Everyone thinksit was because of the snow. And in a way, I
suppose thatstrue. I wake up this morning to a thin blanket of white covering our front lawn. It isnt even an inch, but in this part of Oregon a slight dusting brings everything to a standstill as the one
snowplow in the county gets busy clearing the roads. It is wet water that drops from the skyand drops and drops and dropsnot the frozen kind. It is enough snow to cancel school. My little
brother, Teddy, lets out a war whoop when Moms AM radio announces the closures. Snow day! he bellows. Dad, lets go make a
snowman. My dad smiles and taps on his pipe. He started smoking
one recently as part of this whole 1950s, Father Knows Best retro
kick he is on. He also wears bow ties. I am never quite clear on
whether all this is sartorial or sardonicDads way of announcing
that he used to be a punker but is now a middle-school English
teacher, or if becoming a teacher has actually turned my dad into
this genuine throwback. But I like the smell of the pipe tobacco.
It is sweet and smoky, and reminds me of winters and
woodstoves. You can make a valiant try, Dad tells Teddy. But its
hardly sticking to the roads. Maybe you should consider a snow
amoeba. I can tell Dad is happy. Barely an inch of snow means
that all the schools in the county are closed, including my high
school and the middle school where Dad works, so its an
unexpected day off for him, too. My mother, who works for a
travel agent in town, clicks off the radio and pours herself a
second cup of coffee. Well, if you lot are playing hooky today,
no way Im going to work. Its simply not right. She picks up the
telephone to call in. When shes done, she looks at us. Should I
make breakfast? Dad and I guffaw at the same time. Mom makes