The Rural Voice, 2006-03, Page 38The Blizzard of '47
The legendarg March blizzard in 1947 delivered 40 inches of snow on one dag
dealing a blow that's hard to imagine in our time.
By Barbara Weiler
My brothers and I stayed
home from school that
stormy March day in
1947, scraping the swirls of
heavy frost patterns from the
windows, so we could press our
noses against the glass to watch
the thick curtain of flakes fall to
the ground and also to keep a
lookout for our older sister.
She had braved the storm on
cross country skis to attend
classes at the Continuation
School in the village. We were
relieved to see her struggling up
the laneway, completely frosted
with snow, her red scarf wound
around her face so only her eyes
were visible.
"She's here, she's home," we
called to our anxious parents.
She had been dismissed early,
and followed the fence lines A car stands in a narrow path between
home, as the road was already snow banks after the Blizzard of '47.
blocked, presenting a wide
expanse of white with no discernible
track.
Now we were all safe inside our
farmhouse, with lots of wood for the
stove. There were bins of potatoes
and carrots in the cellar. A wide
swinging shelf was stocked with
glowing jars of last summer's fruit:
peaches, strawberries and plums. A
side of pork was frozen in the back
kitchen. A hundred pounds of flour
waited in the bin in the pantry and
our dairy herd provided us with fresh
milk daily, while the flock of white
leghorns supplied the eggs. We were
well prepared to wait out the storm.
All that day, through the night,
and into the next day the snow
continued to descend, covering every
tree and building with mounds of
white. My father and 11 -year-old
brother struggled to clear the drifts
that the wind piled against the
doorway, threatening to block our
exit. They shoveled and re -shoveled
34 THE RURAL VOICE
head -high
a path to the barn so they could feed
and water the livestock and milk the
cows.
The snow finally stopped falling,
but it was at least another week
before the road to the village was
open. The neighbouring farmers
worked together to make a track
through the fields so the teams of
huge work horses with their heavy
sleighs could get through to the
village. The trail went through our
farm, cutting right behind our barn.
When we heard the jingle of the
horses' harness bells ringing across
the snowy fields, mother might send
my brother running, money clenched
in hand, to ask the neighbour if he
could hitch a ride into town with a
grocery list so he could, as he put it,
"get some grub".
The steam rose from the great
teams of Clydesdales and Percherons
as they strained to pull their Toads
through the massive drifts. What a
welcome sight and sound that
was, for even farm families
accustomed to the quiet of the
countryside felt the pressure of
involuntary isolation.
The picture I have painted
here is idyllic, but the reality
was far less so for our parents,
and for those in the community
who were ill, elderly, expecting
a baby or caught without an
adequate food supply. Even
getting to a neighbour's house
was impossible during the worst
of the storm, and there were
many long hours of shoveling by
hand.
According to historical
weather information on the
internet, February of 1947 was
stormy with record snow falls,
so by the time March came there
was a lot of snow on the ground
already. Newspapers reported a
record 40.2 inches of snow on
March 2 in some parts of southern
Ontario.
The Globe and Mail reported "The
100 villagers of Honeywood, two
miles East of Redickville, in Dufferin
County, got a supply of bread
yesterday from Redickville, after it
had been trucked to the latter
community from Creemore. The last
leg of the trip was made by sleigh.
The road running South from
Redickville to Horning's Mills was
still blocked and residents of the area
reported 10 -foot drifts. In the
Corbetton sector, on Highway No.
10, northwest of Shelburne, two
county plows worked all day in an
effort to open the county road west to
Riverview, for a funeral slated for the
afternoon. In spite of their efforts,
however, the funeral was expected to
have to go part the way by sleigh."
The Globe and Mail, March 6,
1947: "Still digging itself out from
previous storms, the district was