I've been waiting for one of Atlanta's rare winter storm warnings to share this story. It is especially for you.
It was eleven-fifteen at night, and meteorologist Bob Caldwell from WLOS in Asheville was confidently calling for snow--lots of snow--for the Western North Carolina mountains. Your dad watched the weather report intently from our little house in Clyde and then rose from his recliner to turn off the TV. He walked out of the living room and began rummaging around the bedroom. I could hear him opening dresser drawers and closet doors. After a few minutes, he returned, snagged his heavy coat off the hallway peg, and then strode out into the garage.
"What's up?" I asked as I poked my head out the door and watched with interest. Bill lifted a heavy set of seldom-used tire chains off the wall and laid them out on the floor of the garage. A moment later, he draped a massive tow chain across his shoulders like a steel Anaconda and turned to face me.
Bill smiled. "You'll see. Now, go back inside. It's freezing out here. I'll be in shortly." He reached past me, pressed the button that set the overhead garage door opener in motion and went out into the cold, rainy night.
The year was 1983. Your dad and I had been married for just a few months, so we were still discovering new things about each other. While Bill was outside, I glanced at his job calendar. He was a self-employed master electrician at the time and kept all of his appointments written down there. Did he have an urgent electrical contract to complete in the morning that could not be rescheduled?
Not that I could tell.
"I don't think you'll be going to school tomorrow," Bill remarked casually after he returned and hung his dripping coat up to dry. "The wind is picking up and the temperature is dropping fast." While no school would be sweet, I had lived in the mountains long enough to know that my college classes might simply be delayed, so I still laid out my dental hygiene uniform and set my alarm.
We finished our evening chores and went to bed soon after midnight. As I was drifting off to sleep, I heard the rain change into sleet. I sat up in bed to listen as it began frantically tapping on the bedroom windows. The sheers stirred slightly as gusts of wind whistled past outside. Your dad reached over to the electric blanket control and turned it up to seven. Then he rolled over and snagged me close. "Go to sleep. It'll be fine," he murmured into my hair.
The next morning I awoke later than usual to the smell of brewing coffee. My alarm had been turned off, and it was already getting light outside. Seth, who was four, was still sleeping soundly under a mound of blankets, so I closed his bedroom door and went out to the living room. Bill was standing at the kitchen counter decked out in his heavy Carhartt jumpsuit making peanut butter sandwiches. Thick gloves and a ski cap lay on the dining table next to his tall contractor's Thermos and lunchbox.
I lifted the curtain on the back porch door and peered out into a blue-white winter wonderland. Icicles hung down from tree limbs and power lines, and most of the normally visible landmarks in our yard were now nondescript mounds of snow.
"There's a layer of ice and four inches of snow already on the ground. It's not going to stop until tonight. Then it is going to freeze like a rock," Bill said. "The school closings have been scrolling on the TV since five this morning, so you two won't be going anywhere today."
"Are you?" I asked, moving over to the wood stove that was already blazing. I warmed my hands appreciatively and took note of the large stack of firewood that was waiting in the bin. He had definitely been up for a while.
"'Oh, yeah." Bill replied with a boyish grin on his face."The roads are a mess."
While such a statement might have struck fear into the hearts of other brides, I had complete confidence in Bill's judgment. The man had more common sense than anyone I knew. Though he had grown up in Florida, your dad understood what it took to safely navigate winter road conditions in the mountains. His four-wheel-drive work truck was perfect for the job. He had recently equipped it with an old-fashioned steel fireman's ladder in order to do some lighting work, and the weight of that massive contraption gave the truck additional traction on the icy highway.
After breakfast, I stood on the front step and watched as Bill slipped Big Red into gear and eased it down the steep hill of our subdivision. He began slowly cruising up and down the roads near the house looking for people who might need help.
Your dad spent the entire day pulling vehicles out of ditches, rescuing folks from stranded cars, and lending a helping hand to anyone in need. By the time he finally came in for the night, his Thermos was empty, the sandwiches were gone, and his clothes and boots were so encrusted with snow and ice that he had to shuck out of them in the garage before he came into the house.
Bill O'Hara was one exhausted but happy man. During a time before cell phone technology existed, he had managed to single-handedly assist dozens of people and get them to safety. My favorite part was the fact that although people tried their best to ignore his wishes, no tipping was allowed.
Your dad was an everyday hero, Sarah. He absolutely loved helping people. I wouldn't be at all surprised if he's the one who passed some of these same character qualities on down to our Blue Line girl. He'd be so proud of you, Honey.
You be careful out there now.
Much love,
Moohm
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