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Some memories of childhood stay with you forever. For me, one of those memories now involves snowmen, tire tracks, and a lesson that didn’t come from an argument or a raised voice, but from a child who understood fairness better than the adult standing next door.
It started as the kind of winter tradition every parent hopes their child will have. The simple kind. The wholesome kind. The kind you watch through the kitchen window and think, this is exactly how childhood should feel.
Every afternoon after school, my son Nick followed the same routine. His backpack landed in a heap by the door. His boots came off with dramatic frustration, as if they had personally wronged him. His coat stayed half-zipped, his hat always crooked. Then he would grin and announce the name of the snowman he planned to build that day, like he was reporting to work.
“Today’s one is Winston,” he’d say, already pulling on his gloves.
He always built them in the same place. Right near the edge of our driveway, but clearly on our property. That spot mattered to him. It wasn’t random. In a world where children are told where to sit, where to go, and what to do most of the time, that little corner of the yard felt like his.
