Ice Storm!

Ice Storm

by Wil Bosbyshell

We went to bed with snow falling outside. Our son, Allen, was five years old and loved playing in the snow. But he was asleep and had been asleep for hours.

I considered, for a nanosecond, waking him up. Nope. Never wake up a sleeping child.

I woke with a start and sat up in bed. “What woke me up,” I thought. The answer came in the sound of something hitting the outside of our house hard. The sound was coming from the other side of the wall behind our bed. As I jumped out of the bed, what sounded like a giant claw struck the house and slid down grinding and scraping.

I threw up the window blind. My backyard was bright, brilliant snow reflecting the moon light like a mirror. Everything glittered and glistened. “What the heck was going on,” I thought. The wind howled and I saw the honey locust tree next to our house hit the side of our house again. Squinting into the night, I saw something was wrong with the tree. It was white and shiny at the same time. I watched the top of the tree bend toward the ground. The branches of the tree clawed the side of the house again, but this time the tree didn't recover. The top of the tree kept moving down slowly instead of bouncing back to its normal height. Down and down until the trunk snapped with a crack, breaking in half. Shards of ice flew in all directions as the tree top collided with the ice-covered ground. It was 6:00 AM.

In the silence after the tree snapping, I heard a sound behind me. “Papa, did it snow,” Allen asked. He was an early riser like all kids. “It sure did, let's go outside and look,” I said. Allen turned running back into his room to get dressed. I did the same. My wife Maura slept through the whole thing.

I helped Allen into his winter boots, gloves, and hat. To put on a jacket, I sang a silly song based on DEVO’s Whip it, “When a jacket comes along, you must zip it. Let's explore the backyard first.” “OK, Papa.”

As we walked through the icy winter landscape, I realized what had happened. First it snowed about two inches and then the temperature rose above freezing, with the snow turning to sleet. The snow began to melt, it rained and then the temperature fell below freezing again. Now about 1/2 inch of ice coated the two inches of snow.

An ice storm!

The ice crunched under our feet as we broke through the top crust. The trees were surreal. A layer of ice coated every small branch and leaf. It looked heavy as everything drooped and bent, straining against the weight of the ice. It was now deadly calm and quiet. All sound except Allen’s muffled voice, “Papa, look the tree broke!” “Yes, it hit the house on the way down,” I added. “The ice killed the tree,” Allen summed up the situation. “Let's go play in the field and build a snowman.”

We crossed the street in front of our house slipping and sliding. We made snow angels and threw snowballs. We tried to make a snowman, and we succeeded in making a very small one. It was the wrong kind of snow for snowmen. Allen giggled with delight for no reason other than pure joy.

The snow began falling again in big flakes spiraling through the air. Allen whirled around and around with his arms outstretched, face turned up mouth open and tongue out laughing. He chased snowflakes catching them on his tongue lapping them up.

“Snowflakes are stars that fall from heaven onto your tongue,” he exclaimed. I laughed just watching his silly game. Kids are so fun. Snow brings out joy and the kid in us all.

Plus, as Allen knew, snow meant fun and adventure all day. No school for him, even though he loved it and no work for his parents. There was no such thing as working from home in those days. He would have our attention all day. Not to mention playing in the snow with all his neighborhood friends, Hadley Young and Sean McGillicuddy.

Our neighborhood had no power lines as they were all buried underground. But our neighborhood was an exception, all the neighborhoods around us had power lines stretched on poles.

“Allen, did you hear that explosion,” I asked. “Explosion!” “Yes,” listen.

In the distance I heard a bang. It was a muffled bang. But a bang, nonetheless. It was a particular kind of bang: the sound of an electric transformer exploding when the power cable running into it is violently pulled out. I unfortunately knew that sound too well.

He stopped in his tracks, nothing like an explosion to get a 5-year old's attention. A second explosion. Then in rapid succession 3, 4, 5 loud bangs. Some close and others farther away. The ice was too heavy for the tree limbs and power cables. They all started to break and fall. Suddenly there were about 15 minutes of steady explosions all around us.

