The meteorologists called it “Snowmageddon 2024.” For us, it began with a soft hush—the kind of silence that swallows sound whole. By dawn on January 22nd, our rural Minnesota farmhouse had vanished under seven feet of snow, the drifts clawing at second-story windows. The power died first, then the heat, then—for a terrifying stretch—our hope. This is the story of how a $12 board game and a forgotten birthday gift became lifelines in a world turned white.
My husband Mark was mid-shovel when the transformer blew with a blue flash. Our teenage twins, Grace and Cole, traded panicked glances. The thermostat plummeted: 60°F... 50°F... 40°F.
First Wins:
First Fail:
Our “emergency candles” were scented votives from Target. Vanilla-scented hypoxia nearly did us in before the cold.
By Day 3, time dissolved. Grace marked days on frost-etched windows with a Sharpie Oil-Based Pen (4).Cole’s∗∗Rubik’sCube∗∗(8)—a stocking stuffer he’d mocked—became our sundial. Twist by twist, sanity returned.
The Hunger Games (Minnesota Edition):
MacGyver Moment:
Mark jury-rigged a Goal Zero Yeti 500X (599)toourtractorbattery,poweringGrace’snebulizer.“Asthmadoesn’tcareaboutblizzards,”hemuttered,solderingwireswitha∗∗BernzomaticButaneTorch∗∗(45).
On Day 5, a Cabela’s Snowmobile roared up, driven by Mr. Peterson—a Vietnam vet we’d only waved to at mailboxes. His cargo:
The Barter Matrix:
When rescue came, we weren’t ready. The twins clung to Exploding Kittens Card Game (20)—theircrisiscomfortobject.Markrefusedtounclenchfromthe∗∗ColdSteelshovel∗∗(75) that had kept our roof intact.
The Real Damage:
The Unspoken Lesson:
Blizzards steal your breath but gift perspective. We’ll never match FEMA’s perfect checklist. But thanks to a vet’s snowmobile and a teenager’s eyeliner trade, we’ve mastered the art of enough.