I’m going to sound like a grandmother now. One of those women who walked to school as a child — ten miles, uphill both ways.

This latest snowstorm has reminded me of the one we had back in ’72. Nineteen-seventy-two, in case you are wondering. It was back when we had weathermen on television instead of meteorologists,  and no one predicted the blizzard. In fact, some of us went to school without coats that day. No one had boots.

Just after lunch, officials decided to dismiss school because it was snowing pretty hard. By the time we loaded the busses, you could no longer see the houses down the street, and we barely made it home before the roads drifted shut.

Out in the country, none of our telephone lines were underground, and the heavy snow snapped them early in the day. We had no way to communicate with anyone outside our snow-bound houses. (And then we tied a rope from the house to the barn… Oh, wait, that is another story.)

Through the afternoon and evening, we all strained to hear the sound of our father’s car chugging up the hill on his way home from work. But, he didn’t come. We did have electricity, so we turned on the television after supper as a distraction. Suddenly, the station began interrupting its nightly programs with announcements like this: “Mrs. Grubbs, your husband called. He is safe and will spend the night with friends in town.”

The first time it happened, I was shocked. This was television. Beverly Hillbillies, Gunsmoke, The Monkees. And now suddenly, Don’t worry. Joe Schmoe is sleeping at the store tonight.

I can’t remember if we actually heard from my dad that way or if our phones came back on sometime in the evening. But I remember those bulletins. That amazing sense of connection in an unsettling time.

I thought of that storm last week when we were snowed in at our snug house on Mercy Street. Every few minutes, I opened my computer, clicked on Facebook, and checked to see how my friends and relatives were passing their snow day. The postings were much less dramatic, much more “having another cup of hot chocolate” than “can’t make it home, I’ll stay with kind strangers.” But the point of connection was exactly the same.

Whether it be heavy snow, dark nights, or tough times, we all want to know one thing. We want to know someone is out there. And listening. Can you hear me now?