The frigid, drifted-in Christmas of 1983

Christmas 1983 had promise. It was the year your columnist was 13 and Santa was about to launch him into the digital age.

At the top of his Christmas list was not a Red Ryder BB gun, as Ralphie asked for in “A Christmas Story,” a movie released the same year. Already had one of those. It was instead a Commodore 64 computer with all the trimmings. It would even have a cassette drive to load software onto the computer. Loading time? Sixty-four days, hence the name, I think.

This past week’s frigid blizzardy weather reminded me of that Christmas. It was bitterly cold in late December that year. We had a foot of powdery snow on the ground. And, just a few days from Christmas, came the wind, delivering an icy punch from the arctic. It’s among the coldest Decembers in Iowa history.

Luckily, Santa had been tracking the weather and delivered my computer early, tucking it into my parent’s bedroom closet. Good thinking, Santa.

The worst weather came on Christmas Eve. The wind gusted and howled, and it seemed like all of the snow that had been on the ground was now in the air. It was a dizzying blizzard, with huge drifts and polar wind chills. The high temperature in Mason City that day, about 40 miles from my hometown, was -15 degrees. The low was -24. It stayed below zero for days.

Are you dreaming of a white Christmas? A white-out Christmas is a nightmare.

Normally, the soundtrack of our Christmas would be one of the local radio stations that went wall-to-wall with holiday music, usually starting at noon on Christmas Eve and sponsored by some car dealership or maybe a funeral home.

But in 1983, our soundtrack came courtesy of the spinning turbine ventilators my dad installed on our roof. The high wind kept them swirling constantly as they gave off a ceaseless dull roar. Had I not been in giddy Christmas Eve mode, it may have driven me slowly insane. Whir…whir…whir.

My brother was stuck at his girlfriend’s home in rural northeast Iowa and couldn’t get home. Our cat, Perkins, who my parents had taken in 20 years before as a stray, clearly wasn’t feeling well. She was an adult cat when they found her, so lord knows how old she actually was.

My brother was set to go to the Gator Bowl in Florida to see the Hawks take on the University of Florida, and surely hoping to escape the frozen tundra of Iowa.

Sadly, Perkins had another destination in mind.

I went to find her in the afternoon and discovered she had expended her ninth life under my parents’ bed. Maybe the whir…whir…whir got to her in the end. She was such a great, loyal and noble cat. We once watched her shoot up a bookshelf, knock open a false ceiling section in the basement and grab a mouse scampering above.

So it was a sad moment. But with the weather conditions outside, there was no chance of a swift, proper burial. So my always practical, quick-thinking dad carefully bagged up Perkins and put her in our chest freezer in the laundry room. Arrangements would be announced at a later date.

Most people I tell that story to think it’s either funny or very strange. But it seemed perfectly reasonable on Christmas Eve 1983. Whir…whir...whir.

OK, maybe we went a little insane. But it’s not like we were the Donner party.

On Christmas Day, with my brother having no clothes and other necessities for his Florida trip, my dad drove snow-packed, partially drifted shut highways to bring him his packed luggage. My mother, at that point, had been driven to drink. Can you blame her?

I spent the day waiting for software to load. My entry into the digital age was frustrating from day one. Surely, I thought, as technology improves, all that frustration will melt away. Yep.

Unfortunately for my brother and other Iowa fans, the cold came with them. The Gator Bowl game-time temperature was 34 degrees, and the wind chill hit 18 degrees by game’s end. Iowa lost. Florida lost its citrus crop. A good time was had by all.

The temperature even dipped to 55 degrees in Honolulu, a record at that time. But at least they could bury their deceased pets.

So Christmas 1983 was memorable. It immediately became a benchmark for the future. “Well, it wasn’t a perfect Christmas, but it sure was better than 1983.” Here’s to hoping your Christmas is a happy one, without that whir...whir…whir.

(319) 398-8262; todd.dorman@thegazette.com

Opinion content represents the viewpoint of the author or The Gazette editorial board. You can join the conversation by submitting a letter to the editor or guest column or by suggesting a topic for an editorial to editorial@thegazette.com