Snow

Today I celebrated my 45^th birthday. If I live 45 more years and never know another life-changing event that will be fine; I’ve had mine and now I’m dedicated to understanding and using the knowledge that comes from that experience.

Today there was a “surprise party” at the office for me and later a few of my close friends took me to dinner at my favorite Chinese restaurant. Now it’s 11 pm and I’m home alone, without TV, without music, with only a few candles and downtown Birmingham shimmering like luminescent jewels scattered on black velvet stretching from the glass front of my townhouse to the dark ridgeline twenty miles north of the city. The lights of the University of Alabama - Birmingham Medical Center, in the center of the vista, are the first attention grabbers. My infrequent visitors seldom get beyond the magic of that aspect of the vista but for me the center of the view and of my world is in the northeastern corner of my “front yard” – it is the Birmingham Airport – which has been my foundation, my heart, for almost a quarter of a century. From my home the airport is only a flashing beacon and the first few hundred feet of lights on the approach to the main runway. Sometimes I stare at those lights for hours until they disappear in the blizzard in my mind; the blizzard that never ends.

It was mid March, 1985, I was 21 years old, and just past my internship at Channel 6, the NBC affiliate in Birmingham. Though I’d only done a few short, taped, human interest stories on my own, I was sure that my big break was just around the corner. I woke early, stumbled to the window, rubbing sleep out of my eyes with one hand as I opened the living room curtain with the other. A gray overcast sky greeted me, a total contradiction to what I had expected after almost two weeks of perfect spring weather.

I slid the patio door of my low-rent apartment open a couple of inches and quickly closed it when a cold blast of air swept through. I couldn’t believe it. When I’d gone to bed, just before midnight, it had been warm, probably 65, maybe even 70, now it felt like January had slipped back into town for a return engagement.

Just then the phone rang. I found it, picked up the receiver and said, “Hello, this is…”

“Jesus Bobby, I know who it is. Have you looked outside yet?”

“Yep, I just did,” then added, to impress Clinton, my boss and the News Director, “What is this, a bad trick or something?”

“It’s a trick alright. The weather bureau has just issued a winter storm warning for the entire southeast.” He paused. I waited. “Bobby, that means snow, a lot of snow.”

I interrupted without intending to, “Snow in March!”

“That’s right, snow in March. That’s a story Bobby, a damn big story. Now hustle yourself in here as quick as you can.” There was a click and Clinton was gone.

I looked at my watch and discovered that it was 6:30, an hour and a half before I was normally expected at the station. Fifteen minutes later I arrived, still chewing a stale piece of toast with crunchy peanut butter spread on it. I looked around the lobby and thought Clinton had called everyone and they had all arrived there before me. The whole building was full of people and all of them seemed to know what they were doing, all except me.

Sue Pendergrass, the station’s long-time receptionist saw me and shouted above the din, “Bobby, come here.”

Pleased to have something to do I made my way to her desk.

“Clinton wants to talk to you now.”

Before I could turn toward his office, she thrust the phone toward me and shouted, “Bobby, he’s on the phone.”

Before I could get the phone to my ear I heard Clinton speaking, “Bobby, find Frank and you two head to the airport, set up in the main lobby and begin interviewing passengers, employees, policemen, cab drivers, and anyone else who will talk to you.”

Not close to being up to speed I managed to say, “Clinton, what am I going to interview them about?”

“Bobby, I told you when we talked before; the airport is going to be closed because of the blizzard.”

“Clinton, this is March, this is Birmingham, this is spring.”

“Bobby, just do it,” there was a click, something I was beginning to get used to, and he was gone.

I found Frank, a veteran cameraman, or in truth, Frank found me, “Come on Kid, I have a van checked out and ready to go. The latest weather forecast says that the snow will hit us in less than thirty minutes.” Two minutes later Frank was piloting the oldest van in the station’s fleet through the streets of Birmingham as I imagined he had driven a jeep through the streets of Saigon fifteen years earlier.

We turned off the interstate onto the street that led to the airport, on cue the snowstorm arrived. I couldn’t believe it, large flakes, drifting almost straight down through the rapidly chilling air. After two dry weeks there was no question of sticking and immediately the ground was covered with a layer of white. The snowfall quickly intensified, forcing Frank to slow the van. Five minutes later he parked in a no parking zone 100’ from the main entrance of the Airport. We grabbed our gear and hustled inside.

The confusion at the station had been nothing compared to the scene we found ourselves part of as soon as we entered the airport. There were long lines of irate customers at every counter. Later we found that five flights had landed in the past twenty minutes and most of the arriving passengers had connecting flights, flights that had just been canceled due to snow.

Frank set up the camera while I surveyed the scene, beyond the obvious confusion, bordering on chaos, I noted that we were the only TV Reporters on the scene and I figured that wouldn’t change anytime soon. That meant an exclusive and for someone who just finished his internship that was important even if was just a routine snow story.

