In the winter of 1993, we experienced a massive blizzard in the northeast, and Newton, New Jersey was a virtual whiteout. Seemed like the snow and wind would never end, and everyone was hiding out in their houses. After about 10 hours of constant snow, we needed beer, so I ventured out alone in the hope that a bar would be open and sell me at least a six-pack.
I dressed heavily in layers, hooded parka, and Army surplus combat boots - I felt like the little brother from “A Christmas Story.” The snow was so high that it came up to the middle of my thighs. I trudged out in search of adventure and beer. I dressed heavily in layers, hooded parka, and Army surplus combat boots. I felt like the little brother from “A Christmas Story.” The snow was so high that it came up to the middle of my thighs. I trudged out in search of adventure and beer.
Normally, a walk into downtown Newton would take 15 minutes. In these conditions, it took me close to 40 minutes. I did not see one living soul on my trip. The walk was silent, except for the light sound of snow hitting the surface of the pristine blanket of white. The wind had stopped, and the traffic lights changed from green to yellow to red without any movement anywhere. I jaywalked with impunity.
No birds, no squirrels, no dogs, no people. The main drag of Newton was desolate at 12 noon on this heavy winter weekday. No lights in the storefronts, no sound from inside the buildings, no nothing but me, leaving solitary tracks in the middle of Spring Street. When I neared the opposite end of the street, I spotted some footsteps leading into Barrister’s Tavern. Could they be open? Yes! The neon signs were beaming out an S.O.S. through the softly falling snow.
When I pulled the door open, I was met with a rush of cheers directed at me from the dozen or so people celebrating in the warmth of the lively tavern. The next thing I heard when the cheering died down was the chorus of R.E.M.’s “Man on the Moon.” What a welcome! “Another survivor,” someone shouted. ”Now, we’ve got a party,” another half-sang. Some others were singing along with the chorus of the song. “Buy that man a shot,” said the big guy playing pool.
So I took my gloves off, kicked the snow off my boots, and shook hands with all of the brave souls who weathered the elements to live it up during the storm. I bellied up to the bar and took my shot while Stipe sang “Here’s a little ghost for the offering.” The warmth of humanity in that bar was palpable, and the music of R.E.M. made it seem other-worldly. I felt like I was in a movie. Little did the small crowd know, but I was a huge fan of the band, and this memory will live on for the rest of my life, as vividly today as the moment I pulled open that tavern door and stepped over the threshold.
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