping to find the earth somewhere underneath. He did not.
Speaking of surreal, I could tell that Blizzard '96 was history when I found about 50 people standing outside Hurley's on Grandin Road Saturday night listening to the band Key West. Hurley's was celebrating its second anniversary by featuring the calypso/rock band al fresco. The band stood under a tent in front of a three-foot snow bank and performed a variety of Caribbean music, mostly in the Jimmy Buffett vein, as people danced the snow off their boots.
Key West looked like a Latin percussion truck had blown up. They played covers of tunes like "Brown Eyed Girl" and "I Shot the Sheriff" with a mondo-drum throwdown.
Chris Gregory and Richard Walters manned an impressive battery of congas, timbales, claves, guirros (noise makers that sound like they should be on the menu). They had huge gourds to shake, tiny conical cowbells to plink and things that go ch-ch-ch-ch. Steve White laid his steel-drum-sounding guitar synthesizer on top of that and sang along with bassist Roger Hartless. It was an involuntary hip-shake waiting to happen.
"People were calling all week to see if we were still going to have this party," said Mark Hurley, owner of the restaurant. "They figured I'd cancel it because of the snow. But I said, 'Heck yeah, we're having it because of the snow.'"
Maybe an outdoor calypso band is the first sign of spring, before the robins and groundhogs. Maybe robins and groundhogs were what Cody was looking for under all that snow.
All I know is my Bronco has a V-6.
If you're ever walking past my house, and I'm out shoveling that gray sludge off my yard, could you do me a favor? Tell me, is a V-6 a good thing or a bad thing?
LENGTH: Long : 107 lines ILLUSTRATION: GRAPHIC: Stinson. color. Type first letter of feature OR type help for list of commands FIND S-DB DB OPT SS WRD QUIT QUIT Save options? YES NO GROUP YOU'VE SELECTED: QUIT NO login: cby CNB