As Frank taped, I interviewed a few people and got the typical responses that stranded passengers always give, and then I called Clinton from a phone in the bank of pay phones on the lobby wall. Before I could give him a full report he interrupted, “Listen Bobby, this is important. I just talked to the airport manager’s secretary, an old friend of mine, and she said something big is happening, something bigger than delays and canceled flights but she didn’t have the details. Her name is Faye. Find her, get the story and give me a call,” click, and he was gone again.

I sprinted back to Frank, who was doing something mechanical with the camera. I told him what Clinton had said and he pointed to the stairs, “Stan Croft is the Airport Manager, his office is at the top of the stairs.”

Thirty seconds later I was introducing myself to Faye, “…and Clinton asked me to find you and ask what was going on.” Before Faye could say a word the door behind her opened and a short, balding man, with a pot belly, intense blue eyes, and an unlit cigar that he used like a pointer clutched in his right hand, charged into the room, “Faye, who are you talking to? We don’t have time for that. Come in my office right now!” Then his eyes caught Frank and his whole demeanor changed, he slowed down, his voice moved to lower level and emerged so transformed at first I thought someone else was speaking, “Frank, Frank, damn it’s good to see you.” In four steps he closed the gap between himself and my cameraman. They embraced while Faye and I stared.

Stan turned Frank loose and held him at arms length. I couldn’t be sure but I thought I saw a tear slide down his face and then he said, “Damn Frank, it has been too long, Buddy.” He pointed at me and said, “Who is your friend.”

“Bobby is a new reporter. Clinton asked us to come out here and interview passengers and anyone else who would talk to us.”

Stan digested Frank’s words for a moment and made up his mind, “Come on in my office, you too Faye,” as an afterthought he said, “and you too, Bobby.”

Frank’s office had a panoramic view of the airport, and what I suspected was the main runway, suspected because I couldn’t see more than a few feet beyond the window sill, thanks to the snow. “Drag up chairs and I’ll tell you what’s going on, as much as I know anyway.”

It was only later, much later; that I realized that at that moment I shifted from reporting a story to playing a part in a story. Stan said, “This storm has closed every major airport in the southeast. It was totally unexpected and even if we had expected it none of us are equipped to deal with a storm of this magnitude. There is nothing we can do except what we have already done; shut down.”

He paused, looked toward the window and finally said, in the softest voice I’d heard him use yet, “However, there are two small planes out there right now, and they’re headed for that runway that we can’t even see from here. They are carrying two children, brothers, one five the other six, one on each plane. A little over an hour ago they were involved in an auto accident near Fort Payne. The local hospital stabilized them, called UAB and made arrangements for ambulances to meet them here, put them on the planes, and sent them on their way. No one in Fort Payne or at UAB knew about the storm. When they get here they won’t be able to land and all of the airports within their fuel range will be closed.”

He paused again and there wasn’t a sound in the room. Finally he said, “One plane is being flown by a retired Army pilot who owns a flying service in Fort Payne, the other is being flown by one of his students, a Vietnam Vet with less than 500 hours flying time. Frank, I owe you a lot, more than I will ever be able to repay, but one thing I can give you is this story… and hope it has a happy ending.”

Stan set us up in a private VIP waiting room with a view of the runway, at least we would have had a view of the runway if we could have seen through the wall of snow that had captured the airport.

The room had a cable connection that allowed us direct hook-up with the studio and three telephones. Before he left us Stan said, “I’ll put the Tower on the intercom speakers in the room so you can hear the communication between the planes and the airport.” He turned to leave, stopped, and added, “If you’re into prayer, this would be a good time for it.”

As soon as he was gone I turned to Frank, “What was that all about, Frank? The connection between you and Stan.”

Frank’s eyes drifted back to a time I knew I couldn’t understand and hoped I’d never experience and he said, “A long time ago Stan was a reporter for the Stars and Stripes assigned to cover Vietnam. That’s where we met. I was his cameraman. He thinks I saved his life, a few times, actually, and no matter what I say I can’t convince him otherwise.”

Before he could say anything else we heard the lead pilot’s first radio transmission to the tower, “Birmingham Control, this is Cessna 423 Sierra and Cessna 561 Whiskey, we are twenty miles east for landing.” I thought the voice belonged to the retired Army pilot who owned the Fort Payne flying service though I had no way to confirm it.

“Cessna 423 Sierra, Birmingham Control, we are closed to all traffic due to weather, I repeat, we are closed to all traffic.”

The pilot’s voice took on a different quality than I’d heard in his previous transmission, it became a ‘no nonsense, matter-of-fact, this-is-how-it-is-going-to-be, voice of authority, “Birmingham, we understand your situation, and we are going to land. We don’t have another option… our passengers don’t have another option.”

There was a long pause before the controller responded, “Captain, continue on your present course and heading, begin descending to 2,000’… and Captain, we will do the very best we can for you but unless there is a break in this you don’t have a chance of landing at Birmingham today.”

I grabbed a phone. In minutes I had Clinton on the line. I briefed him and waited for instructions. I could almost hear him thinking, “You say that you can get a live hook-up to the studio.”

