If you endure rather than enjoy New England winters, turn up the thermostat and grab a mug of hot coffee while you read this story of two epic winters. Unless you like to ski, you’ll be glad you weren’t there.

The Great Snow of 1716-1717 hit New England hard. Houses were buried in snow up to their chimneys and some people burned furniture for warmth. Up in Boston, Cotton Mather recorded in his diary, “Never such a Snow, in the Memory of Man! And so much falling this Daye … that very many of our Assemblies had no Sacrifices (worship services).” (sic)

In late February, that terrible winter was making one last assault just as George Way lay dying in his home on Way Hill Road in Waterford. A succession of storms raged relentlessly for two weeks, making travel impossible. It wasn’t until March 7, 11 or 12 days after George’s death, that neighbors on snowshoes were finally able to carry his body into town.

The Great Snow became one of those pivotal experiences that people talked about for the rest of their lives, but it wasn’t the only monster storm to clobber Connecticut.

Fast-forward to March 1888, when the weather played a nasty trick on unsuspecting people who thought that a mild winter was nearly over and that they could look ahead to spring planting. The Blizzard of ’88, sometimes known as the Great White Hurricane for its cyclonic winds, wreaked havoc from Maryland to Maine.

In Waterford, two brothers, Gurden and LeGrande Chappell, just 9 and 4 years old, got lost in this blizzard. The incident has been written about many times and is something of a local legend. Recently, I found an account of the boys’ experience written by the late Margaret Stacy, former Waterford town historian. Her article brings out details that make the story come to life.

On the morning of March 12, William and Mary Chappell left their house on the Hartford Turnpike and trekked over to Way Hill Road to help the Gardner family, whose son was seriously ill. The Chappells’ son George was away doing farm chores for Mr. Douglass, a neighbor who was sitting by the bedside of a dying friend. This left Alfred, the oldest Chappell son, home to watch his little brothers, Gurden and LeGrande. Around 4 o’clock, Alfred decided to run a quick errand. He expected to be right back; the boys wouldn’t be alone long.

All by themselves on this boring afternoon, Gurden and LeGrande got restless. They decided it would be nice to go see their mother, so they put on their coats, hats and mittens and headed out.

Reaching Mother should have been a quick shot across a couple of fields, but the storm had been gaining strength all day, and the sleet was blinding. The savage wind tore off the children’s mittens and hats. Finally, disoriented and exhausted, Gurden and LeGrande lay down by a stone wall and fell asleep. Soon, they were completely buried in snow.

When Alfred returned home, he wasn’t alarmed to find his brothers gone. He assumed George had gotten back and taken them over to see their mother. Simultaneously, Mary Chappell became uneasy — call it mother’s intuition — and sent someone back to the house to check on her children. You can imagine the hysteria when everyone realized the boys were missing.

Neighbors immediately sprang into action. Men, bearing bean poles for penetrating the snow, set out on what must have seemed like a futile mission. Twenty-two hours later, a member of the search party thrust his stick into a drift by a stone wall and felt something. It was the children. Miraculously, they were alive.

Hundreds died during this blizzard, but Gurden and LeGrande survived to be old men, testaments to luck or fate and to the importance of communities where people take care of one another.

Carol Sommer of Waterford is a self-proclaimed history nut. She writes a monthly history column inspired by local street signs.