In 2004, it snowed here on Christmas Eve. I was determined to build a snowman even though there wasn’t much snow. I was in college at the time and lived with my parents. My father’s truck had a toolbox on it, which was I felt the best place to make my snowman because it would be dirt-free. I set to work in the middle of the night, in the dark and cold with no flashlight or gloves. When I finished, I went back inside, warmed up and went to sleep. The next day my family was hosting an open house.
In the morning, my parents woke up and peered out the window at the truck, confused about what they saw. They debated whether or not I’d been the creator of the strange thing sitting on the toolbox.
My mother said, “She HATES the cold, she wouldn’t want to stand in the dark in the snow!” This was a valid point, because I have a vehement dislike of cold weather and as a young child was always sick when winter came.
My father shook his head. “No, but you think any of the neighbor kids made THAT? It was her.” This was also a valid point, because I’d roughed out a mohawked snow dwarf that was sitting with his hands on his knees. No neighbor kid would have made that.
My dad had to move his truck because of the open house, but he didn’t want to ruin my snowman. Because it was so tightly packed, he was able to pick it up and relocate it to the front porch. “Snowdude” (as he was later called) greeted all of our guests that day, until about mid-afternoon when it’d warmed up enough to soften him. He fell like Humpty Dumpty from the wall and remained a pile of mush until he completely dissolved, but spent most of Christmas Day with us.
I have not since had an opportunity to build another Snowdude.