Sailing the Salty Streets

(Originally published 11/12/19)

Last year, on November 16, New York City got its first—and what turned out to be its biggest—snowstorm of the season. It was a six-inch wet snow that caught the powers-that-be by surprise. The white stuff was originally forecast to turn to rain before any worrisome accumulation could settle upon Gotham's highways and byways. Thus, the myriad roads were not treated in time to do any good. Forty-five minute commutes turned into five-hour ones. The mayor had scrambled egg on his face and thereafter had his sanitation department “salters” out and about when even the slimmest possibilities of snow existed. Dustings and nothings brought out the heaviest of heavy artillery.

Fast-forward almost a year and the tiniest hint of snow found the “salters” raring and ready to go once more, parading up and down the very same city streets and avenues one, two, and three times. Overkill? Perhaps. But politicians can’t afford to make the same mistakes twice. So, I not only spied my first salt truck, but the first snow flurry of the season as well. But that was the extent of it. I also walked gingerly across the treated roads, concerned that I might slip and fall on the ice melter.

It’s a harbinger of things to come, I suspect—tons and tons of ice melter feverishly tossed on the city thoroughfares, no matter what Mother Nature has in store for us. Followed, of course, by a spring full of potholes. But this is jumping the gun. The previous two winters around here were relatively benign, with no excessive—heart- attack inducing—snowstorms. You know, a fifty-, sixty-, seventy-year-old shoveler’s worst nightmare.

Now, I don’t dream of a white Christmas anymore for a variety of sound reasons. I suppose I can trace the end of that dream officially to 2002. It snowed rather heavily on Christmas Day afternoon that year. The family had assembled at the folks for dinner along with a not-so-special guest named Timmy. He was an old friend of my father, who lived alone, had no family to speak of, and—on top of all that—had recently suffered a stroke. I know that sounds like the kind of guy you would want to have over at Christmas in the true spirit of the season. But you just had to know Timmy to appreciate why no good deed ever goes unpunished. Originally, my dad had invited the man over for a Thanksgiving dinner—when he learned he had no other place to go—several years before. It was intended to be a one-shot friendly gesture, but it backfired big time when an emboldened Timmy invited himself to not only every Thanksgiving thereafter, but every Christmas as well.

Well, on this particular white Christmas, old Tim was apprised of the deteriorating weather situation. In other words, given a huge hint that he better get a move on if he wanted to catch his bus home. While Timmy lived only about a mile away, he wasn’t the steadiest of walkers on a bright sunny day, let alone in several inches of slushy snow and whiteout conditions. Timmy was, nonetheless, pretty dense in getting the message. Finally, when informed that he might have to stay the night, the guy freaked and headed out into the snowstorm like a man on a mission. My father, younger brother, and I assisted him in walking to nearby Broadway and the bus—it looked as if we were steadying a Christmas reveler who had had one too many—but it didn’t appear as any were running. Fortunately, Timmy—who knew lots of locals—entered a neighborhood bar and found a Good Samaritan with a car to weather the storm and get him home safely. Now that's a Christmas story worthy of a TV movie, I think.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)