Rainwater drips from the roof corner where the eaves come together, making a little puddle of clear water and glistening pebbles, washed clean by the constant dripping. A reminder that I should have blown the pine needles from the roof before the rain, but also triggering a memory of a winter long ago.

We are visiting grandma and grandpa Tallitsch in Chicago in 1943 and I am three years old. I'm allowed under strict oversight to help some older kids work on a snow man with feet, brushing snow with my mittened hands from the space between it's stubby legs. Water drips from an icicle on the eave, making a little puddle with clear water. I'm entranced with the glistening pebbles in the cold, clear water. Grandma Tallitsch comes out with a broom to knock down the icicle, worried it will fall on her grandson. I argue with the futility of a 3-year-old, and the icicle comes down anyway. I'm disappointed, but somehow that vision of the clear, cold water and the shiny pebbles is permanently etched.