The Children’s Blizzard

Walter Allen kicked off his quilt and scampered out of bed. It was January 12, 1888, in Groton, a town on the Northern Plains. After two weeks 
of brutally cold weather, the morning had dawned bright and warm. It was almost like spring had arrived.

Walter, 8, quickly got dressed, wolfed down a bowl of steaming porridge, kissed his mother goodbye, and hurried off to his schoolhouse, which was half a mile from his home on Main Street.

All across the Northern Plains that morning, thousands of children set out for school just as Walter did, wearing only their school clothes—trousers and woolen shirts for the boys, calico dresses and petticoats for the girls. Most had been cooped up at home during the past two weeks
 of dangerous cold, and it was a relief to be in the fresh air, free from their cramped and smoky houses, from musty wool coats and scratchy scarves and heavy overshoes.

Some of the children at Walter’s school lingered outside on the rickety steps, marveling at the unusual color of the sky—golden behind a veil of clouds. “Like a fairy tale,” one of them said.

But not everyone was smiling at the surprisingly warm weather and glowing sky. Some knew better than to trust the January weather on the Northern Plains, the part of America that today includes North and South Dakota, Nebraska, Iowa, and parts of Minnesota. Wasn’t there something spooky about the color of the sky? Wasn’t it odd that the temperature had jumped 40 degrees overnight?

Dakota farmer John Buchmillar thought so. He told his 12-year-old daughter, Josephine, that she’d be staying put that day. “There’s something in the air,” he told her with a worried glance toward the heavens.

Walter Allen kicked off his quilt and jumped out of bed. It was January 12, 1888, in Groton, a town on the Northern Plains. After two weeks
 of brutally cold weather, the morning had dawned bright and warm. It felt almost like spring.

Walter, 8, quickly got dressed. He ate breakfast and kissed his mother goodbye. Then he headed for his schoolhouse, half a mile from his home on Main Street.

All across the Northern Plains that morning, thousands of kids set out for school just as Walter did, wearing only their school clothes. Boys wore trousers and woolen shirts. Girls wore calico dresses and petticoats. Most of the kids had been cooped up at home for the past two weeks of dangerous cold. They were happy to be in the fresh air, free from musty wool coats and scratchy scarves and heavy overshoes.

Some of the kids at Walter’s school lingered outside on the steps, looking at the unusual color of the sky—golden behind a veil of clouds. “Like a fairy tale,” one of them said.

But not everyone was smiling at the warm weather and glowing sky. Some knew better than to trust the January weather on the Northern Plains, the part of America that today includes North and South Dakota, Nebraska, Iowa, and parts of Minnesota. Wasn’t there something spooky about the color of the sky? Wasn’t it odd that the temperature had jumped 40 degrees overnight?

Dakota farmer John Buchmillar thought so. He told his 12-year-old daughter, Josephine, that she’d be staying put that day. “There’s something in the air,” he said. He looked worried.

There was indeed something in the air, and it was speeding directly toward America’s huge, grassy midsection. High in the sky, three separate weather systems were on a collision course. The warm air that had delighted the schoolchildren that morning would soon meet a mass of freezing Arctic air barreling straight down from Canada. Most dangerous of all was the low-pressure system—a mass of unstable air—churning its way across the continent from the northwest. The meeting of these three systems would soon create a monstrous blizzard, an icy hurricane of unimaginable violence. Temperatures would plummet rapidly—in some places, to as cold as 40 degrees below zero with wind chill.

But Walter and his classmates had no idea what was brewing above them in the vast prairie sky. Not even the weather experts knew what was coming. The science of weather forecasting was in its infancy, and there was no technology that could accurately predict a storm’s strength or path. Weather forecasters did the best they could, but they were often wrong. The day before, the region’s official weather forecast had appeared in newspapers throughout the Northern Plains. For Minnesota and Dakota: Slightly warmer, fair weather, light to fresh variable winds. 

There was indeed something in the air, and it was speeding toward America’s huge, grassy midsection. High in the sky, three separate weather systems were about to collide. The warm air that had delighted the kids that morning would soon meet a mass of freezing Arctic air coming down from Canada. Most dangerous of all was the low-pressure system—a mass of unstable air—moving across the continent from the northwest. The meeting of these three systems would soon create a monstrous blizzard, an icy and violent hurricane. Temperatures would drop rapidly—in some places, to as cold as 40 degrees below zero with wind chill.

But Walter and his classmates had no idea what was brewing above them. Not even the weather experts knew what was coming. The science of weather forecasting was new, and there was no technology that could accurately predict a storm’s strength or path. Weather forecasters did the best they could, but they were often wrong. The day before, the region’s official weather forecast had appeared in newspapers throughout the Northern Plains. For Minnesota and Dakota: Slightly warmer, fair weather, light to fresh variable winds.

