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A Listener against the Odds uses dramatizations that are based on true events. Some elements, including dialogue, may be invented, but everything is based on research. This series contains depictions of violence and death involving children and may not be suitable for everyone. Eight year old Walter Allen steps outside of his schoolhouse and shudders as a blast of freezing wind slaps his face. Above the howl of the blizzard, Walter hears his teacher call out, everyone grab a hold of the student ahead of you. Stay together until we reach the sledge. Walter grasps the coat of a girl in front of him named Mildred and bunches the fabric in his fingers. His bare hands were warm, stuffed in his pockets, but in an instant they turn icy. He wishes he'd brought his gloves and hat today, but the morning started out so mild. It's just before 11am on January 12, 1888, in the Dakota Territory. Walter lives in the small town of Groton, not far west from the Minnesota border. Five days a week he makes the half mile walk from his house to this rickety schoolhouse, the only building on this stretch of flat prairie land. Walter loves learning, but the schoolhouse is drafty and with no trees or other buildings around, it's exposed to the ferocious winds and snow that have kicked up. Walter can't wait to get back to his warm home. Thankfully, a few men from town have rushed to the schoolhouse with sledges, hitched to their horses to bring him and the other children back to their houses. As Walter and the other children plod toward the waiting sledges, a gust of wind blows, pelting Walter's cheeks with snow. It's sharp, more like sand hitting his face than snow. He lowers his head, following Mildred's footsteps in the snowpack. The 20ft from the schoolhouse to the sledges feels more like 20 miles. The wind slips down his collar and grabs his chest with his frigid fingers. As he trudges forward, Walter thinks about what his big brother Will would do if he were here. Will wouldn't panic. He'd stay calm and he'd help people. So that's what Walter is going to do. Walter can feel Mildred trembling ahead of him. He pulls his other hand from his pocket and pats her shoulder. It's okay, Mildred. We're almost there. Be strong. At last they reach the sledges, but it's chaos. Everyone's pushing to get onto the nearest one and there's not enough room. Walter steers Mildred toward the second sledge, then doubles back to guide other children. Some are slipping and stumbling on the slick snow. Finally Walter takes a spot at the back of one of the sledges. A moment later, his teacher appears through a squall. Children, whatever happens, stay on the sledge until you see your front door. If you wander off, you won't make it back. Then, starting with Walter, she begins counting to make sure everyone is there. Okay. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9. As the headcount continues, Walter huddles behind an older, taller boy for warmth. At least this will be over soon. Within a half hour he'll be home safe with his parents and will. But a moment panicked thought flashes through his mind. He forgot something inside the school. His prized possession. A beautiful glass perfume bottle. He keeps it filled with water so he can clean his slate chalkboard. No one else in the school has anything like it. If he leaves it in the unheated classroom, the water inside will freeze and crack the glass. Walter thinks fast. It's only 20ft back to the schoolhouse door and he's the fastest kid in class. So without a word, he hops off the sledge and heads back to classroom. He can barely see the outline of the building through the swirls of snow, but he is certain he can make it back to the sledge before it leaves. From Wondery I'm Mike Corey, and this is against the odds. In January 1888, one of the worst blizzards in American history swept through the upper Midwest, dumping snow and pummeling the prairie with winds up to 80 miles an hour. Given the storm's great speed and the primitive tools used to forecast weather in the 19th century, no one had any advance notice. The blizzard stretched from Montana to Iowa, but the timing of the storm's arrival made it far deadly in some areas than others. In particular, it hit the Dakota Territory and Nebraska right when farmers were laboring outdoors and children were attending poorly insulated schoolhouses. As a result, thousands of people were engulfed in driving snow and trapped in some of the most brutal cold ever recorded in the region. This is episode one no warning. Maria Albrecht clutches her pregnant belly as she watches the sad scene in front of her. A funeral at sea for a three month old baby boy. Several dozen families have gathered on the deck of the ocean liner which is crossing the North Atlantic en route to