“Yes.”

“OK, tell Frank to hook you up….” He paused, then said, “Bobby, I’m going to put you on the air, live.”

It was a second or two before I could talk, “Clinton, are you sure?” I finally managed to say.

He laughed, “Bobby, it is one of the few things that I am sure of today.”

Suspecting what Clinton was saying, Frank had already starting making the connection. He had us wired into the studio in record time. When the next radio call came from the lead plane the News Anchor had already introduced me to the TV audience and I was standing in front of the window with Frank filming me and the snow as I talked, live, on the air for the first time.”

When I heard the pilot’s voice I said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, the pilot of the lead plane has just contacted the tower. Listen…”

“Birmingham Control, 423 Sierra, 8 miles from touch down holding at 2,000’.”

“423 Sierra, visibility is still zero, repeat, zero visibility… Captain, we can’t see the runway from the tower, we can get you close but close isn’t going to be good enough today.”

“Control, we understand, but we have to keep coming.”

“423 Sierra, maintain your present heading and descend to 1,000’ …. And Captain, be careful.”

The pilot acknowledged the last remark with a click of his mike key.

I went back to recapping the situation for the TV audience unaware that Clinton had advised New York of the local situation and the National News Director had patched me into the entire network. I thought I was speaking to a Birmingham audience but in fact I was speaking to the world, as CNN had picked up the feed from NBC.

Birmingham Control talked the two pilots down to 500’ and got them within a half mile of the airport before the landing attempt was aborted. As the planes climbed and began to circle for another approach could be set up, the controller took another shot at talking them out of landing at Birmingham, “Gentlemen, I understand the nature of your mission but I’ve got to tell you, the weather bureau reports that the chance of a break in visibility is zero. Now, we can do this as long as you can but the longer you circle the airport the more you are reducing your chances of being able to land anywhere.”

The only sound in the room was a faint hiss from the speakers for what seemed to be minutes and was, in fact, probably thirty seconds, and then a new voice filled the room, a softer, more confident voice, a voice that sounded as though it knew something, a secret that no one else knew and somehow I knew it was the Vietnam Vet who was flying the second plane. “Birmingham Control, this is Cessna 561, we are going to land because there will be a break in the snow, I know there will be one. We appreciate your patience with us and I guarantee you, this time we will get a break in the storm and we will land.”

I knew what the Controller was feeling because I felt it too. How could anyone know there would be a break in this storm, in this solid layer of white that seem to go up and out forever. Finally the Controller said, “Captain, we’re going to bring you around again,” he paused then added, “What else can we do for you, Sir.”

Without hesitation the second pilot said, “Birmingham Control, you, and everyone in the tower can know with us that when we turn final this time the snow will stop falling and we’ll be able to land. If all of you know that and we know it, well that’s just the way it will be.”

The familiar hiss filled the room and then I heard a different voice from the tower say, “We will do that Captain, we will do that, I guarantee it.”

Somehow I found words to describe for the TV audience what was happening, what I was experiencing, and what I felt that the controllers in the tower and the two pilots were experiencing. Five minutes later, the planes were five miles out, lined up for a landing and descending though zero visibility at 800’ when I heard myself say, “Folks, I’m going to stop talking now so you can hear the conversation between the tower and the pilots. I think it would be a good idea if we all knew, along with the pilots and the controllers, that the snow is going to stop falling until the planes have landed.”

I shut up and immediately heard, “Birmingham, Cessna 561, we’re a mile out, descending through 400’,” there was a long pause and then I heard the pilot say, “Birmingham, we have the runway in sight.”

I spun around and looked out the window as two small planes flew out of a solid bank of snow. That’s right; the snow had stopped at the airport and the runway, under a clear blue sky was bathed in sunlight, but just beyond the outer marker a wall of white encircled the entire facility.

The lead Controller recovered quickly and spoke as though what was happening was a routine occurrence, “Cessna’s 423 and 561 you are cleared to land on runway 91West.”

Moments later the two planes touched down, turned off the main runway at the first taxiway, where they were met by a ground control truck which led them to the private plane terminal and two waiting ambulances. I turned back to the camera and began wrapping up the story, then I noticed Frank, camera aimed toward me and frantically pointing toward the window at my back. Still talking, I turned my back to the camera, and saw that the snow was falling as though it had never stopped. I stuttered a bit then managed to finish my report; “And once again, it is snowing at the Birmingham Airport, just as it has been all day, except for the past two minutes. This is Bobby Edwards reporting live for Channel 6.”

Over the next two weeks I received, by actual count, over ten thousand letters from people who had watched the broadcast. Probably half of them said almost the same thing; it went like this, “I was watching your telecast from the Birmingham Airport with my son or my daughter and at the moment that the pilot said, ‘Birmingham Control, we have the runway in sight,’ he or she turned to me and said, “I knew the snow would stop, I knew it.”

I’m a quick study. I do not need or desire another experience to show me how things work – I got it that night, 24 years ago.

Bobby Edwards, Channel 6 News Director, Birmingham, Alabama