New Yorkers, who disregard nature until it makes more noise than the subway, paid scant attention to the snow that was falling when they awakened one day last week. The day was almost mild (29°), the sky was a conservative shade of grey and the wind breathed as apologetically as a Japanese diplomat. The snowflakes themselves descended in a silent and orderly manner, like letters dropping down a mail chute in a good trust company. It was mid-afternoon before the average citizen began to notice how heavily the smothering snow was falling (it averaged 1.8 inches per hour).
Millions watched from windows as an eerie silence settled over the city. Traffic had stopped. Fifth Avenue was as white and vacant as the frozen Yukon, side streets were choked by thousands of stalled cabs, busses and trucks. Parkways were dotted with white mounds, each of which marked an abandoned automobile. Broadway's enormous electric signs made only a wan glow in the gloom. The Queen Mary, and other liners which had canceled sailings, hugged North River piers with their decks heaped with snow.
"Five Sixes." Suddenly the city began to realize what was happening. It was seeing its heaviest snowfall in Weather Bureau history (76 years). At midnight, 18 hours and 35 minutes after the storm began, the Weather Bureau announced that 25.8 inches had fallen. It was 4.9 inches above the record set in the legendary three-day blizzard of 1888.
By 5 o'clock, central Manhattan subway stations were jammed with pushing, gesticulating throngs. Shoe stores were invaded by snow-powdered hikers in search of rubbers and galoshes. Hotels were besieged; and a backwash of the stranded headed for bars, all-night movies and the apartments of friends. Meanwhile the Fire Department was struck by the horrible thought—it couldn't move its trucks. Its engine-house gongs rang out the "five sixes" (all firemen report for duty). It got radio stations to ask the citizenry kindly not to let their houses burn down.
At Grand Central and Pennsylvania Stations, crowds stormed train gates, until extra police details herded them into order. The thousands who panted through the scrimmage into commuter cars soon regretted their triumph. Trains got stuck as soon as they left the city.
Like Admiral Byrd. The rachitic Long Island Railroad (which carries more commuters than any other U.S. railroad) bogged down most completely. Its electric trains got stalled and so did the steam locomotives sent out to rescue them. Many a passenger spent the night in an unheated coach, smoking cigarettes, dreaming of food and drink.
New Yorkers began to enjoy the storm. Debutante parties went on as scheduled; male guests skied to some, lugging boxes containing debs' frocks and fixings. A New Jersey taxi service began a search for horse-drawn pungs; it got none, but inspired hundreds to go around repeating the curious word aloud. Even the disgruntled commuter, once he got within limping distance of home, enjoyed acting like Admiral Byrd.
The whole city took a critical, personal interest in the massive task of digging which began the next day. Luckily the snow had fallen just before the weekend. But there were 99,000,000 tons of snow to be removed, 10,000 automobiles to be exhumed, and a task force of 20,000 municipal employees marshaled for the job. Estimated expense to the city for snow removal: $6,000,000.