America. They're surrounding their pastor, who's reciting Bible passages. Next to him stands the ship's captain, his head bowed, hat in hand. Maria's heart aches for the young mother and father. They come from the same village in Ukraine as Maria does. The mother is holding a canvas sack that lies heavy in her arms. Her deceased baby is inside. Tears streamed down the woman's face. It's August 1874. Maria is 24 years old and had never seen the ocean before this journey. But she and her husband Johan, who's 27, decided to join the rest of their village in moving to America. The villagers are all Mennonites. Ethnically, they're German and speak German. But they'd been living in Ukraine for generations because the Russian Tsar granted them religious freedom. But a few years ago, the new tsar revoked their special status. He forced them to serve in the army and to speak Russian. So the entire village, 53 families, 342 people in all, decided to flee to America. They left full of hope, but so far it's been a dispiriting trip. Everyone's cold and seasick, especially the children. And late last night, this baby died. Their pastor finishes reading and gives a short sermon. Maria barely listens. Her eyes are fixed on the mother. Maria knows how she feels. She herself buried three children back home, each shortly after birth. When the preacher finishes, the captain gestures toward the railing. Maria feels her throat tighten as Johan slips his arm around her. They've all been dreading this moment. For hygiene reasons, anyone who dies on board has to be buried at sea. Dropped over the railing into the vast, indifferent ocean. No. No. No. No. The baby's father gently tries to take the canvas sack from his wife's arms, but the woman won't let go of the bundle. The father pulls harder, but she clutches it tighter. She screams that this isn't right, that they need to wait until land to give her boy a proper Christian burial. Finally, the captain intervenes. He lays a gentle hand on the wailing mother's shoulder and speaks softly but firmly to her. God will understand your little boy. He's already in heaven. At this, the woman sobs even louder, but she lets go. The captain takes the sack from her and hands it solemnly to the baby's father. The woman crumples to the deck as her husband drops the bag into the water. Maria steps forward to console the woman, but feels Johan's hand on her shoulder. No. It's not the right time, but she needs comforting. If she sees that you're pregnant, that will only hurt her more deeply. Maria realizes that he's right, so she lets Johan lead her away. As she follows her husband, a fervent prayer bubbles up inside of her. She begs God for the child in her belly to survive the trip to America, their new home. Johann Albrecht wipes the sweat from his brow as he pushes through the prairie grass. He and a group of other men are hunting for fertile ground. He heard there's an Indian trail here, but all he can find is a 6 inch wide dirt path. The grass growing on either side is so tall that it almost reaches his chin. Suddenly he senses something near his foot. He looks down to see a black snake sliding over his boot. He lets out a yelp and jumps. It moves on. But Johan can feel his heart thumping in his chest. It's mid September 1874. Everyone aboard the ship from Ukraine arrived here in the Dakota territory yesterday, including Johan's new son, Johan Jr. Who was born at sea just a few weeks ago. After sleeping under the stars last night, Johan and a dozen others were up at first light to scout the land. This is what drew them to America. The promise of cheap, fertile ground. But so far Johan is feeling uneasy. The summer sun has already baked him red. He's sweating buckets in his heavy wool clothes and the mosquitoes are relentless. Swarms of them feast on every inch of exposed skin. If he's not wiping the sweat from his forehead, he's slapping his arms and neck like a madman. But the most disconcerting thing is the sheer emptiness of the pain Prairie. They're 40 miles north of the nearest train stop and it feels like the middle of nowhere. Aside from a few far off trees, there's nothing in any direction except for endless stretches of grass. The sky above isn't much better. Blank and blue. It reminds him of their ocean crossing when the Atlantic stretched to every horizon from the ship. Hey, come on. Have you ever seen anything like that? A commotion from up ahead makes him look up. The men leading the way are standing in a small clearing that seems to have burned. There's blackened grass around the perimeter. Clumps of soil poke up amid the charred grass. Some of the men are on their knees, running their hands through the dirt. Johan hurries over and drops down to join them, pawing at the soil. He can hardly believe what he sees. It's the blackest, richest earth he's ever