Dixieland Freeze (A Christmas Story)

By Jack Random


The storm hit on Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year. The snow turned to rain and the rain turned to ice, covering the sidewalks and roads, collecting on wires, limbs and branches. From behind an open window in the comfort of a warm living room, the beauty was breathtaking.

It sounded like a war zone that first night. The sudden freeze compressed metal, glass and wood, causing transformers to explode like mortars. Electrical wires and water pipes snapped, branches cracked and whole trees lost their grounding.

The initial aesthetic of a winter wonderland was lost in the grim vision of the morning after. The roads were impassable, power was down and panic was gripping the city. The rush to get supplies, food and water was on. Vehicles of every description were abandoned on the roadside, in bogs and ditches, and the usual criminal element was in action, stealing anything that was left unguarded.

That was six weeks ago, before the ice returned to snow and the snow kept falling and falling and falling. I was in the city when the storm hit, consuming my sorrow in a sea of Christmas spirits, toasting my newfound liberty. My divorce was final. I was officially alone – except for the dogs. All I could think about was getting home.

Nashville was ill equipped for snow, no less an ice storm. There were not enough salt trucks, not enough plows, and not enough experience in emergency management. I had to get home while I still could.

Home was in the country ten miles out of town. Looking back, in my little Mercury without chains, it was a borderline miracle I made it. Now, five feet of snow later, I wondered if I made the right choice. In town, at least there was a relief effort and others to share the burden. Then again, I had the dogs to think about.

The outdoor dogs, one resembling a wolf and the other the lone survivor of a litter of three, might have been able to get by but Sadie, a border collie mix with the spirit of a champion, would have been trapped inside. All had suffered some degree of abandonment. It was a common bond and I was determined it would not happen again.

There was no means of communication – no link to the outside world. It was a time for introspection, a time for contemplating the direction of my life, a time to acknowledge failures and rediscover success. It was not a time for delusions or mindless amusement. It was pointless to muse without someone to be amused.

The neighbors were of little value. They stopped by several times in the early going with the latest reports they gleaned from a battery-powered radio: endless theories on global climate change and dire predictions of a new ice age. Scientists were scrambling for explanations to the suddenness of change and its worldwide scope: A tilt in the planet’s axis, a cosmic radiation storm, solar flares, an interaction of industrial pollutants and extraterrestrial elements. As the days wore on, the explanations grew incomprehensible and all but irrelevant. The reports always seemed to end with: We just don’t know.

A back-to-earth couple a little older than me, the neighbors were making plans. In the beginning, it was all about unity and survival in a frozen wilderness but when the chill of reality set in and the prospect of a made-for-TV movie dimmed, they got out while there was still time. They were heading south but beyond that, they had not decided on a destination.

I might have gone with them but I had the dogs to think about and a vision of being stranded somewhere in a sea of snow with no one to hunker down with but them. They were good people, generous and kind enough, but they brought with them a strange mix of Tennessee country and new age communalism. They perceived themselves as some brand of spiritual leaders and I was not of a mind to follow.

In a gesture of goodwill that seemed melodramatic at the time, they left me a .22 rifle, a box of bullets and a couple boxes of canned goods. I was modestly grateful and as the snow continued to fall with each passing day, my sense of gratitude deepened.

The last word I got came from a sheriff on a snowmobile. He said looters had cleaned out all the stores in the city and marauders were beginning to roam the countryside. He asked if I had a gun and left the impression I might have to use it. He told me the law was breaking down, the officers and soldiers disbanding and heading home. When he departed, I had the distinct feeling he would not be back.

A week passed and all was quiet. The sound of a new ice age, it seemed, was silence. It was broken by the crack and thud of falling tree limbs, the howl and yap of prowling dogs abandoned by their caretakers, the whispering wind, the screaming wind and the occasional burst of gunshots.

Every episode of sound was an event that marked the passing of time. In the spaces between, I became aware of how dependent my sense of life was on the constant presence of sound: the hum of electricity, the drone of a refrigerator, the chatter of television, music on a radio, and the measured rhythm of traffic – even on a country road.

I came to realize what silence meant to me – or at least what it had meant before the freeze: Silence was death.

This was a new breed of silence, however, and it required a new definition. How long would it be before I heard the heartbeat of nature, the song of the forest, the rhythmic balance of heaven and earth? How long would it be before I sensed the force of my own being in a world that had always been indifferent? My whole life had been dependent on the perceptions of others – interpersonal relations, data transference, digital transactions, all the artificial creations of the mind, separate and distinct from the world in which I lived.

This was not just an environmental catastrophe. It was an opportunity for self-discovery. It was a chance to find out who we are and why we exist. The meaning of life had long seemed an adolescent exercise, a ritual of aging, a futile pursuit, but now it seemed the only pursuit worthwhile.

It was a world of constant wonder, perpetually transforming itself from one set of rules to another, spawning revelation after revelation, none outliving the moment.

