Snow-borne Illinois: A (mostly) true story
Editor’s Note: This is Part 1 in a two-part series.
I grew up on a farm six miles north of Mendota, on a high, flat counterpane of cropland – a little square of Illinois some earth scientists believe was imported straight from North Dakota.
Up there, in the county of Lee, there are few trees and even fewer improved roads. During winter, the snow blows for miles with nothing to block it but corn cribs and stalled vehicles.
Political geography tidbit: My childhood home’s on Carnahan Road, a gravel lane near Illinois’ 3rd Principle Meridian, a dividing line which marks the boundary of two rural townships and the confluence of three counties – Bureau, LaSalle and Lee.
Doubtless you’re wondering who’s responsible for plowing snow in this five-way political overlie. Good question. In a bad snowstorm, the short answer is, “Whoever’s got parts in stock.”
Sometimes in northern Illinois, the snow’s so deep local road commissions can’t do a thing – like during the Chicago Blizzard of 1979. That winter, in January of ’79, my twin brother, Luke, and I were born. In the early weeks of that year, my parents and my sister, Jess (then just a toddler), hunkered in my folks’ seven-room farmhouse as the Chicago Blizzard howled across Illinois. My Mom was eight and a half months pregnant.
By Jan. 15, 1979, rural roads across northern Illinois were buried under 5 feet of blowing snow. In Lee County, highway crews could make no headway and had ceased plowing days earlier. Meanwhile, ditches throughout the area filled with stuck and overturned township plow trucks, the Rockford Register Star reported.
With food and furnace oil dwindling, my folks watched the area around Carnahan Road become a lifeless expanse of blowing white. My Mom’s due date loomed; my Dad was scared. How would he get Mom to a hospital in time?
On a whim, Dad called Illinois Gov. Jim Thompson’s office. His plea: Could the National Guard send a helicopter?
“I must have sounded pretty desperate,” my dad recalls. “They transferred me straight to the governor’s top secretary. How often does that happen?”
That day, Gov. Thompson forwarded my dad’s request to the U.S. Army. But nothing could be done, an Army official said; the snow in Lee County was too deep and too powdery for air rescue. An Army chopper could manage a landing, the official said, but on takeoff, snow would almost certainly clog the aircraft’s jet intakes.
Meanwhile, my Mom’s doctor in Mendota said he’d head to Carnahan Road if he could find a snowmobile outfitted for a Rocky Mountain blizzard. But nobody near Mendota had one. Switching gears, the doctor prepared to talk my folks through childbirth over the phone, my Mom recalls.
Note: At that time, Mom was unaware the baby she expected was actually two babies.
Meanwhile, my Dad heard U.S. 251 (which runs a mile west of Carnahan Road between Mendota and the small burg of Compton) was passable. If my folks could reach Route 251, my Mom could get a ride to Mendota.
Then, an idea: My Dad removed one of his barn’s large wooden doors, laid it flat on the snow and hopped on it. It floated. Perfect! Next, he fetched a harness and his trusty Quarter Horse, Blazie. There it was: A horse-drawn barn door sled.
Although it wasn’t a perfect outfit for a winter birth emergency, Dad figured Blazie and the “sled” would hold up for a trip across fields to Route 251. But his hopes sunk when a practice run revealed that snow in the fields was too deep for Blazie. The poor horse just sunk to his shoulders, wallowing helplessly in the icy drifts.
Around that time, word had spread about my Mom’s growing dilemma. I’m told that during the Blizzard of ‘79, area farmers were using CB radios (after all, this was the ’70s) to trade news on the weather, the stymied road commission plows – and the tense situation on Carnahan Road.
“… Heard about the Johnson family over’t Carnahan?… OVER … Boy, what a fix … OVER … The wife’s expecting and wanting to burst, and with a little one out there, too …”
And on the CB chatter (probably) went.
“… He hitched a horse to what? ... OVER ... Wait, what’s this about the National Guard? ... OVER ... Well, somebody ought to try and do something …”
Meanwhile, two farmers were busy with a plan to dig my folks out of trouble…
Read Part 2 of this series in Saturday’s edition of the BCR.
Neil Johnson is a BCR correspondent. He can be reached at neiljohn17@yahoo.com.
