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Philipstown Potpourri
"Rage Attired in White" (Part 4 of 5)
There were those innumerable Nelsonville and Cold Spring homes that, caught by surprise with the savagery of winds and extraordinary snow depths, faced the dreaded fear of losing precious heat. Numberless stacks of cordwood, a critical appendage to most homes of that day, had now been covered by drifts so high as to take away costly time in shoveling out. Wood burning stoves and fireplaces had to be fed uninterruptedly if prospects of life-threatening cold were to be thwarted. And even those with coal-burning stoves also faced a grim outlook, depending on their home supply; if bins became critically low, could deliveries be made to provide replenishment?
Uncountable footpaths, scurrying in all directions, was the first sight caught in the blurry eyes of those waking up on Wednesday morning, the 14th. Crude white walkways of varying widths, lengths and heights crisscrossed one another along side street residences, in front of any number of Main Street buildings, and along the strand's sidewalks, as if an enormous template of lattice work had fallen on both villages. Still persistent, as had been the case during the entire life of the blizzard, a dark pall of grayish-black sky hung bleakly suspended over both snow-entombed towns. Yet all weary hearts danced warmly when, later that afternoon the sun, determined to break the four-day cycle of claustrophobic dreariness, came out as a hazily gauzed balloon ushering in the approach of a fresh brace of colder northwest winds.
One final exhalation of energy from the snarling beast would erupt during Wednesday night, depositing an additional accumulation of some eight inches over the hushed, exhausted villages. Received as a blessing, the night fall of that Wednesday was light and fluffy, a thousand times easier to contend with than the previous three days of a snow, hail and sleet mixture. The worst would soon be over- the heartless brute would, in a few more hours, give up the ghost.
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