To the Editor:

It was a frigid day in January 1943. The clickety-clack of the railroad track had a rhythmic beat. It matched the song I was humming. The countryside sparkled like diamonds in the clear cold sunlight. The storm was over. The temperature hovered near zero.

I was enjoying my ride on the Delaware & Hudson railroad that was taking me from college at Cobleskill to Altamont, nestled in the Hudson Valley below the Helderberg escarpment. The West Berne bus would shuttle me onto the plateau to East Berne. My stop was at Millers’ Farm at the corner of Cole hill Road and Helderberg Trail. Dad would be there in his new 1942 Ford to meet me.

I waited in the train station for the bus to arrive from Albany. It was late. The road over Altamont hill was just being plowed. I took a seat next to the driver. Only a few passengers were on the bus.

As we ascended the hill, I heard conversations of the people who were unable to get home in their cars until the roads were cleared. The wind had swept the pavement clear, but in places, huge drifts covered the highway.

As the bus approached the first drift,  a rotary snow plow was blowing a shower of sow off the highway. /we had to wait until it broke through to the other side of the drift. I was wondering if Dad would be waiting for me at Millers’ Corners.

He was not there. I started walking the five-mile trek on Cole Hill Road to the family farm. It was very cold but the sun was shining and there was no wind.

Walking briskly, I soon got my steam up and moved at a rapid pace across Foxenkill Flats. Here, too, the wind had cleared the road as far as Cole Hill. The road ascended to the top of the hill.

The climb left me a bit winded, but the road was clear here, too. I kept going and reached the halfway mark in my journey.

There it was. A huge snow drift blocked the highway for about a hundred yards.

Snow drifts formed in a storm are usually hard enough to walk on without breaking through. I walked up onto the drift hardly dentling the surface. About half way across, I noticed a black spot in the drift. I stepped on it.

Suddenly my leg was hip deep and level with the snow. I managed to extract it and peered into the hole. I saw the mail sitting on the right side of the front seat of the mailman’s 2039 Chevy. He was not there. He must have abandoned the car at the height of the storm. I make it safely home and enjoyed a friendly visit, but I did not tell anybody about my encounter with the mailman’s car.

I was back on the farm in April 1943. Mother asked me to take a letter to the mailbox before the mailman came. As I reached the mailbox, Fred, the mailman, drove up the road in his new Chevy. We always enjoyed a few words together whenever we met.

This was the right time for m to confess when he said he was looking for the person who pierced the roof of his car. No! This was not the right time.

Some 20 years later I returned home for a visit on a hot summer day. Mother mentioned that Fred had retired. I could not carry this burden any longer.

I drove over to his house to find him sitting on the front porch. I summoned up courage and bravely walked up to him. He was delighted to see me and we began our small talk.

My confession was short and direct. He laughed. I thought he would fall out of his rocking chair.

He said, “I always wondered how long it would take you to confess.”

I said, “How did you find out?”

He replied, “Your mother and my wife are on the same party line.” Mrs. Deitz brought us two glasses of cold lemonade. We continued our visit.

Bob Giebitz

Westerlo