One of my earliest memories is looking out the window at a snowman that my Dad, Stacy and I had just built. As my breath fogged on the glass, a group of older kids ran up and knocked it down. My dad rushed outside, chased them down and made them rebuild our snowman. But I was even more upset by the crummy job they did packing the broken balls of snow back together.
The winter of 2003, tragedy stuck again.
This time, I didn’t see who killed my snowman. But when its corpse started to melt, I found this watch among the slushy remains. No one responded to the “Found Watch” signs I posted around the neighborhood. They must have known it was a trap.
When I called Dad to tell him that the killers had stuck again, he was embarrassed about yelling at those kids years ago. But I’ve always been proud of him for sticking up for us.