Dear Editor, I'm sending the following piece to you on behalf of Mr. Jim O'Neill, originally from St. John's, who thought it would be of some interest to your readers, as well as to his many old friends from Holy Cross and his former neighbours on Charlton St. Originally published in the school newspaper, it was featured shortly after in the Evening Telegram in December 1966. I have retyped it, unedited. Jim would certainly have preferred to contact you directly himself, but unfortunately he has experienced various health issues over the last few years which have left him seriously incapacitated. He is presently residing in a senior's home near Lewisporte but in spite of everything, he remains in good spirits. You can reach Jim through me here at my g-mail address in Gander or at the following numbers: Regards, Tony Collins The Price of Snow James O'Neil December 1966 (from the Holy Cross Crusader) All schools will be closed today due to the inclement weather. These words were heard on February 8, 1958 at about 8:30 am on the local radio station. A storm raged, and by about noon all business establishments were closed down and all activities were halted. Don't get any ideas about going out in that storm came my mother's threat, as I peered, somewhat starry-eyed through our living room window. By now it was two or three in the afternoon and the snow had almost drifted up over Fred Thistle's front door across the street. The visions of a heroic rescuer raced through my delighted little head. By about six or six thirty in the evening, I heard my old grandfather say in a tome of amazement, This is about one of the heftiest blizzards I've a-seen in port near forty years. I looked again through our living room window, which was by now half mounted by snow. I felt a thrill up and down my spine as the storm was suddenly beginning to subside. Marvellous schemes as to how to get out into this wonderland of play, found their way in and out of my head, At seven fifteen the telephone rang and fortunately I answered it. It was one of my friends with the same problem as me; he was not permitted to go out. He wondered if I was going to attempt an escape. I told him I was, so he decided to do the same. just as I had hung up the phone, Mother took my three younger sisters to bed. This was my chance. I took my long rubbers and coat, along with scarves, mitts and the like, and hid behind the oil burner in the hall. When I was dressed, I took father's short handle shovel and slowly opened the door through which I passed with commendable precision. I breathed a sigh of relief and began to ascend a huge snow bank which had mounded in front of the door. I was, as the saying goes, tickled pink. Butch Heath, my friend on the telephone, along with his kid brother Wayne, appeared over their snowbank. We began to destroy the symmetrical beauty of the snow drifts with our shovels. Before long, there were four of us exploring this pure white world of fantasy. I had a feeling which only a young boy can experience, as I jumped about in the snow. Brian O'Keefe, the latest to join us, had also slipped away without the consent of his parents. This innocent disobedience was to cause both my parents and me a great deal of grief. At about eight thirty we heard, off in the distance, the sound of a plow. We, as youngsters, were for some strange reason, attracted to this big yellow villain. The plow seemed to be coming closer and closer. We went over to the corner of the street and looked up towards LeMarchant Road. Look! exclaimed Butch as he pointed toward the top of the hill. It was the yellow rotating danger light which was luring us toward it, like a magnet would a piece of iron. The four of us somewhat made our way to the top of Springdale Street. The plow was not an ordinary four wheeled one and this added to our excitement. It was a bulldozer which ran on rotating steel treads. As the dozer started down Springdale Street, it made one pathway through the snow and we four got down from the bank and began to follow the plough singing with our shovels on our shoulders, We are in the army now, we're right behind the plough... Every now and then the plough would get stuck and would have to back up a bit for extra power. Each time this happened, we all made it up the bank. As we followed the dozer about halfway down the hill, it was again stuck. It began to back up. We scrambled for the bank. I slipped and fell on my stomach. The dozer was slow, but approaching me. I scrambled and crawled frantically to get up out of the way. But I didn't make it. The huge dozer backed over my two legs and my whole body from the waist down was crushed and numb. The dozer went forward once again via my legs. Butch belted the side of the dozer and the door opened and it stopped. The driver had no knowledge of our presence or of the accident. Within a matter of seconds a man was out in his stocking feet and had me in his arms. He had been watching us from the window all the while. As a matter of fact, he had called out to us a number of times but only in vain. I was conscious the whole while and my father's short handle shovel (which I have to this day) was crushed worst than my legs. I told Butch to take it down to the house and tell mother what had happened. I found out later that I shouldn't have done this because when mother answered the door, Butch, aided by Brian and Wayne, told her that my legs were hanging off and I was bleeding to death. I doubt that those were the choicest words he could have used. At the hospital (St. Clare's) I was operated on and didn't wake up until the next morning. When I opened my eyes the first thing I saw was a bottle of blood annexed with a bottle of intravenous both with tubes one into either arm. I spent close to five months laid up and had to repeat my grad three. All this was because I disobeyed my mother's words of warning. N.B. Jim O'Neil is a student in Grade 11-19, Holy Cross. This short story was completed for Brother Cassidy's English course and forwarded to the Crusader as a contribution in the Christmas issue.   Submitted By: Tony Collins