Do you have a snowstorm story that you love to share with others?  With a nor’easter now blasting the northeastern United States with snow, now seems like a good time for us to compare experiences. Mine came on a car trip, southbound from Philadelphia to Baltimore.

Rather, to Parkville, then a residential Baltimore suburb about seven miles northeast of my home, and this requires some explaining. My girlfriend at the time lived with her parents in Parkville.

We had met at a Baltimore television station where I held an after-school part-time clerical job. Lucy, not her real name, was a cute, vivacious entertainer who played guitar, cracked jokes and belted out country songs. She was petite, with curly black hair, and a smile that lights up a room.

Our teenage romance blossomed, and we started going steady.

When Lucy entered the local TV station’s competition among youthful entertainers, she won first place, which advanced her to a national competition on a Philadelphia-based program presided over by popular band leader Paul Whiteman. She invited me to accompany her there, a train ride of about 90 miles north from Baltimore. She easily won the preliminary round, advancing her to the finals a week later.

This time her parents drove to Philly in the family Buick, inviting me to ride along with Lucy for the big event. This was in the 1950s, and television programs weren’t recorded but were presented live, which meant a long day of rehearsals.

Lucy won the national competition. With congratulations ringing in our ears, Lucy, her mom and dad, and I bundled into their family sedan and with her father at the wheel, headed south toward Baltimore as flurries began lightly to land on the windshield.

Before long, we were driving through deeper stuff as a more intense storm slowed our progress. Lucy’s dad stopped somewhere in Delaware where he’d found a place that sold tire chains and would mount them for us. We plowed ahead, much slower, barely able to see as the wipers slashed away. Lucy’s father leaning forward, gripping the wheel.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, we slid to a stop in front of Lucy’s family home in Parkville. Her parents wished me good night and good luck getting home. No way was her dad going to drive me to my home across town, seven miles away, after midnight.

I trudged about a mile in deep snow to a taxicab stand and begged the lone driver to brave the storm and take me home. We slipped and slid a few times, but we made it. Once home, I had to make the driver wait while I hurried inside to wake my parents and ask them for cab fare.

Lucy and I broke up a short time later. I don’t remember why, but I’m never going to forget that night in that snowstorm. I wonder what ever became of Lucy.