“Papa is that dynamite,” Allen watched cartoons where dynamite was a common theme. “No, that is the sound of a blackout,” I said glancing back at the houses across the street. The porch lights were dark. Allen and I played in the snow for an hour or more. Kids ran out and joined us in the fun.

Allen got his adventure. Almost the entire city of Charlotte lost power in the ice storm. Charlotte’s mayor Pat McCory’s, house was dark for two weeks. We lost our power for four days. The junior college where I taught never lost power, so on the third day we spent the day in a classroom being warm. On the afternoon of the 4th day our friends the Halls joined us at Ed's Tavern with their daughter Madison.

Ed’s Tavern had regained power. The server came up to get our drink order. “Bring beer until the power comes back on at our house,” I laughed out my order. I was laughing but not joking. The temperature hovered in the high 20s, and our home was very cold. We had a gas fireplace and hot water heater, so we could take hot showers and warm the house a little. I began to understand how the pioneers in the 18th century felt. I understand the value of a bed warmer now.

We stayed at Ed's Tavern until the kids were exhausted. As we turned into our neighborhood the first house’s outside porch light shone like a beacon! “We have power,” Maura yelled. We cheered and clapped. The Hall’s had to wait one more day in the cold.

We all went to sleep. A warm bed never felt so good! 

The Mayor of Glennville (or How I got the nickname Puke Boot)

The Mayor of Glennville (or How I got the nickname Puke Boot)

story by Wil Bosbyshell

painting by Wilma R. King

story compilation: Bullets and Bandaids volume 3: What Now? 

I was a Captain in the Field Artillery assigned to Fort Stewart Georgia near Savannah. A new Lt Colonel had just taken command of the battalion while we were in the National Training Center at Fort Irwin California. His name was Lt. Colonel Warner, and he was one of the great leaders I had the pleasure to serve under while I was in the US Army. Just like Captain Kirk did on the Enterprise when he began his command, Lt Col. Warner called each of his officers in for an interview to learn their capabilities or, in my case, weaknesses.

During our interview he asked where I was from. I told him that I was from Florida, but my family was from Savannah and that I would be buried in nearby Bonaventure Cemetery. I added that I had graduated from the University of Georgia that was about four hours away from Savannah.

When Lt. Colonel Warner heard this, he was excited. He said very few officers in our unit were from this area and that I was a native in his eyes. “Captain Bosbyshell, I have a job for you. You are going to be the liaison officer to the town of Glennville.” So that is how I became the “Mayor of Glennville.” I wasn't really the mayor but that was one of the many nicknames my fellow officers and sergeants referred to me as. Officers called me that to my face, sergeants behind my back.

My job as liaison officer to Glennville involved going to various meetings of the Chamber of Commerce and responding to requests. If Glennville wanted a tank for the 4th of July parade, I oversaw getting it there from an armor unit. If a state Senator from the capital came to visit Glennville and they needed a color guard, I was in charge of arranging it. If an elementary school teacher needed a guest speaker from the military for career day, I was to find the right person. It was actually very fun.

One morning I received a call from the President of the Bank of Glennville. He was also the Scoutmaster of the Glennville Boy Scout troop. He asked if the boys could fly onto Fort Stewart shoot machine guns, drive tanks and generally play army for the day. This was a bold request! I had never heard of an outing like this before. I told him that it was probably a long shot, but I would ask the general.

In my job as the liaison to Glennville I reported directly to the general of the post. However, in observation of the chain of command, I went to see my boss Major Soltas and told him of the request from the Glennville bank president and scoutmaster. He broke into a chuckle, “Col Warner has to see this.” Major Soltas ran the operations for the Artillery Battalion and he had unlimited patience to lead all his very young and head-strong men.

He and I walked to Lt. Col Warner’s office and told him of the request. Lt. Col Warner broke into hysterical laughter and said, “CPT. Bosbyshell, there is no way this is going to happen.” However, he said it was my job to forward Glennville’s request to the general. If the general wants to turn it down that would be his prerogative.

