This winter, my eight-year-old son, Nick, declared our front yard needed snowmen—lots of them. Not one or two, but a whole crew, each carefully named and outfitted with sticks for arms, pebbles for eyes, and a ratty red scarf he insisted made them “official.” His chosen spot? The corner near the driveway, a few feet from the street, his personal snowman workshop.
Every day after school, he’d burst in, cheeks red, eyes bright.
“Can I go out now, Mom? I gotta finish Winston.”
I’d smile. “Winston?”
“Today’s snowman!”
He’d roll snow into lumpy spheres, pat them down, then stand back, hands on hips. “Yeah. That’s a good guy.” Watching him from the kitchen window was pure joy—until the tire tracks started.
Our neighbor, Mr. Streeter, had a habit of cutting across our lawn. One afternoon, Nick returned inside, gloves heavy with snow, eyes wide.
“Mom… he smashed Oliver. His head flew off.”
I tried reasoning with Mr. Streeter. “Please stop driving on that part of the lawn. My son builds there.”
“Snow’s snow. It melts,” he shrugged.
Each snowman fell the same way. Nick tried staying calm, but his frustration grew. He refused to move his creations closer to the house. “That’s my spot. He’s the one doing the wrong thing,” he said.
Then one afternoon, Nick unveiled his plan. He built the biggest snowman yet—right over the fire hydrant at the lawn’s edge. That night, we heard a crunch, a metallic shriek, then a geyser of water spraying the street, yard, and Mr. Streeter’s car.