Bio Note: I live and work in Kalamazoo, Michigan, where I actually have got a gal, and where I manage a group of radio stations. Recently I've had poems in The American Journal of Poetry, The Nervous Breakdown and La Piccioletta Barca. This year I won the Atlanta Review International Poetry Contest. My humor collection is It’s Funny Until Someone Loses an Eye (Then It’s Really Funny) (2017 Sagging Meniscus Press); my poetry chapbook is One of These Things Is Not Like the Other (2019 Finishing Line Press). If you're desperate for things to click on, try kurtluchs.com.
The Blizzard of 1967 (Chicago)
The snow was already falling when we awoke that Thursday morning, January 26th. The weatherman (they were almost all men back then) predicted only four inches so we dressed and walked to school as usual. Then the flakes became clumps like the frosted fossils of arctic milkweed pods and they just kept coming all day, past the twilight as we staggered home sinking with every step, and into the deepening night. There was no school Friday when the snow finally stopped around 10 a.m., having reached 23 inches, a record that has held ever since. The blizzard that was an infuriating frustration for adults was pure delight to the rest of us. We spent much of that weekend sledding where we could never sled before and jumping off of roofs into snowbanks that were taller than many of us. There were tragedies, too, of course ― a rash of lootings in the city, a little girl gunned down in the crossfire between looters and police, several people who suffered heart attacks shoveling snow and even a minister run over by a snow plow, poor devil, poor snow angel. What I recall most clearly though is the gentle hiss of the snow falling like an air mattress springing a tiny leak or the world folding in on itself in slow motion: the illusory sound of peace in which, for once, I could sleep through the night.
©2020 Kurt Luchs
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