1978—The Blizzard
Sunday, February 5. Supper-time at the kitchen table in Timbaloo. Speakers on the wall, feeding us the news. Hmmm. A monster storm is about to hit Washington, D.C.; it will then head up the coast toward New England. Now, we loved to make jokes about the unreliability of the Weather Service, and so we were inclined to shrug off the forecast.

EXCEPT that I had in my briefcase a multi-million-dollar Abt Associates proposal that had to be in Washington at noon the next day. Given the District’s well-known inability to function under what we’d consider trivial amounts of snow, I had the makings of a problem.

So, in typical mature, measured fashion, I left my supper half-eaten and my boots, gloves and heavy overcoat in the closet, called a cab to Logan Airport, grabbed the next Eastern Airlines shuttle out (which turned out to be the last one to land at National Airport, before the snow closed it down). Got there in the middle of Sunday night, took a motel room near National, and woke in the morning to find the pantywaists of our nation’s capital paralyzed by a few inches of snow. Called around and found an enterprising chap on skis who took my proposal1 across the Potomac to its destination.
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