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from our new online issue: My best dad was born January 1978, when the snow was the deepest it has ever been in my life—still. No school for ten days. Cars buried. Mom feeling claustrophobic, trapped by drifts and kids and bills. She had bought our current house to escape the old one, but forgot to consider the expense. "Get outside and do something; you're driving me crazy in here." We shoveled a lot. Mom apologized a lot. And, of course, we made dads.