laid eyes on. Almost silken, like flour. Ukraine had wonderful soil. But this, this is even better. Johan glances around. There's a grin on every face. Johan stands and wipes his hands on his pants. He's already imagining all the crops he can farm here. Potatoes and corn and wheat. He'll plant fruit and nut trees too, and buy cows for butter and cheese. Johan isn't one to display much emotion, but for the first time since leaving Ukraine, he feels Almost happy, Maria Albrecht stirs some flour in a skillet, watching it blacken as the heat from the stove scorches it. Then she calls to 16 month old Johan Jr lying on the straw bed near the wall. I know you're hungry, dear. Mama will have some soup for you in a minute. She crosses the four steps to the door that leads outside her home, if you could call it that. It's really just a dome made of sod, with a stove in the middle and a pallet for a bed that's propped on a dirt floor. And the door is nothing more than a leather flap. She flips it aside, grabs 2 handfuls of snow and returns to the stove. There she mixes the snow with the scorched flour. It's January 1876. Maria, her husband, and Johan Jr. Her son, who was born on the ship to America, have been on the prairie for 16 months now, and Maria has hated nearly every single minute of it, especially as she faces her second long, cold winter here. They arrived too late to plant crops, so they relied on charity from Mennonites who had been in America longer to survive the first winter. Maria had thought that things would improve the second year, but a plague of grasshoppers wiped out their corn and wheat midsummer and left them nearly starving again. Back in Ukraine, they had heard that America was a land of freedom and opportunity. Yet here she is, huddled in a dirt home, burning buffalo bones for fuel, and all she can serve her child is so called burnt flour soup. There is nothing more she can add. They have no butter, no vegetables, and certainly no meat. When the soup is ready, she pours some into a bowl. She grabs a spoon and walks over to the bed where she sits down next to Johan Junior. The very sight of him makes her wince with guilt. He looks sickly pale and so thin that she can count his ribs, but she tries to look cheery. She holds the bowl out and raises a spoonful to his chin. Here, here. Yeah, have some yummy soup. No, don't push it away. You need to eat. She tries forcing the spoon into his mouth, but he turns his head. Maria makes another attempt, determined to get him to eat. He fusses and shoves the bowl away. It slips out of her hands and thunks onto the dirt floor where the black earth absorbs the spilled soup. A fit of rage surges through Maria. You ungrateful child. What are we gonna eat now? We have no food. She's furious, but when he bursts into tears, she feels terrible. She draws him into an embrace, trying to soothe him I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Mama didn't mean it, okay? Even when she calms down, she remains a storm of emotions. She hates America. She hates the emptiness, hates the bugs, hates the dirt home that leaks when it rains and attracts mice and snakes. She hates the hot summers and the grim winters. Most of all, she hates what life here is doing to her precious son. Her husband left yesterday for Sioux Falls to beg for more flour. If he can't acquire some, they might not last the winter. And even if he does, Johan might not make it on such a poor diet. She squeezes him tighter at the thought. After losing three children back in Ukraine, she'd die of grief if she lost another. 12 year old. Will Allen adjusts the coat he's been using for a pillow as he stretches out on the train's wooden bench. He drapes an arm over his eyes to keep out the summer sunlight streaming through the window. Just as he feels himself finally nodding off, he's wrenched awake when the train clatters over a rough patch of track. Will groans in frustration. There's no way to sleep on this train. He sits up and looks around at his family. His parents, his older brother Hugh and his little brother Walter, who's just 2. They all look exhausted. It's July 1881. The Allen family are rattling west to a new life in the Dakota Territory. Will already misses their comfortable home back in Minneapolis, where his father was an attorney. But his parents read about the population boom in the Dakota Territory, thousands of new people pouring in each year, lured by rich soil and nearly free land. The stories were spellbinding. They decided the family should try their luck. So last week they announced that they were moving to a place called Groton, a town so new that Will couldn't even find it on a map. And for some reason, the only tickets they could get are in the cheapest train car, a car that's packed with all their belongings, including a family photo. As if