I was 8 years old, living in Hinsdale, and spent that day with my brother's roommate, watching the traffic in front of my house trying to navigate York Road (well, after shoveling the driveway & sidewalks!). He was in his first year at Purdue, and experiencing his first winter (he was here from Hawaii). My mom got the call from her brother in Deerfield to tell her their father (my grandpa) had just died of a heart attack. Despite the road conditions, the ambulance they'd called arrived quickly, but couldn't do anything for him. The wake was put off until Saturday night (probably so the roads could get cleared enough!) and Sunday, with the funeral on Monday. Even though Ridgewood Cemetery was able to open up the grave, and the roads were plowed enough to get the hearse to the grave, they wouldn't let the rest of us go. Realistically, no one was going to wade through 2-foot snow from the road to the grave, anyway, and they didn't want to risk anyone getting their cars stuck. But my grandfather had worried about not getting buried in the right gravesite, so after the service in the little chapel up by the front gate, my uncle climbed in the back of the hearse (the front seat was occupied by the men going to inter the casket) and rode out with them to be sure Grandpa got buried next to Grandma, where he was supposed to be. Christine