Valley Pulse

Like any newsroom, we had our share of snowfall skeptics Friday afternoon.

But by mid-afternoon I had spoken with a meteorologist, looked at the weather radar, and become convinced that “Snowed In” was an appropriate headline for Saturday’s newspaper. Writing weather stories can be a gamble, but not this time.

I awoke at 8 a.m. On Saturday to the sound of Managing Editor Lee Wolverton’s voice.

“Have you looked outside?“ he asked.

I hadn’t, so I did.

As “on call” reporter for the day, I assumed reporting would be easy by necessity because it would have to be handled exclusively by phone. My Buick Roadmaster wagon slumbered in the driveway, invisible but for its side view mirrors.

But soon I was outside with two rulers—the 18-incher swallowed easily in the snow, and about 5 inches atop that, unofficially. My dog hesitated to follow me into the snow before bounding as best as she could. And then I headed to the office, within walking distance of home.

Following the tire ruts that would make most streets effectively one-way for the day, I clomped to the newsroom, hurdled a drift at the back door and got on the line with public works and area police departments.

Pickup trucks crunched past the office and a few shovels thrown over shoulders bobbed on by. Already two of our photographers were traversing Staunton and Spottswood for photos. With no reinforcements in sight, it would soon be my turn to do due diligence on the streets of Waynesboro.

From our post at the corner of Main and Poplar I headed toward Broad Street, catching more waves and “hellos” from pedestrians in one block than could typically be mustered in a week’s time. Something about the silliness of being outside made every pedestrian, whatever the destination, into a friend.

Then it was west on Broad Street, through a gas station and down some neighborhood streets, never straying too far from the newsroom. My jeans stiffened at the calves but my brown hiking shoes held their ground. I never felt chilly.

When the decision was made to move up print deadline to about 4 p.m., composing the weather story became top priority. The Saturday edition, stalled en route from the Lynchburg printing press, had never made it to town, but we would aim to hit doorsteps on Sunday.

Still, I wanted photos of downtown Waynesboro.

Story completed, and with fellow reporter Chase Purdy on board for the walk, we started east on Main Street. Trucks, different in color and size, were almost uniform in their cargo: snow in the truck bed and the handles of shovels standing tall. At a laundromat, one snowplow pulled another free from an embankment.

A man in overalls waived as he walked. Drivers nodded as they passed.

A pair of tractors worked to clear parking lots and engine and backing up beep noises carried through the snowy air as we crested Main to get a first glimpse at the downtown drag.

A man with a broom swept at his Honda Civic, gave up, and went back inside. Crows perched on branches as a line of geese flew over the city and past the Invista plant. As we shuffled down the hill toward Wayne Avenue, Chase laughed at an older model aqua minivan headed up the hill. Wisely, it stopped at Wayne, turned right, headed for level ground.

Sidewalks were mostly clear in downtown Waynesboro, but street corner snow mounds almost prohibited getting onto them. One downtown business had opened, its owner teaching a youngster the art of using a snow blower.

But with no pita or hummus or hot dogs to be found, we turned for home.

As we approached Fishburne Military Academy, I suggested trying for photos on their grounds. Confronted by a wall of snow blocking Church Street, I reasoned that if we could only clear that, we’d be on our way. A lightly tossed snow clod showed just how deep it was on the other side. We stayed on Main.

It was soon time for Chase to peel off toward his apartment in the Tree Streets. His untouched car sported a smooth rise of snow, and we tossed snowballs into the fluff to see what would happen. I continued homeward, climbing Eleventh Street in a slushy rut, finding without fail that every residential street had been traveled by at least one set of daring wheels.

Back near the office I wondered about the buried seating at Kline’s Dairy Bar and considered the grime of muddy snow at an intersection.

Then I ran along a rut and bounded a bit through wheezing breaths, which to me has always felt like the only way to move through waist-deep snow.