being jammed up against their furniture wasn't enough, the Allens are also sharing this train car with a half dozen horses. Horses and a cow. They're stabled behind a makeshift gate, but the smell, especially in the oppressive heat of the summer, is atrocious. Will wipes the sweat from his brow and sighs between packing up, saying goodbye to his friends, and this train ride. It's been the worst week of his life. He decides to lie down again. The train seems to be on smoother tracks now, but just as he dozes off, sure enough, a noise wakes him up. This time It's a startled cry from his father. Will looks up to see that the rattling train has dislodged the latch on the horse's pen and swung the gate open. As a result, two horses have squeezed out of the pen and are clomping among the family's possessions. Will's father rushes over to rein them in. Unfortunately, he's a lawyer, not a farmer. He doesn't know how to handle animals. He grabs one horse by the mane and it rears back, neighing in anger. This spooks the other horse, who starts whinnying too. Willow's afraid they're going to buck and do real damage. He and his brother Hugh step in, snatching boxes aside, putting themselves between the animals and the piano. After several minutes, they finally settle the horses and corral them back into the pen. Will is just about to sit back down when he notices that his two year old brother, Walter, is not in his seat. Will scans the train car. He sees that his little brother has toddled over to the open train car door. He's wobbling just inches from the edge, gaping at the world rushing by. Just then, the train hits another rough section of track and Walter loses his balance, his little arms pinwheeling in the air. Will sprints over. It's the longest three seconds of his life. Just as his brother starts to fall toward the open doorway, Will snatches him up. Walter sobs and Will soothes him. It's okay. I've got you now. It's okay. It's okay. Then he marches over to the bench and holds Walter in his lap. He's going to watch over him until they reach their new home. Etta Shattuck turns over the shirt in her lap and stitches a tear in the seam. Etta is 16 and the oldest of five. Her mother has taken her four younger siblings into town on an errand, and Etta's found a rare moment of quiet in their little farmhouse in eastern Nebraska. As she's tying off the stitches, her father, Benjamin, steps into the room. Etta, come into the kitchen. I want to talk to you. Etta places the shirt on the chair's arm and follows her father. He's a Civil War veteran, and Even now, in 1885, 20 years after the war, he still walks with a limp from a leg wound he suffered in battle. Normally she doesn't notice it, but his leg has been acting up lately and he seems to be in more pain than usual. As they pull out the chairs and sit down, Benjamin flashes a smile. Etta, I have some Exciting news. We're moving into town. The thought thrills her. She hates living in the country, but her father shakes his head. No, not in the town. We're moving to Holt county, up north, near the Dakota border. Why? What's up there? Practically nothing. I can get land up there for a song. It is the deal of a century. He launches into an explanation of his big plans, but despite his enthusiasm, Etta feels herself sinking in her chair, overcome with dejection. She's starting to think her father just isn't a good farmer. He's been working the land here for three years, and each year their harvest is worse than the last. Etta has overheard other farmers criticize everything from his choice of crops to how he plows his land, and Etta doesn't think moving is going to make things better. In fact, it might make things worse. But isn't the soil up near Dakota awfully sandy? I've heard that's why other farmers haven't moved there. That's what they say, but you just have to till deeper and get at the good earth beneath. So why haven't other farmers done that? They just don't have the gumption. But we shadducks. We're never afraid of hard work. Etta raises more questions, but her father keeps batting them away. He's an eternal optimist, but Etta can't share his sunny outlook. She already helps support her younger siblings by taking and sewing, and if her father's big plans go the way she suspects, then the burden for supporting them will fall even more on her. Maria Albrecht finishes stacking the clean dishes into the cupboard, then dries her hands on her apron. It's just after lunch on a warm September day in 1885. She pulls out a chair and rests for a spell. This latest pregnancy has been awful on her back, but despite her discomfort, she smiles with satisfaction as she looks around her kitchen. It's not much to look at. There's barely enough room for a stove, cupboard, wash bin, and table and chairs. The whole house is similarly modest, but