All morning, Walter sat at his desk working on his arithmetic problems as his teacher walked around the room offering help, her skirts swishing and boots clicking against the worn wooden floorboards. After finishing each problem set, Walter took a tiny perfume bottle from his desk, removed the jewel-like lid, and poured a drop of water onto his writing slate. The bottle was Walter’s prized possession. All the children kept small bottles of water and rags at their desks to wipe their slates clean—but only Walter had a bottle that looked like it had come from a pirate’s treasure chest.

Walter was just finishing his problems when a roaring sound rumbled through the school. The walls began to shake, the classroom door rattled, and some of the younger children began to cry. Walter rushed to the window and was stunned by what he saw. It was dark—“like day had turned to night,” one farmer later wrote in his journal—and from out of nowhere, sheets of snow and ice had begun to pound the school.

Fortunately, the men of the tight-knit town of Groton mobilized quickly when the storm hit. As the teachers gathered the children in front of the school, they were relieved to discover five enormous horse-drawn sleds already waiting, ready to ferry everyone home. The teachers kept careful track of each child who climbed onto a sled, checking off names in their attendance books. When every child was accounted for, the sleds began to move.

Walter’s sled was creeping slowly away from the school when suddenly he remembered his perfume bottle. He knew the delicate glass would never survive in such cold temperatures. The water inside would freeze and the bottle would shatter. Nobody saw Walter as he jumped down from the sled and hurried back into the school. It took him just a few seconds to grab his bottle, stuff it in his pocket, and rush back outside.

But in those short moments, the sleds vanished—swallowed by the darkness. Walter tried to run into the street, but the blasting wind knocked him over. He stood up, took two steps, and again the wind swatted him down. Up and down, up and down.

Meanwhile, snow and ice swarmed around his body like attacking bees. Snow blew up his nose, into his eyes, down his shirt. Ice encrusted his face; his eyes were soon sealed shut by his frozen tears. Walter managed to stand one final time, desperate now. But he was no match for the ferocity of the storm. Once more, the wind slammed Walter down. This time, he could not stand back up.

He curled himself into a ball, too exhausted to move. He realized that nobody knew he wasn’t on one of the sleds, huddled among his classmates, heading for home. It was as though Walter had tumbled off the Earth and disappeared.

All morning, Walter sat at his desk working on math problems. After finishing each problem set, he took a tiny perfume bottle from his desk, removed the jewel-like lid, and poured a drop of water onto his writing slate. The bottle was Walter’s prized possession. All the kids kept small bottles of water and rags at their desks to wipe their slates clean, but only Walter had a bottle that looked like it had come from a pirate’s treasure chest.

Walter was just finishing his problems when a roaring sound rumbled through the school. The walls shook, and the classroom door rattled. Some of the younger kids began to cry. Walter rushed to the window. He was stunned by what he saw. It was dark—“like day had turned to night,” one farmer later wrote in his journal—and sheets of snow and ice had begun to pound the school.

Luckily, the men of the tight-knit town of Groton mobilized quickly when the storm hit. As the teachers gathered the kids in front of the school, they saw five horse-drawn sleds already waiting to ferry everyone home. The teachers kept careful track of each child who climbed onto a sled, checking off names in their attendance books. When every child was accounted for, the sleds began to move.

Walter’s sled was moving slowly away from the school when he remembered his perfume bottle. He knew the delicate glass would not survive in such cold temperatures. The water inside would freeze and the bottle would shatter. No one saw Walter as he jumped down from the sled and hurried back into the school. It took him just a few seconds to grab his bottle, stuff it in his pocket, and rush back outside.

But in those seconds, the sleds vanished, swallowed by the darkness. Walter tried to run into the street, but the wind knocked him over. He stood up, took two steps, and again the wind knocked him down. Up and down, up and down.

Snow and ice swarmed around his body like attacking bees. Snow blew up his nose, into his eyes, and down his shirt. Ice encrusted his face; his eyes were soon sealed shut by his frozen tears. Walter managed to stand one last time. But he was no match for the storm. Once more, the wind slammed him down. This time, he could not stand back up.

He curled himself into a ball, too tired to move. He realized that no one knew he wasn’t on one of the sleds, heading for home. It was as though Walter had fallen off the Earth and disappeared.

Brutal blizzards were—and still are—a fact of life on America’s Northern Plains. Few places on Earth have a more extreme climate, with frigid winters and boiling summers and spring thunderstorms that unleash tornadoes and hail.

But the weather was just one of many hardships that early settlers like Walter’s family faced. Most people came west to build farms, lured by cheap or free land and exaggerated stories of magical soil where anything could grow. They traveled from Europe and from the eastern U.S., enduring months-long journeys for the chance to start new lives. Few were prepared for the weather, for the endless work, for the loneliness of life on a tiny farm, miles from another living soul.

To make matters worse, many settlers were poor and arrived on the treeless plains without enough money to buy wood to build a proper house. Instead they peeled up sheets of grassy dirt—known as sod—from the ground. They chopped the sod into bricks and stacked them up to build small houses.