There was no email or internet, so I typed (on a typewriter) a quick memo to the general's adjutant outlining what the bank president had requested. I didn't spend a lot of time on the memo, it was short, as I was sure it would be turned down.

To my surprise I got a response in about 45 minutes of my delivering the memo to the general. The adjutant called me to say that indeed The 24th Infantry Division would be glad to host the scout troop for a day of military fun on Ft. Stewart.

Even in 1986, I was surprised. After 2001 and 9-11 this would have never been allowed. Unknown to me at the time, but later revealed in the local newspaper, a unit of Rangers had just destroyed a local drinking establishment (translation strip bar) and the general was looking for a positive public relations win.

On the designated Saturday, I boarded a Chinook helicopter, took off from Pope Air Force Base and flew to Glennville. The Chinook helicopter landed in the bank parking lot, which was surrounded, by telephone and high-tension power lines. I couldn't believe the accuracy of the landing. We lowered the ramp and the Boy Scouts piled in. We flew to Fort Stewart landed in one of the training areas and preceded with a full morning of military training.

Each boy got to fire a shotgun and some of the older boys were allowed to fire an M-16 rifle with blanks and laser tag equipment. I was unable to secure an actual M1 tank for them to fire or ride in, however I was able to secure a Sheraton light armored tank for them to ride around in. Then, each boy was able to drive and ride in an M113 armored personnel carrier.

Halfway through the day, at lunch, is when I made the mistake. I have mentioned before in other stories that the protagonist, usually me, makes a mistake and this makes the story interesting (read usually dangerous).

In between firing the M16 with blanks and riding in the Sheraton light tank we stopped and had lunch. Lunch consisted of the famous army MRE or “meal-ready to eat.” The boys loved the MREs. However as anyone who has been in the army and eaten an MRE knows, the meals in the MRE are a little … slick. They go down easy! For example one of the main meals is ham/turkey/meat loaf. What is that anyway? No one knows. The boys had a great time inhaling without much chewing the MREs and then we finished riding around in the various vehicles.

The boys had fun, but the day was at an end. The Chinook helicopter arrived to take the Boy Scout troop back to Glennville. If you have not ridden in a Chinook helicopter, this helicopter has two propellers. One in the front and one in the back. It looks like it should not be able to fly. Riding in any helicopter has a strange sensation different from an airplane. However, riding in a helicopter with two rotors creates a very unusual set of movements. You have the normal side to side and up and down movements of any aircraft. In a Chinook you also have the strange forward and backwards movement caused by the rotors being in the front and the back.

We were in sight of the Bank of Glennville. From my vantage point standing in the middle of the passenger bay, I could see the bank parking lot out of the window. That is when the first boy puked his guts up.

Then in a truly Quentin Tarantino-esque cinematic display of synchronistic puking every boy puked the entirety of his stomach bazooka-like onto the floor. Standing in the middle of the boys getting ready to lower the tailgate of the helicopter, I was covered head to toe in puke ….especially my boots.

Proving that MREs come up as easily as they go down, the last boy finished puking his guts out all over my boots, the helicopter gently touched down and the boys ran out. Mission Accomplished!

The helicopter crew chief came back and exclaimed, with a string of multiple expletives, that I was going to “clean up all the puke”. I did, in fact, clean up all the puke on our return to the air force base. It was a lot of puke. Very chucky. Boys really do not chew their food thoroughly like they are supposed to. Not much digestion had occurred since lunch it appeared.

The Air Force General called the Army general to complain about the treatment of his aircraft. The Bank President sent letters of thanks to both generals. The boys wrote letters of thanks for the fun they had. The rangers were forgiven for destroying the bar. I was awarded the Service Above Self award by the local Rotary Chapter. And of course in hours or maybe minutes, my nickname in the artillery went from “Mayor of Glennville” to “Captain Puke Boot.”