The Snowstorm

Beth Porter has been a member of the L'Arche Daybreak community in Richmond Hill, Ontario for the best part of four decades. In her new book, Accidental Friends, she shares her experiences of the people she has lived with over the years and reflects on how they have influenced her own spiritual journey ... 

 

In the early spring of 1981, Mike and I were asked to run up to Penetanguishene to pick up Cynthia, who had been visiting there for a week. We would leave right after lunch and should be back well before dinner.

There was still snow on the ground, and we wore winter clothes and boots. Just before we left, I went to the medication cupboard and grabbed Mike’s pills. We used daily medication containers, and it was easier to bring the whole container than to take only his “four o’clocks.” The weather was excellent, a mix of sun and clouds, and the roads were clear. We made good time up Highway 400. At Barrie, we headed northwest towards the Penetang Peninsula, which stretches up into Georgian Bay—the enormous bay that runs along the northeastern side of Lake Huron. The peninsula is subject to the brunt of the winds, which are westerlies in this part of North America. We were driving our house car—a low-slung Chevy station wagon of mid-seventies vintage.

When the clouds closed in and a light snow began to fall, I thought little of it, merely following the example of oncoming traffic by switching on our headlights. Initially there was a good bit of traffic moving in both directions, but a few minutes later, as the snow continued and the flakes became larger and heavier, it seemed nearly all the other cars had disappeared. As I drove, I worked the radio but got mostly static and could not bring in a weather report. I was becoming concerned and glanced over at Mike but made light of the situation to him. The snow continued to build, and visibility worsened. I slowed to a crawl, barely able to see the single track of a vehicle somewhere ahead of us but no longer visible through the wall of snow. I knew we could not be far from Penetanguishene. I continued to keep an eye on Mike. He was staring straight ahead into the blinding snow, but he still seemed nonplussed and made no comment. I was hoping he would not become overly excited or upset. A seizure was certainly something we could both do without!

After another few minutes, a flashing red light loomed ahead of us. It was attached to a large yellow and black roadblock with the message road closed. We had driven right into one of what I later learned are notorious Georgian Bay blizzards that can blow in from Lake Huron, especially in the early spring. I thought at first that we were totally alone. Then I saw we were actually at a crossroads where a local road intersected the highway, and to our right through the blowing snow I could see a gas station. We crept into its parking lot, and I ran through a foot or more of snow to find that it was about to close. The attendant was very anxious to get home, but he allowed me to make one collect long-distance phone call. (Of course, this was many years before the advent of cellphones.) Unfortunately, I could not get through to Daybreak.

Returning to the car, I cleared the snow from the exhaust pipe and noted gratefully that we had a fairly full tank of gas. What could I do but settle down in the car with Mike and wait, perhaps several hours, for the snow to stop or for some snowplow driver to spot us—though at that point we had seen no plows on the road. I hoped we would not become too miserably cold and hungry—or worse, whatever that might be.

Amazingly, within a minute or two, a woman emerged from across the road. Beyond her, in moments when the wind died down, I could just make out the form of a small house that I had not previously noticed. I lowered my window, and she called in, “You and your husband can come into my house.” I blurted out a “Thank you!” and something about our being “just friends.” At that moment I realized like a lightning bolt that this was exactly what we were. I was certainly not going to tell her, “Well, Mike is actually a man with an intellectual disability and he also has severe epilepsy and many needs, and I cannot imagine being married to him…and I am actually his residential counsellor”—or whatever officialdom called us assistants in those days.

Mike and I clambered out of the car and, holding on to each other, plunged off into the wind and snow towards the little house. We had nothing with us but my handbag with Mike’s pills.

The woman, as it turned out, had two young children, and Mike, who loves children, connected immediately with them. As soon as he had shed his coat and boots, he was down on the floor shooting little cars back and forth with the boy and his younger sister. The woman’s house was very basic—one large room with a bare floor, a tattered couch, a kitchenette at the end of the room, two bedrooms opening off this main room, and a small bathroom at the end of the kitchen. She did not have a telephone. I thought that she was quite possibly on welfare, but she was incredibly generous. Not only did she take us in but she opened her cupboard and fed us. I think she had only a few tins in the cupboard—baked beans, spaghetti, soup—and some bread.

After a while, we heard a roar outside and a knock. A tall man in a full snowmobile suit and boots entered. Mike was very impressed by his appearance and wanted to engage him in conversation. I thought maybe he was the woman’s boyfriend and would not be pleased to see us, but if so, he did not let this on. He stayed only briefly, and before he left I wrote down the phone number of the Green House and asked him to call and reassure the people there that Mike and I were safe and well. . . .   As night closed in, the snow continued and it was clear we were going nowhere. I thanked God we had Mike’s evening meds. Our hostess told us to use the cots in her children’s room and she would take the children to sleep with her. In spite of the unusual situation, I think we both slept not badly.

All through that experience I marveled at Mike’s resilience and good humour. He took everything in stride, and his calmness made it possible for me to be calm and to simply live the moment with gratitude. Mike was able to take his 4:00 and 8:00 p.m. pills on time, and I anticipated rising early, praying that we could somehow reach a pharmacy in Penetanguishene and arrange to get his morning medication more or less on time. 

This is an edited extract from Accidental Friends: Stories from my life in community by Beth Porter, herself a member of the L'Arche community at Daybreak since 1981. The book is available now in paperback.