No Weather Bureau to Forecast a Tragedy
By Alan Erwin
Hi, this Alan Erwin from Amarillo. I just finished reading The Children's Blizzard, by David Laskin.
As I write this, Amarillo's extended weather forecast calls for multiple days over 100 degrees.
In the latter half of the 19th century, America was still a young country. The majority of the population was located on the coasts, while the center of the country, between the Mississippi River and the Rocky Mountains, was mostly empty.
This section of the country was a difficult place to settle and live due to the wind and endless prairie.
Weather forecasting was in its infancy. A few widely scattered observation posts telegraphed their readings daily to Washington, D.C. for analysis and distribution as indications.
Growing up, I heard two comments about the weather: “If you don't like it, just wait a while and it will change” or “There's nothing between us and the north pole except for barbed wire.” These two comments became horrifyingly true on January 12&13, 1888.
January 12 dawned as a respite from weeks of bitter cold. Shirt sleeves and walks outdoors were a break in the harsh routine of winter. Schools were open, though many children were kept home. Farmers were tending livestock and working around their property.
By mid-morning the weather was changing. From the north, the storm was rushing in as a wall of white with 60 mph winds. Farther ahead of the front, the sky seemed “inky” or the day felt “not right.”
The storm hit with such force that it was impossible to stand or walk into the howl. The swirling white enveloped the fields, buildings, sky and any known landmarks. Cows died where they stood, mouths and nostrils filled with ice, their heads frozen toward the ground.
The temperature began to drop. When school teachers decided it was time to send the children home, it was already too late. The schools were typically one-room clapboard buildings with no insulation. A small stove provided minimal warmth. The cold, snow and wind made it too dangerous to leave, but staying was no safer.
At many schools, the children were kept inside as long as possible. Eventually, they ran out of fuel to burn.
The teachers and students were forced to decide whether to stay in the freezing building or try to find shelter elsewhere. Neither choice held much promise.
Numerous examples in the book describe people caught outdoors, sometimes within feet of their home, but unable to get there. The children, many of whom lived within sight of their school, eventually bundled up as well as possible and set out. Some reports told of a teacher tying students together with a rope or of older children carrying younger children. Only in a few instances was this a happy ending.
People were lost in the blizzard. Their eyelids, lips, and nostrils froze shut. Faces were scarred and bloody from attempts to free the eyelids and mouth. A very few were able to find some minimal shelter such as a haystack or small flimsy building.
Mr. Laskin describes death by freezing as a chain of very specific physical and mental reactions. It is not the simple lie-down-in-the-snow-and-doze-off we see in movies. It is slow, frightening, and painful. It is death from the extremities finally reaching the brain and the body's core. The brain hallucinates. The blood thickens and can no longer be pumped through the body. Death comes.
This storm resulted in a complete restructuring of the weather observation and forecasting functions of the Army Signal Corps leading to the creation of the National Weather Service...and my reliable daily weather forecast.
This is Alan Erwin for the HPPR, Radio Readers Book Club.
Hi, I'm Alan Erwin. I was born in Amarillo and, despite repeated attempts, still live here. I was born long ago in a time before apps and streaming. I graduated college with an English degree and no plans to teach. I was a working musician for several years before landing in the IT field. I'm married to Andrea Elise, my wonderful wife, who's made everything else in my life make sense. We have two cats that hold us accountable for all we do.
