Two New Books Mark Anniversary : East’s Blizzard of 1888 Still Frozen in Memory

The Bellows Falls Times described it best:

“No paths, no streets, no sidewalks, no light, no roads, no guests, no calls, no teams, no hacks, no trains, no moon, no meat, no milk, no paper, no mails, no news, no thing--but snow,” the Vermont newspaper wrote.

At the time, there were 32 inches of snow on the ground--but it was worse than that because the winds had whipped the flakes into drifts that blanketed every house in town, covering everything but the rooftops.

One two-story drift blocked the entrance to the town’s only hotel. To escape, the adventurous burrowed through a narrow tunnel dug by hotel workers.

No thing--but snow.

The Blizzard of 1888 arrived on March 11 as a soft, gentle rain in the last days of winter. No one expected anything more; the forecasts called for clearing, balmier weather from Washington to Boston.

Three days later, the blizzard ended with corpses encased in snowbanks, telegraph and electric wires tangled, stranded commuters sleeping on hotel billiard tables, train schedules tossed to the winds, and myriad tales of heroism, tragedy, hilarity, enterprise and outright miracles.

Came to a Halt

From Maine to the nation’s capital, much of the U.S. population came to a halt. By the time the storm ended, 400 people were dead, 200 in New York City alone.

A hundred years later, the Blizzard of ’88 remains frozen in memory, though its remaining survivors are few. Two new books mark the storm’s centenary--”Blizzard! The Great Storm of ‘88,” by Judd Caplovich, and “The Blizzard of 1888,” by Mary Cable.

These books, along with memoirs and newspaper accounts of the time, depict a world set on its ear by the elements.

Some estimated accumulations: Saratoga Springs, N.Y., 50 inches; Bennington, Vt., 48; Blooming Grove, Pa., 31; Pittsfield, Mass., 36; New Haven, Conn., 45; Dublin, N.H., 42.

Only 21 inches fell on New York City, but that is a deceptive total. In many ways, the nation’s largest city was hardest hit.

“A great white hurricane roared all day through New York yesterday and turned the comfortable city into a wild and bewildering waste of snow and ice. No one living can remember such a storm,” wrote the New York Herald.

A combination of 19th-Century work ethic and fear of firing led thousands to make their way to their jobs. In those days, those who missed work lost pay, and might find their place filled by someone else when they did return.

The result was that thousands took to the streets on that frightening Monday, trudging to jobs or to try to find coal for heat or milk for the baby. For many, it was their last trip.

Most of them had to travel on foot; horse-drawn street cars were abandoned everywhere, elevated trains stalled for hours (one train slid into another on ice-slickened tracks, killing an engineer) and cabbies charged as much as $50 a ride--the equivalent of $600 in 1988--if they could find the way.

“Sa-a-ay Billy! Where in blazes are we?” said one hack to another, as the two cabs stood on Broadway near 13th Street.

“I’m blankety-blanked if I can see. We’re near Union Square anyway,” his friend replied, according to the Herald.

George D. Baremore, a trader in hops, left his home on West 57th Street and set out for his office at the Battery. He walked to the Sixth Avenue el, waited for an hour, and then tried to walk to the Ninth Avenue el.

Never Made It

He never made it. A day later, a police officer saw a hand sticking out of a drift on Seventh Avenue. Baremore’s frozen body was buried there.

The most famous casualty was Roscoe Conkling, political power broker and former U.S. senator from New York. Conkling refused to pay $50 for a cab from the courts to his home on Madison Square.

It took him more than three hours to walk 2 1/2 miles; at one point, he was stuck in a drift for 20 minutes. He collapsed and was carried to his hotel. By the weekend, he had pneumonia and an ear infection. He died April 18.

Those who made it to work found they had little to do. B. Altman’s department store had only one customer all day--an elderly woman who braved snow and 50-m.p.h. winds to buy two spools of thread. At Tony Pastor’s theater, the eight performers outnumbered the audience of four. But the show went on.

Not surprisingly, a fair amount of partying went on. “The smell of malt all along the line was almost enough to knock one down,” one man recalled.

The entrepreneurial spirit thrived. Shovelers, most of them immigrant Italians, demanded and got $10 a day. Ladders were toted to elevated tracks to rescue passengers--the ladder fee reached $2 per person. The hotels filled, and rented every bit of space--pool tables, closets, stairwells.

Food and coal were in short supply. Provisions, where they could be found, had to be tossed up through second-story windows. And where provisions could not be found, New Yorkers made do.

“Hundreds of sparrows took refuge under kitchen porches and were frozen or easily caught and cooked for food,” one writer reported.

Country folks adapted better; most were amply provisioned, more accustomed to dealing with the elements, less dependent on modern conveniences. This is not to say that there were no deaths: In Milltown, N.J., a man went to get a doctor for his sick wife, lost his way and froze to death. By the time someone reached the house, the wife had died.

Body in the Snow

In Danbury, Conn., a man stumbled on what appeared to be a body in the snow. He ran screaming to a saloon; the patrons emerged and began digging.

When they finished, they found they had rescued a wooden cigar-store Indian that had blown over in the storm.

In Lewes, Del., 25 ships were hurled across the harbor by gale-force winds. Two vessels sank.

Hundreds of trains were bogged down in the snow. Food and drink was procured from local people where possible. When a train was mired near Brookfield, Conn., the stationmaster managed to scrounge enough food so that each passenger got an egg and two slices of bread.

To pass the hours, some played cards, and others knitted. Theatrical troupes, stuck en route to engagements, performed in the aisles; one was touring with a play titled “Lost in the Snow.”

Signs placed in snowbanks in New York: “The flowers that bloom in the snow, ha ha” (with a bunch of flowers). “This way to Canada.” “This bliz knocks biz.”

In the end, 400 people and uncounted numbers of horses and other livestock died in the blizzard, and damages were estimated at $20 million. A thaw that arrived a few days later brought flooding.

The blizzard convinced New York and other cities to build subways. It also pushed utility wires in New York underground, where they remain.

As the years passed, some survivors of the blizzard looked back on those days with fondness. Rose B. Capone of Long Island City, born during the snowfall, was proud of her middle name: Blizzard.