7:09 A.M.

           Everyonethinksitwasbecauseofthesnow.Andinaway,Isupposethat’strue.

           Iwakeupthismorningtoathinblanketofwhitecoveringourfrontlawn.Itisn’tevenaninch,butinthispartofOregonaslightdustingbringseverythingtoastandstillastheonesnowplowinthecountygetsbusyclearingtheroads.Itiswetwaterthatdropsfromthesky—anddropsanddropsanddrops—notthefrozenkind.

           Itisenoughsnowtocancelschool.Mylittlebrother,Teddy,letsoutawarwhoopwhenMom’sAMradioannouncestheclosures."Snowday!"hebellows."Dad,let’sgomakeasnowman."

           Mydadsmilesandtapsonhispipe.Hestartedsmokingonerecentlyaspartofthiswhole1950s,FatherKnowsBestretrokickheison.Healsowearsbowties.Iamneverquiteclearonwhetherallthisissartorialorsardonic—Dad’swayofannouncingthatheusedtobeapunkerbutisnowamiddle-schoolEnglishteacher,orifbecomingateacherhasactuallyturnedmydadintothisgenuinethrowback.ButIlikethesmellofthepipetobacco.Itissweetandsmoky,andremindsmeofwintersandwoodstoves.

           "Youcanmakeavalianttry,"DadtellsTeddy."Butit’shardlystickingtotheroads.Maybeyoushouldconsiderasnowamoeba."

           IcantellDadishappy.Barelyaninchofsnowmeansthatalltheschoolsinthecountyareclosed,includingmyhighschoolandthemiddleschoolwhereDadworks,soit’sanunexpecteddayoffforhim,too.Mymother,whoworksforatravelagentintown,clicksofftheradioandpoursherselfasecondcupofcoffee.