Késsinnimek - Roots - Racines

OVERTIME FOR ST. JUDE
by Louise Dubrule

The TV coverage of a recent blizzard that paralyzed the East Coast reminded me of the days of frustration that impacted our family during a similar storm.

In September of 1965 my husband, Moe, was deployed to Germany with only a week’s advance notice. We managed to sell our house in El Paso, Texas, and we drove the 2800 miles to Richford, Vermont where my parents awaited us. Because we didn’t have concurrent travel, Moe left for Europe alone. I stayed behind with four year old Michelle and two year old Monique to await our travel orders known as “portcall.”

The call finally came in late January, 1966 after many delays, phone calls, mix-ups in paperwork, and daily letters to Moe who was as anxious as we for a reunion. Now, with only seventy-two hours of warning, we were packed, dressed and ready to load into Papa’s car for the sixty-mile trip to the airport in Burlington for the first leg of our journey.

It was snowing heavily that Sunday morning. Papa, who had a lifetime of experience with hazardous driving, decided to leave earlier than really necessary. We had a concern for the girls. Michelle had an ear infection; and Monique had a sore throat. Would they pass the final physical check? Both were taking medication and were bundled well against the cold.

The drive to Burlington took almost three hours. Inside the airport, a clerk was busy with the phone and a list. As I neared the desk, I heard the words “flight canceled” and the first twinges of anxiety began to gnaw at my stomach. In our preoccupation and bustle of last-minute details, we’d failed to keep in touch with the rest of the world. Belatedly, we learned that Vermont was gripped by a severe blizzard that was enveloping a major portion of the East Coast.

“But I’ve got to get to McGuire and make that portcall!” I said with growing panic. The tired man heaved a sigh at facing yet another distressed voyager and he suggested an express bus to New York that would be leaving in just twenty-five minutes. Papa drove the few miles back to the depot in record time. While he unloaded the luggage, I dashed inside to buy tickets. We were the last to board. Mama, with tears in her eyes, pressed two hastily-purchased sandwiches into my hand. We waved goodbye to the folks as they stood in the thickening flurries, unaware that it would be the last time we would see Papa alive . Then we settled back for the six-hour bus ride to New York.

At first the girls were happy enough to look at the scenery whizzing by while they colored in new coloring books and munched the sandwiches that were lunch. The Albany depot was crowded with skiers who had become stranded, and the concession counters were packed eight and ten deep. There would be no other food available to us. In the meantime, Monique became sick to her stomach and I couldn’t be sure if she had motion sickness or if she was getting worse.

Dusk, then dark, and the bus plodded slowly toward New York. The approaches to the city were clogged with bumper-to-bumper traffic and we stopped again and again for still another accident scene to be cleared. The girls were hungry and thirsty, as we all were, for the supper hour had passed and there was no drinking water on the bus. We nibbled dry animal crackers that had been a parting gift from doting Aunt Cecile the evening before, while all around us the other passengers grumbled about the cold, the lack of water, the late hour, and connections that would be missed.

It was almost 10 PM when the bus finally turned into Port Authority: the six hours had stretched to ten. There remained the task of getting us and our belongings to the nearest hotel. Baths refreshed us and room service filled the void inside. The girls, feverish, offered no resistance at going to bed. I said my usual evening prayers and then added one to St. Jude, the patron saint of hopeless cases. I offered a generous gift to charity in his name if he watched over the health of the girls during our trip.

Morning dawned cold, windy, and still snowing. Happily, the girls seemed well and chipper. After breakfast, we returned to Port Authority for a bus that was over an hour late departing for McGuire Field near Wrightstown, N.J. While not as chaotic as the previous day’s bus ride, this one was not without incident. The vehicle broke down in the middle of nowhere and we sat on the side of the road, huddling together in the cold, for nearly two hours before a replacement reached us.

Signing in at McGuire presented new problems. A couple of our suitcases had gone to Fort Dix somehow, and it took a while to get that straightened out. But even worse, the schedule of departure was lined through with the ominous word “canceled” in many places. I let fly another prayer to St. Jude, upping the amount promised, that our plane would get off the ground.

It was a long day just sitting and waiting for a 10 PM departure while we watched the weary crews fighting a losing battle with the blowing snow on the runways. I sympathized with a young mother and her four small children who were sitting through their fourth day of waiting for a military flight to France. Would we have to wait that long? How long would my reserve of cash hold out? One by one, the other flights were scratched until the only dependent flight left was T-64: ours. At 9:30 our departure was announced and we filed out to find…another bus. We were being returned to New York’s Kennedy Airport for a commercial flight! This bus, too, encountered a long delay as we waited for a semi truck accident to be cleared from an overpass.

We reached the airport well after midnight, and two young servicemen came to my aid and each carried one of the girls who had fallen asleep. Finally, at 1:30 AM, our exhausted group took off for Germany. I was thunderstruck by the sudden thought that Moe might not know that we were on our way. After all, I’d had very little time to warn him that we were coming. He was stationed in an isolated area and messages often got misplaced in a field unit. What if he weren’t in Frankfurt to meet us? How could I reach him? Where would we go? Frantic, I turned again to St. Jude; and in my mother’s words, instead of a bicycle, I promised a motorcycle. Then I slept.

Rhein Main Terminal looked green after the deep snow of New England, and it was a warm 45 degrees. We walked at the end of a long line of other dependents toward a waiting room, our eyes searching for a dear, familiar face. Then “Daddy!” and the girls were running. I was soon wrapped in a fierce hug; and as I blinked back tears, I was mindful of the bill I owed, a debt I’d gladly pay. Thanks to St. Jude, we were a family again, safe and sound. He’d done his job well.

Késsinnimek - Roots - Racines
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