When we were little, we wanted snowmen. My father would show us how to roll and pack, roll and pack, and we'd watch our head roll and fall away, roll and fall away. We'd take out the ugly hats and gloves that no one wanted to wear even if they were the only thing left in the hat and glove bin, and find sticks and rocks and whatever was handy to dress the snowman. One year, he stood out by the garden, another in the triangle by the neighborhood mailboxes, and a third time in the middle of the grape arbor. They always looked the same - three balls balanced, with an attempt at a face - eyesockets, a misshapen nose, indistinct lips. I always thought it would be cheating to use foodcoloring or something like that...

By the time I was a senior in high school, I began to miss some of the sheer fun of snow that I had had as a child. I realized I hadn't done a snow angel in nearly ten years, and a snowman at home for three or four. Being Queen of the Hill had stopped being fun, and started being fearful of some of the stunts kids were pulling. I had started to be in charge of the hot chocolate and the broom and making sure there was radiator room for everyone. So I threw myself into it - finding the cross-country skis, appointing someone else King of the Hill, and building a snowchick.

Than I'd dig out the broom, and start shaking out jackets and gloves...