compared to the sod hut they lived in when they first arrived in America 11 years ago, this home feels like a mansion. Every morning she thanks God there's no mud dripping from the roof, or that she isn't reduced to feeding her children soup made with burnt flour and melted snow. She has three thriving children, and she'll soon have more. She rubs her bulging belly and marvels at how big she is. Already just five months in, she suspects that she has twins. What a blessing that would be. After a few minutes she feels guilty for being idle. She has to get going or she'll be late. She stands up from the chair, leaning one palm onto the table. Anna, let's go. It's already 12:30. Her four year old daughter bounds in from the living room. We get to see the school now. Yes, we do. Grab your bonnet. Maria takes Anna's hand as they clomp down the back steps at the road. Anna scampers ahead, chasing grasshoppers. Aside from a few houses and haystacks, there's nothing to see in any direction except for wheat and corn. The sheer emptiness of the land still leaves Maria unsettled, especially in winter when the gales blow snow everywhere. But it's pleasant enough on days like today. After 20 minutes, she and Anna reach their destination. The new schoolhouse that's opening today. It took the community years to raise the funds. First they had to build homes and barns, then a church. But they finally pooled enough donations together for the school. A crowd of several dozen townspeople gather around the building. Most are children. Farmers have big families. Maria's two oldest children emerge from the group and race up to her. 11 year old Johan Jr. And 7 year old Peter. Johan. Johan grabs her hand and pulls her forward. Come on, Mama, you gotta see inside the school. Okay, hold your horses. I'm as big as a house. I can't move that fast. Beyond the crowd, Maria spots her husband, Johan Senior, pounding the last few nails into the side of the schoolhouse. To an outsider, the building probably wouldn't look impressive. It's just one room and the outside is unpainted. But she pushes the thoughts from her mind. Her children are so excited that she can't help but feel buoyant herself. The schoolhouse may not be much, but it's theirs. The product of their collective hard work and sacrifice. And that's enough. 11 year old Lena Schleselmer follows her mother up the porch stairs of a farmhouse, her chest tight with anxiety. It's August 1887, near Seward, Nebraska. Lena's mother knocks on the door. A moment later it opens, revealing a scrawny man with short brown hair and a bushy beard. Lina's mother turns to her. Lena, this is your new guardian, Wilhelm. The Becky. Be on your best behavior for him, okay? Wilhelm welcomes them in. He smiles and pats Lina's shoulder as she passes by. But Lina still feels wretched. She feels even worse when she meets his wife, Katerina, a squat woman who eyes Lina suspiciously. What happened to her face? Lina blushes her face is pockmarked with smallpox scars, the same disease that killed her father six years ago. Lina's mother soon married another man and they had their own children. Unfortunately, her stepfather never liked Lina. He was always complaining about having too many mouths to feed and finally told Lina's mother they couldn't afford her. Lina's mother was forced to choose her husband and her other children or her oldest daughter. She chose her new family. Now Lina is being dumped at the home of her mother's cousin Wilhelm and his wife, Katerina. After Lena's mother explains about the smallpox scars, Katerina has some questions for Lena. We get up early around here. What time do you rise at? 6am Usually? Well, it'll be 5:30 from now on. How much weight can you lift? I'm not sure. Katerina points to a bag of cornmeal in the corner and tells Lena to pick it up. The stenciling on the bag says that it weighs 5050 pounds. But Lina's big for her age and easily tosses it over her shoulder. Lina hears Katarina give a grunt of approval. She tells Lina's mother that she'll do just fine. She adds that Lina's main jobs will be milking cows, fetching water from the well and minding the Vibecki's own small children. When Katarina goes to town during winters, after the harvest is in, she can attend the school a mile away. Then Katerina says she has something for Lena's mother in the kitchen. The two women head into the other room. That leaves Lina alone with Wilhelm. He crouches down to her level. I think you're gonna like it here once you get used to it. Okay? And I suppose you'll be taking our last name now. You'll be Lina Vecchi. Don't you think that sounds nice? Lina Vecchi. Lina repeats the name to herself. The truth is, it sounds alien and strange. But she doesn't tell Wilhelm this. As her mother emerges from the kitchen, Lina looks to her for a last hug. Instead, she simply