The smell of snow is hypnotizing. That stony rush of air that freezes tiny nose hairs upon impact. The sensation of the outdoors and rolling in cold. Standing on the steps of her Dad’s rig shack, a lease site in the distance, strewn with men hard at work, well-worn machinery, lifeblood of the ’90s. Barbie in one clenched fist, Brother’s T-Rex in the other while Mom calls them in for grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. Her warm breath momentarily staining the crisp January air as she turns to face the heat of the cabin.

The snow therapy washes her clean like the drizzling rivulets of spring run-off. The German Sheppard, Prince, sliding down snow hills on the back of their GT Racer. Tunneling out forts of ice with no fear of collapse. Sitting in a family room, wrapped in a blanket, homemade hot chocolate (with those tiny marshmallows), and the distinct smell of a wood oven. Slang like “H E double hockey sticks” and “B with an itch,” knowing they were the wiliest children on the face of planet Earth. They were brave and guileless—audaciously content. The smell of snow is hypnotizing because it feels like home.