The White Corvair

I was a sophomore at Western Michigan University during the 1966 – 67 college school year.  I lived with my Aunt Emma, Uncle Jack and cousin, Ruth Ellen, in their home at 1111 Boswell Lane.  Ruth Ellen was a senior and served as my unofficial older sister that year.  She was a Sigma Kappa and an officer on the University’s Student Center Board.  The two of us drove to class each morning.  She did the driving and dropped me off while she moved on to student parking.  That’s what older sisters do.

The morning of January 26, 1967, was just a normal Thursday.  I had an eight o’clock class in Sangren Hall.  As I walked in the building it started to snow.  When I walked out an hour later, there were four inches on the ground.

I don’t recall how many classes I had that day, but it was more than one.  I hung out in the student union during my down time.  Sometimes I studied, and sometimes I put my head down on a table in a quiet corner and took a nap.

All the friends I made as a freshman still lived in Eldridge Hall. Eldridge was located in “the valley” and it, too, was experiencing its sophomore year. If I had a lot of time between classes, I’d meet up with the guys in the dorm so we could tell lies to each other.  Most lies involved a discussion of the weekend or a girl that one of the guys was dating.  It was all guy talk.  We seldom spoke about our classes because we were all seeking a different path, and thus, our academic lives differed greatly.

I don’t recall why, but my friend Gary had gone home the weekend before to pick up his car, a white Corvair.  You may recall Gary from former posts as The Fox because, well, he was one.

We couldn’t have cars on campus as there was not enough parking for everyone who might want a space. The spaces were allocated to juniors, seniors and grad students.  There were also commuter lots.  That’s were Ruth Ellen parked our ride. Sometime earlier that week Uncle Jack said we could park Gary’s Corvair in front of the Boswell Lane house until he needed it on the weekend.

The snow continued throughout the day and Ruth Ellen headed home while I stayed on campus for my afternoon classes.  Sometime during the afternoon, I walked to Eldridge to meet up with the guys.  After discussing the increasing snow fall, I decided it was best to stay on campus for the night.  I could stay in the dorm and take in the storm.

I called Aunt Emma and told her of my plan.  Staying meant no one had to drive to rescue me and the accumulation of snow each hour made such a journey more dangerous.  Sometime during the evening a few of the guys ventured out but everyone was on foot. All classes were canceled so we had the night to ourselves.

At some point, we remembered Gary’s white Corvair and decided we needed to get to it as soon as possible.  We feared it would be buried and undetectable to even the most senior snowplow driver.  Boswell Lane was in a nice subdivision that had its streets plowed early most mornings.

I don’t recall what time we headed out to make the two-mile hike from Eldridge Hall in search of the white Corvair, but I do know we walked in waist high snow for much of the trip.  We welcomed the occasional truck treads that cleared part of the path.  Those steps were a bit easier.  It took us a couple hours to make the journey.  The plows weren’t on the main roads yet, so that brought a bit of relief.  We knew we’d make it.  We just had to locate it.

We found what we expected.  The Corvair was undetectable to the naked eye.  It looked like a snow drift.  We grabbed a couple of Uncle Jack’s shovels and dug for hours.  We did more digging a couple of days after the snowplow made its way around the car.  It was a grand adventure locked in my brain.

Kalamazoo saw 30 inches of snowfall in just two days, while cities from Grand Rapids to Flint saw anywhere from 18 to 28 inches: record-breaking numbers.  When asked about the 30 inches of snow that fell in the Kalamazoo area during the blizzard on Jan. 26-27, 1967, a veteran weather tracker once said, “Nothing moved for two days; in the Kalamazoo area and across the state nothing went anywhere.”

I spoke to Gary on the phone yesterday.  I told him that I was writing a story about him and my cousin, Ruth Ellen.  In retrospect, I think it’s a tale about friends.  He’s been mine for a long time.  It’ll be sixty years this fall.  The same is true for Tim and Jim.  We all met up in Eldridge Hall when it opened in 1965.  We’ve been friends ever since.  When we talk, we reminisce.  We don’t tell lies any longer, but we do exaggerate from time to time.

I speak to Gary more often than the other guys.  He and I had been playing golf on a regular basis when Ruth had her accident.  I’ve laid out my feelings several times over the past couple of years, and he’s shared stories about his family as well.  I think it’s kind of therapy for both of us.  We don’t judge.  We just talk.  We can miss weeks, or even months, and just pick up where we left off.  That’s what truly good friends do.

And, yes, yesterday during our conversation, we did talk a bit about girls.  But we never told a lie.