waves goodbye and heads for the door. The tightness in Lina's chest becomes overwhelming. She didn't quite believe that her own mother would abandon her like this, but she did. Lena's now Lena Vecchi. And this foreign place is her new home. Lieutenant Thomas Woodruff sits at his desk in his office and whittles his pencil with a pocket knife until he has a nice sharp point. Then he consults the pile of telegrams in the stack next to him. The telegrams contain weather reports from four dozen army forts. And weather stations throughout the western United States and southern Canada. Data on temperature, wind speed and air pressure. It's 10:30am on January 11, 1888, in St. Paul, Minnesota. Woodruff works in the Army's Weather Forecasting Bureau, the nation's only national weather service. Woodruff marks each set of numbers on a large map with his pencil, carefully double checking each figure. When he's finished, he steps back from the map and studies it with a frown. He has a big decision to should he issue a severe cold warning or not? These weren't the decisions the 38 year old Woodruff thought he'd be making when he graduated from West Point, and for the first decade of his career he fought in the Indian wars out west. But in 1883 he'd been assigned to the Signal Corps to work on weather forecasting. He did a year's worth of training in meteorology and then began issuing daily forecasts. For the first three years he was based out of Washington, D.C. weather data streamed into the Capitol and all weather reports emerged from there. It was cumbersome and slow, and forecasts often arrived too late to do any good. Recently, the army has been experimenting with opening branch offices. These smaller offices are nimbler and can issue weather predictions more quickly. Woodruff was named director of the St. Paul Branch and arrived over the summer. But Woodruff has felt enormous pressure this winter. His main responsibility is to issue blizzard and severe cold war warnings, and early in the winter he erred on the side of caution, issuing warnings even when the odds were only moderate and many of them didn't come to pass. His supervisors are already upset by how many predictions he's gotten wrong. He knows if he keeps it up, he'll be accused of crying wolf and people will lose trust in him. Which is why today's map concerns Woodruff. The map shows two notable things. First, a low pressure front is forming over Montana based on the direction of American weather flows. That front will likely drift across the Dakota Territory and then in the Minnesota, Nebraska and Iowa over the next 24 to 30 hours, that movement will likely cause a rise in temperature. The second thing that he notices is what's happening in Canada. There's a mass of air up there that hasn't moved in days. And when air stagnates in central Canada during the winter, conditions can get brutally cold and dry. It's called a continental polar air mass, and right now it's reaching 20 below zero in places. Woodruff's fear is when that low pressure front leaves Montana and sweeps across the Midwest. It'll leave a void that could draw the cold air down from Canada as if it's being sucked south with a straw. That freezing cold air would make batter the central U.S. with snowstorms. The fast moving low pressure system would increase wind speeds and make the cold more severe as well as kick up snow already on the ground. Then again, that scenario is not a given. The low pressure front could pass quickly. The air mass over Canada could stay where it is. Woodruff goes back and forth, tapping his pencil nervously on the table and weighing his options. Right now, Woodruff is leaning towards issuing a warning despite the risk that the severe cold won't occur and that he'll be wrong again. But he's not ready to pull the trigger. More weather data will arrive later. Hopefully it will provide some clarity. Until then, he won't issue any warnings. Eighteen year old Will Allen wolfs down the last of a chicken drumstick at his kitchen table and licks his fingers clean. Then he bounds up the stairs of the Allen family home in Groton. It's 9pm on January 11, 1888 and he's had a long day of work. Setting tight for the town newspaper, he's looking forward to a good night's sleep. But first he decides to check on his 8 year old brother, Walter. He finds him sitting on his bed writing on his slateboard with chalk by the light of a candle. He's so absorbed that he doesn't notice Will. Watching the sight makes Will grin. Will doesn't know if Walter is an actual genius, but there's something special about him. Will sneaks up within a foot of Walter, spreads his hands and claps them together hard. Walter lets out a cry and jumps to his feet. Then he sees Will and starts wrestling him. Will easily pins him, then lets him go and points to the slate board. What's your homework tonight? Math. Watch how fast I can go. Give me some big numbers to add. 73 and 74. No, really big numbers. Okay, try 45, 134 and 256,215. Will scribbles the numbers down. Ben starts to calculate. Little bits of chalk fly. He announces the answer. 