Remembering a Blinding Snowstorm

As you requested in the January 2026 PAW, here’s a snow story.

During the fall of my first year as an undergraduate, I needed new glasses. I went to a small shop on or near Nassau Street and ordered a pair of frameless spectacles that would fit my new image better than the heavy tortoise shells I’d worn in high school (it was, after all, 1969).

The ophthalmologist dilated my eyes for the vision test. Hand on my brow, I made my way back to my suite in 1901 Hall without too much trouble, as the day was cloudy. Once there, I took a nap, because any other activity felt too challenging to my dilated eyes.

Unfortunately, during my nap a heavy snowstorm hit. When I awoke, a walk to Commons through a blinding white campus was out of the question. I only made it to supper by walking with eyes tightly closed, a hand on the shoulder of one of my roommates.