I think he pulled on his boots to meet a bet he goaded out of us, but I’m sure that trail of holes he drove into the snow between the deck and that little tree on the edge of the woods was deeper than he expected. Today I don’t even remember why we laughed so hard while he stomped in that deep-ass snow, but who cares? It’s a good memory.

Maybe I’ll forget and he’ll do it again next year. That works, too.