Survival is a powerful instinct. When it comes to the fore, all else subsides. Art and philosophy, defining forces in a civilized world, are confined to idle thought. Time ceases to function on an even continuum. Past and future recede as the moment is dominated by the need for food and shelter.

Dogs were gathering in packs. People were running short of food and letting their dogs fend for themselves. They roamed the countryside, scavenging for scraps in garbage cans and dumps, fighting off rivals to protect territories, hunting for rabbits, squirrels, possums, raccoons and larger prey. The sound of a big kill filled the cold, silent air with horror for miles around.

Gunfire was becoming more frequent. Occasionally, the sound of shots was coupled with the yelp of a dog, telling a tale of the unspeakable and the unimaginable to come. People were now competing with their former companions on the hunt. How long would it be before the companion became the hunted?

I remembered the story of the Donner Party – a tale of desperation and cannibalism – that sent shivers down my spine as a child. I wondered, gazing at my little dog Sadie, if it would come down to that final, dehumanizing act. Better to die, I thought. Better to die and be eaten than to live as a beast. Even a beast will not consume its own kind.

Nearly everyone in the country had dogs and guns. It was not a comforting thought.

Taking stock of my supplies, it was not time to panic. With careful planning, I had enough canned goods to last the winter. Under a spell of paranoia, I buried half under the snow out back – just in case anyone came calling.

It was inevitable. When people ran out of food, they would come with open hands. They would come with guns. They would come with hungry children and grandparents.

What would I do when they came? How could I turn down a neighbor in need? If I welcomed them, how much would they require? How many more would come? How long before there was nothing left?

I had not shot a gun since I was teenager. I shot a jay with a pellet gun and swore I would never shoot at a living thing again. I had kept that promise but now it seemed the world had changed. I could not have envisioned a time when survival might depend on killing.

I began to obsess on the sheriff’s story of marauders. I made a plan. I buried all but a few cans of food. If intruders came, I would head out the back and up the hill to a spot I had cleared with a good view of the house and the road. They would take the few cans of food and leave – or so I hoped. If they didn’t, I would fire a warning shot. If that didn’t work, I would cover the chimney with a wet cloth and smoke them out.

It was my home and a man has a right to defend his home.

It had been snowing now for nine weeks without relief. Most of my time was spent keeping the fire going in the wood-burning stove. I had to maintain a clear path to the woodpile, find and dry a stock of kindling, select books to sacrifice page by page, keep the chute and chimney clear. It was a constant struggle but, without electricity, fire was critical for warmth, cooking and boiling water.

In my free time, I drew up contingency plans. What if the power never came back? What if the storm never broke? What if someone stole my food supply? What if the rescue teams never came?

I was a city boy most of my life. I was not well suited to survival in the wilderness. I could learn but the learning curve under these conditions was cruel. It always came back to escape. I figured my best shot was to find a sled, harness the dogs and head south. Even if we died trying, it would be better than not trying at all.

I could not believe that this frozen horror gripped all of the south. Somewhere the sun still shined, the snow melted, and life returned to something resembling normal.

I was taking my weekly bath, enjoying the liquid warmth while it lasted, when I heard the dogs bark. I knew the difference between barking at deer or other dogs and barking to announce the arrival of humans.

Something about the best-laid plans raced through my mind as I leapt from the tub, pulled on my jeans and raced for the gun, crouching below the window. There was not enough time to dry myself, dress and climb the hill out back.

The barking intensified and a series of images ran through my mind: the dogs circling, bearing their fangs, snapping, a man raising his gun, shooting, and pools of blood in the white snow. My dogs still panting, grasping for air, blood spilling on the snow, dying.

In one motion, I jumped up, flung the door open, knelt, cocked and fired. The dogs scattered and fled as a man threw up his hands and yelled, “Don’t shoot!”

He was an older man with a full, gray beard. Next to him, a woman huddled over two small children in a makeshift sled, their wide eyes peering out of layers of clothing. They were crying and the woman comforted them.

I stared at them in disbelief, lowering my rifle.

“What has gone wrong with my mind?” I thought. Had I come to this: Firing at unarmed people, at children, without even looking? This was supposed to be a time when people pulled together, when the stronger were supposed to protect the weaker, and when the able were supposed to help the needy.

Who was I? What had I become? An irrational and frightened man so bent on protecting his territory that he would fire on a defenseless family.

They stared back at me, puzzled or pleading or both, until the man finally waved and they started moving down the road. I could hear the children’s cries, muffled beneath their blankets, as the snow continued to fall.

“Wait!” I cried.

They stopped and turned toward me, still cautious and mystified, uncertain of the man who had fired at them only moments before.

“I’m sorry!” I yelled. “Please, come on in!”

The dogs came back yapping and I called them inside, putting them in the study until they calmed down. I welcomed the visitors and excused myself to get dried and dressed. When I emerged, they were huddled around the woodstove, warm and comfortable.

“You gave us quite a fright,” said the man.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Well,” said the woman, “I reckon we’ve all been out of sorts lately.”