“Soddies” were typically one-room houses with dirt floors and roofs made of bundles of grass or wooden poles topped with dried mud. These tiny dwellings were dark and smelly. A hard rain could turn the dirt floor to mud. One never knew when a snake might pop out of a dirt wall.

Compared with most settlers, Walter lived in luxury. His father, W.C., was a successful lawyer and business owner. The family lived in a four-room wooden house with a proper roof, glass windows, and even a piano.

Walter was fortunate to have escaped many hardships of pioneer life.

But he could not escape the blizzard.

Brutal blizzards were, and still are, a fact of life on America’s Northern Plains. Few places on Earth have a more extreme climate. There are frigid winters and boiling summers. Spring thunderstorms unleash tornadoes and hail.

But the weather was just one of many hardships that early settlers like Walter’s family faced. Most people came west to build farms, lured by cheap or free land and exaggerated stories of magical soil where anything could grow. They traveled from Europe and from the eastern U.S., enduring months-long journeys for the chance to start new lives. Few were prepared for the weather, the endless work, or the loneliness of life on a tiny farm, miles from another living soul.

To make matters worse, many settlers arrived on the treeless plains without enough money to buy wood to build a proper house. Instead they peeled up sheets of grassy dirt—known as sod—from the ground. They cut the sod into bricks and stacked them up to build small houses.

“Soddies” were typically one-room houses with dirt floors and roofs made of bundles of grass or wooden poles topped with dried mud. These houses were dark and smelly. A hard rain could turn the dirt floor to mud. One never knew when a snake might pop out of a dirt wall.

Compared with most settlers, Walter lived in luxury. His father, W.C., was a successful lawyer and business owner. The family lived in a four-room wooden house with a proper roof, glass windows, and even a piano.

Walter was lucky to have escaped many hardships of pioneer life.

But he could not escape the blizzard.

When Walter’s father, W.C., discovered that his youngest son hadn’t come home, he and four neighbors headed back to the school, risking their lives. At the last moment, they allowed Walter’s 18-year-old brother, Will, to join them. Will had always watched over his little brother, and he refused to stay behind.

The search party made it to the school, but Walter was nowhere to be found. W.C. became so distraught that his neighbors had to carry him back to the sled. Somehow in the chaos and confusion, they left without Will.

Now both Allen boys were lost in the storm.

Although Will saw the sleds pulling away, he remained focused on his search. He got down on his hands and knees and crawled along the frozen ground, feeling his way inch by inch. He could not see or hear, and the wind made it difficult to breathe. But he kept searching.

And then, he bumped into a small heap covered with snow.

It was Walter. He was unconscious—but breathing.

Even decades later, Will could not explain how he managed to carry his brother through the storm, or how he managed to find his way home in the blinding snow. It was as though the storm’s fury had entered Will’s veins, giving him the strength to walk against the wind, to rise up when he fell, to hold his little brother tight in his arms.

They arrived home to the jubilation of their parents. For the next few hours, Walter drifted in and out of consciousness as his family hovered over him, warming him slowly, quieting his shivers. At first, his body was so numb that he didn’t feel the tiny cuts on his leg from the shards of glass sticking out of his pocket. It wasn’t until later that night that Walter realized that his beloved perfume bottle had shattered.

Of course, by then it didn’t matter. Walter understood that something infinitely more precious had survived the blizzard, something that could never be replaced: Walter himself. 

When Walter’s father, W.C., learned that his youngest son hadn’t come home, he and four neighbors headed back to the school, risking their lives. At the last moment, they allowed Walter’s 18-year-old brother, Will, to join them. Will had always watched over Walter, and he refused to stay behind.

The search party made it to the school, but Walter was nowhere to be found. W.C. was so upset that his neighbors had to carry him back to the sled. Somehow in the confusion, they left without Will.

Now both Allen boys were lost in the storm.

Will saw the sleds leaving, but he stayed focused on his search. He got down on his hands and knees and crawled along the frozen ground, feeling his way inch by inch. He could not see or hear, and the wind made it hard to breathe. But he kept searching.

And then, he bumped into a small heap covered with snow.

It was Walter. He was unconscious but breathing.

Even decades later, Will could not explain how he managed to carry his brother through the storm, or how he found his way home. It was as if the storm’s fury had entered Will’s veins, giving him the strength to walk against the wind with his brother in his arms.

They arrived home to the jubilation of their parents. For the next few hours, Walter drifted in and out of consciousness. At first, his body was so numb that he didn’t feel the tiny cuts on his leg from the shards of glass sticking out of his pocket. It wasn't until later that night that he realized that his beloved perfume bottle had shattered.

Of course, by then it didn’t matter. Walter understood that something far more precious had survived the blizzard, something that could never be replaced: Walter himself.

This article was originally published in the February 2019 issue.

This article was originally published in the February 2019 issue.