This is the very weather for a poem like this (written in memory of my experiences in Minnesota)...
That was the storm of sixty-eight,
Remember, when the lines were down
And not a road went clear to town?
Four days canned fruit was all we ate,
Till Martha swore she’d rather fast,
But then the tractor fired at last.
Four days we were an Ark of late—
The world fell off beyond the farm.
The boys, though, kept the woodshed warm.