Boston.
Snow from Feb. 6, 1978 to February 7, 1978. A world-class blizzard buried New England. Boston was buried by twenty-seven inches of snow in thirty-two hours. Manhattan was covered by a blanket of white. I was worried about my parents and called 109 Harborview Road to tell my father that I was coming home
“How?” He was a man of direct eloquence.
“By train.
“
“Route 128. The Amtrak station is snowed under. THere’s no service between New York and Boston.”
“THe highways must be open. I’ll take a bus to South Station.” Greyhound was promising door to door from 42nd Street to South Station and they were proud of this claim.
“And after that?” My father was hinting at another barrier to travel and said, “The government has issued a driving ban. The MTA is shut down. Walking here is a death wish.”
“I guess I’ll stay here.” Steam heated my apartment. The windows fogged over with condensation.
I planned on seeing my mother and father after the thaw. Chowder at Durgin Park.
I went down to the street. The snow was deep, yet the corner bodega was open and the dealers on the corner were back in business. Neither rain nor sleet nor snow stopped them or the Chinese deliverymen or the city that never slept.