BLIZZARD OF '36

From: Murder Incorporated - In a Keg

by Harold J. Treherne

ebruary the 16th, 1936, was a Sunday and anyone living in Southern Saskatchewan at the time whose memory is good or those who kept records will remember this riproaring blizzard. It was one that you wouldn't likely forget. We were living on the farm at the time and got it straight from the horse's mouth. Several trivial incidents not noticeable in themselves impressed it on my mind clear as yesterday. From the first of the year and every day without exception the temperature had been below zero, with very little wind. My six-volt wind charging outfit had been sitting like a dead duck for six weeks; a breeze would turn the blades and once in a great while the points would close and I would be rewarded with a little juice to the tune of a couple of amps. There was enough wind, too, at times to swing the tail round, otherwise it was neither useful nor ornamental. To run out of gas was no worse than running out of wind. It was aggravating either way.

There was no lack of snow and many a morning the hoar frost was heavy and the blades were all festooned in white. I said it wasn't ornamental but at those times it was. The charger, a homemade affair was mounted on the West end of the garage halfway between the house and the barn and every time I went out to do chores I would take one look at it and shake my head sadly. There was no hope and the sooner the funeral rites were read, the better. There was absolutely no upkeep to this outfit and it absolutely didn't try to keep up the batteries, either. It wasn't even sensitive enough to be used as a weather vane and the blades, if they happened to be horizontal, reminded me of a scarecrow. It looked so dejected but, cheer up, the only things certain sure in this old World are the uncertainties.

This Sunday morning dawned clear and bright, the sky never bluer; the snow never whiter. It looked to be just another repeat performance of all the previous days in this year of grace A.D. 1936. I did the chores intending to let the stock out later.

By 10 a.m. however, the wind, after this six weeks' hibernation bestirred himself and after that he wouldn't lie down and be quiet. He was sure peeved about something. The wind charger, galvanized into action at last, was hitting ten amps which was front page news. As the afternoon wore on the tempo all around increased and the weather steadily worsened. Clouds rolled up from the Northwest, the sun and his dogs were obliterated, the temperature continued to sag and the wind was a stiff one. As for the charger it didn't get much of a workout that day; there was no speed governor and I had to shut it off.

By 7 p.m. chore time a raging fifty to sixty mile wind was whipping up new snow and a veritable blizzard was on. Where was the temperature? It could still be seen on the thin red line but it was crowding the bowl awful close. I had a thermometer of very reliable make, in fact it was almost new (I still have it) and the temperature was in the red to the tune of 45 degrees below. Weather or no weather the chores had to be done.

The light piercing the maelstrom through the kitchen window showed a square of whirling snow surrounded by inky darkness in comparison. The old farm lantern was lighted and, ear lugged, mitted, mackinaw'd and high topped overshoed and milk bucketed (pardon! I am just taking a short cut) I sailed outside and almost took off. It was truly a breathtaking experience, like jumping into a tub of cold water, a real gasper. With all that free air around there it was all I could do to get a lung full.

I was sputtering and half choking like an overprimed wornout World War I Tin-Lizzie. After only a few yards I came back to think things over in the warm snugness of the kitchen. I know now what a pup feels like when he's booted out into a cold and frozen world. Down in the basement I ferreted out a sack, thought it might work. Again I started out looking not unlike a fully fledged member of the Ku Klux Klan, his dues all paid up. I believe they always dressed up in white which I couldn't lay claim to but I sure had the right kind of upbringing - background, I mean. After a short distance in the general direction of the barn this latest invention was speedily scrapped - not shelved. If I wanted a frozen hunk of a head in a hurry this was just the way to get it. The blizzard outside didn't have anything on the blizzard circulating around inside that sack. Like a bonnet full of bees it stung with myriad icy-coated stings, buzzing mad at being confined. Besides I was staggering about here and there in true and perfect imitation of the typical happy and carefree inebriate. In other words like a crazy drunk. (Know any plainer way of saying it?) I don't know how the lantern stayed alight. I certainly wasn't lit up but it might have been hard to explain to an outsider.

So back to the house again while I thawed out my "heid." This next time I was going to make it. Wiping my feet on the sack in justified contempt, for the third time I headed into the night. It was thirty yards to the West door of the bar which I made in five seconds under all previous sprints ever recorded. Immediately, I fell headlong over a wigwam of snow right at the barn door. Falling into a pile of snow is the usual thing if that's your playful intention but in this case, unfortunately there just happened to be a pile of manure hiding underneath. This had been thrown out in the morning and I had promptly and totally forgotten all about it. By falling over it a certain and forceful picture of me on the end of a five-tine fork came to mind. I picked myself up, including the pail, and the lantern still thrust his little beam into the night.

With a mighty heave I slid open the half-door of the barn. What a sight! There was snow all the way to the back and the cows on the one side and the team on the other by the door were covered with a half-inch to an inch layer of snow. Throwing down more bedding and filling up the mangers I dumped a shovel full of snow on each. They would have to eat their drinks tonight. I remember standing there contemplating: Should I milk, should I not milk and the negative finaily won with a two hands, majority. It was as cold as Christmas in there. Closing the door of this cold storage plant, the next chore was to feed five pigs on the South side, away from the wind. They were good chunks but I was afraid they would shrink before morning. Ah, well! There are lots of letters after 'A'. The feed was on the North side so I nipped round and grabbed a pailful of oats. I could feel my visage stiffening up. Floundering round to the pig place (part of the hen house) I dumped the pail of oats and stuck my head inside the opening just in time. That icy bath had set my mug proper. The comparative warmth inside even though it was hoggish heat was a face saver.

I stayed that way, half in, half out, listening to the (at this moment) musical chomp of those hogs, seeing nothing, and the wind wuffing and screaming just around the corner. When I could move my jaws fast enough to say "Oink Oink," I withdrew and hit for the house. I gave that concealed and snowcapped manure pile a wide berth.

The blizzard tore on in fury all night and half the next day. The milk cow next to the door suffered a sore teat in the frigid temperatures. This I found out from close quarters. By mid-afternoon the rough stuff was all through with, the temperature slid up to zero and the wind died. A wondrous calm followed and the air was real balmy. A feeling of Spring had supplanted Winter in a matter of a few hours. Now, all that remained to be done was shoveling out the drifts, finding where the oat butt was and getting the chores into a regular routine again.

From now on we had more than enough wind to run a multitude of wind chargers. There's nothing wishy-washy about Saskatchewan. It either does or it doesn't and that definitely.