'Ah, fame, wasted on the youth,' Dad says, but he's smiling. Adam's band, Shooting Star, is on an upward spiral, which, is a great thing-mostly. 'I know,' I say, and then without meaning to, I sigh. It's about the most we've seen of him since summer,' Mom says, giving me a sidelong glance with her eyebrow arched, her version of a soul-searching stare. Dad's the cook in the family.Pretending not to hear us, she reaches into the cabinet for a box of Bisquick. 'Should I make breakfast?'ĭad and I guffaw at the same time. It's simply not right.' She picks up the telephone to call in. 'Well, if you lot are playing hooky today, no way I'm going to work. My mother, who works for a travel agent in town, clicks off the radio and pours herself a second cup of coffee. 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 it's an unexpected day off for him, too. Maybe you should consider a snow amoeba.' 'You can make a valiant try,' Dad tells Teddy. It is sweet and smoky, and reminds me of winters and woodstoves. But I like the smell of the pipe tobacco. I am never quite clear on whether all this is sartorial or sardonic-Dad's 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. He started smoking one recently as part of this whole 1950s, Father Knows Best retro kick he is on. My little brother, Teddy, lets out a war whoop when Mom's AM radio announces the closures. It is wet water that drops from the sky - and drops and drops and drops - not the frozen kind.It is enough snow to cancel school. It isn't 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. I wake up this morning to a thin blanket of white covering our front lawn.

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