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I love snow; it forms the core of my earliest recollections. My father finished seminary at Louisville during my first years. Of that time I “remember” only three incidents; two involve snow. One is a travel story, of our motoring north from Alabama through the snow until, exhausted and trapped, we stopped for the night. Since that story is family legend, the memory may involve the telling rather than the experience. The other is too firmly etched, drawing as it does on sensory perceptions which cannot be a storyteller’s creation, even in someone with as active an imagination as mine.



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