300, 1,000, 349. Okay, that's really good. Will applauds. Walter, then watches as he dribbles water from a glass perfume bottle onto the slate and wipes it with a rag. Will points to the bottle. Why do you use that to clean the slate? Because you can control the number of drops. Three is perfect. If you don't get enough water, then you can't clean the slate. But if you put too much on there, the board stays wet. And then you have to wait to use it it. And you haul it back and forth every day from school. Yeah, I don't want it to break. Will looks at him, confused. Walter explains that water expands as it freezes. That's why ice floats on ponds, because it's less dense. But freezing water in a closed container will crack it. Wilt shakes his head. He didn't know half this stuff at Walter's age. But however much fun he's having right now, he has to be the parent. Sometimes his own parents aren't good about keeping Walter disciplined, so Will steps up. Yeah, I think it's bedtime, kid. Can you read to me just one chapter? Will chuckles and agrees. They're working their way through great expectations. As much as he'd love to hit the hay himself, it's worth it to spend a little extra time with Walter. Lt. Thomas Woodruff of the Army's Weather Bureau sharpens his pencil again and shuffles through the latest weather telegrams from the four dozen stations that report to him. It's just after 11pm on January 11th. He's got to get tomorrow's forecast out soon, which means he's got to decide whether to issue a severe cold warning. Unfortunately, some of the data indicates bad weather, like this pressure reading from North Central Montana. Woodruff consults the map he made earlier today. At that point, the barometer was reading 27.06 inches of mercury. This new reading is one third of an inch lower. That might not sound like much, but in all his time forecasting weather, Woodruff has never seen such a big drop in this region. Such a massive pressure drop could easily create a partial vacuum that would be filled with brutally cold air coming down from Canada. Woodruff furrows his brow. He's not positive that the barometer reading is accurate. As important as weather forecasting is, army forts on the frontier don't take it seriously, not in comparison to their other duties. That's especially true on cold winter nights. No one wants to leave a warm cabin to read instruments outdoors in the freezing wind, so the duty often falls on each either inexperienced privates or soldiers with discipline problems who have to take the weather readings as punishment. As a result, the readings that come in on winter nights are often spotty. Woodruff suspects that the soldiers just make the numbers up sometimes, too, and other data puts him in a better mood. There has been a cold snap throughout much of the west this week but it looks to be ending. It's a balmy 33 degrees in Helena. Other cities show 20 degree temperature jumps between 3pm and 10pm a time when temperatures normally drop. Woodruff places the maps aside, grabs a piece of paper and dips his pen in ink. Then he starts to scribble down his forecast for the next day. It notes that the weather will be warmer early tomorrow, followed by a small drop in temperature and a rise in winds. There's no need to issue a severe cold warning and no need to risk getting in trouble with his superiors. Then he rises and dons his coat. He'll drop this message off at the Telegram office down the street for transmission to the Associated Press, who will then distribute the forecast to newspapers for the morning edition. After that, he'll head home to sleep in his nice warm bed, confident that tomorrow will be a rather pleasant day, at least for January. This is the first episode of our four part series, School Children's Blizzard. A quick note about our scenes. In most cases, we can't exactly know what was said, but everything is based on historical research. If you'd like to learn more about this event, we recommend the books the Children's Blizzard by David Laskin and In All Its Fury, a collection of survivor tales put together by WH o'. Gara. I'm your host, Mike Corey. Sam Keane wrote this episode. Our editor is Steve Fennessy. Sound design by Joe Richardson. Audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez. Original theme music by Scott Velasquez and 2K for freeze on sync. Fact check by Alyssa Jung Perry produced by Emily Frost. Managing producer is Desi Blaylock. Senior producers are Andy Herman and Austin Rachlis. Executive producers are Jenny Lauer, Beckman and Marshall Louie. For Wondering.