These were good country folk, strong, hard working and grim visaged, down to earth stock, unlikely to break even under the pressure of a Dixieland freeze.

They sat on the sofa of the living room of my little house, gathering the children in their arms. It was a space that was comfortable for a man and his dogs but was instantly cramped with the addition of visitors.

I felt the sting of second thoughts. This was my chance at salvation but I felt a knot in my gut. The sad truth was I couldn’t stand to be with these people for more than a short evening in the real world – or rather, the old world, the world before the storm.

I listened to their story and it broke my heart to think that it was the story of thousands just like them. They ran out of food. He ran out of bullets for his rifle and shot for his shotgun. They ran out of dry wood, candles and kerosene for their lantern. Then the chimney caught fire, burning furniture, and the roof caved in.

“One dern thing after another,” he said, shaking his head in sorrow.

“The house next door is empty,” I offered.

“Yes, sir,” he replied. “It’s all cleaned out. Ransacked. Windows and furniture all broke and scattered. We was up there before we come here. Surprised you didn’t hear nothing.”

Maybe I had. It was hard to tell. I heard a million sounds during the night, some real and some imagined.

“The children’s hungry, mister,” said the woman. “They’s half froze.”

She bowed her head, as if she asked too much, and reached for the hands of the children, a boy of five or six and his younger sister.

“They’s our grandchildren,” said the man. “They was visitin’ when it all turned bad.”

For the first time in so long I could hardly remember, I began to see things from the eyes of another and it sobered me. I wondered what I would do in this man’s position. I was worried about my dogs. He was responsible for his grandchildren.

It occurred to me that my rifle was in the far corner of the room. The man and his family were between the gun and me.

I asked them to wait while I went outside to get food, half expecting the rifle to be pointed at me when I returned. It was not. I handed over six cans of soup and vegetables and the woman went to work in the kitchen.

I explained that there was probably enough food to last a few weeks if we were careful. I told them I had a box of bullets for the rifle and enough wood to last out the winter. I let the dogs in and introduced them to the folks they had terrorized not a half hour before, explaining that they were in my care.

“I understand,” said the man. “We had to let ours run,” he said with genuine sorrow.

Just the same, I knew it would become an issue if it ever came down to the children or the dogs. It was a bridge we would cross when we came to it.

They introduced themselves as the Coopers. The man was Perry, his wife Lily and the children were Bobby and Tess. Lily emptied the cans into a large pot, which she placed on the woodstove to warm. Perry spoke of the latest news from the outside world. He had linked a shortwave radio to a car battery and tuned to an emergency broadcast out of Atlanta. The news was all bad.

“Remain calm,” he related. “The storm will break. It’ll be over soon. But it ain’t over. Ain’t never going to be over. The Lord has come down upon the children of earth with a wrath of vengeance. Judgment day is upon us.”

“Now, now, papa,” said Lily, stirring the soup.

She passed out bowls and spoons and the Coopers ate in silence, except for the sound of smacking lips.

When they cleaned out their bowls, I asked how far south the storm went. Perry hung his head, took a deep breath, and left little room for hope.

“Snow in Macon, Birmingham, Montgomery. You got to get pert near the Gulf shore before it clears. But the roads blocked. They’s no way out, mister. No way, no how.”

“Well, now, papa,” Lily replied in a soothing voice that comforted the children, “thanks to this young man, we got us a roof over our heads and a belly full of warm food. Don’t sound like the wrath to me. Sounds like a blessing. Praise Jesus.”

“Praise Jesus,” the others echoed.

She smiled and the warmth of her smile was passed from person to person until it seemed even the dogs were smiling. I’m not much for the Jesus crowd but I decided then and there I would not mind spending my last days on earth, if it came to that, with these gentle, kind-hearted people.

When night descended, I insisted that Perry and Lily take the bed and they reluctantly agreed. I took the couch and the children laid out in sleeping bags on the floor with the dogs. It was cozy and we all slept soundly in the silent night. No dogs barking, no gunshots, no traffic, helicopters or airplanes, no electrical drone – only the soft, smoldering fire of the woodstove and dreams of faraway places where the sun still shined.

In the morning, I awakened to the sound of the children playing with the dogs. I sensed something was different – even beyond the presence of visitors. I opened my eyes and blinked instinctively to shield myself from the bright light of the sun streaking through the window.

Bright, unfiltered sunshine for the first time in all these many weeks of snow, ice and bitter cold. I looked outside and smiled from head to toe. It was not snowing. In fact, the snow was visibly melting.

I was about to wake the Coopers when the lights, the refrigerator, the television and radio, everything came on at once.

We gathered in the living room and watched cheerful news people announce in perpetual cycles that the worst was over. The storm had lifted. Power was being restored.

“God bless,” said Lily.

“God bless,” said the children.

The nightmare of endless winter, of relentless white skies and fluttering snowflakes, was finally losing its icy grip and we were among the fortunate, the chosen, the blessed.

We survived.


Jazz. 12.22.06.

Copyright Ray Miller 2006