There is a February 1979 article in Texas Monthly, an esteemed publication that covers the culture and happenings of the lone star state. It was frequently the case that the monthly magazine covered the glam and the glitz of a state fueled by oil, politics, and American football. But that particular month’s article was different than most; it was darker and more damning. Here is an excerpt from the author’s in-depth reporting. To illiterate his dismay, he included a poem from a long-time resident of the area.
The biggest East Coast snowstorm of the pandemic to date lasted for a day. But in the city that never sleeps, it left a lasting image. I stood along the corner of Broadway and Broome for what seemed like an hour. Snow accumulated to piles nearly two feet high, edging along sidewalks glazed over with ice. To the New Yorker with means, the elements were a voluntary experience. There were cross-country skiers in Central Park and evening diners under heat lamps wearing $1,200 goose down coats. The 20-degree weather was something to be enjoyed in between warm destinations. But not for everyone.
