Let it snow book characters drivers#

Curiously, my initial expectation of Green's third being my favorite part of the book didn't turn out right. This is very good, for me, since I read fast but also have a short attention span when tempted by many books. Curled up on my bed, I read the first half in one sitting, then read the rest that evening. I'd read (and liked) John Green before, so I expected at least a third of LET IT SNOW to be good. “I mean, really, it was there a second ago.One afternoon when I was sick and it was stormy outside, I rummaged through my To Be Read pile and grabbed this book. “Are you wearing your loafers?” Lisa asked, and in response our mother raised a bare foot. We wanted to send her home, to kick her out of nature just as she had kicked us out of the house, but it was hard to stay angry at someone that pitiful-looking. She did not own a pair of pants, and her legs were buried to the calf in snow. Another car passed, and then we saw our mother, this puffy figure awkwardly negotiating the crest of the hill. She explained that we’d been locked out of our house, and, while the man appeared to accept it as a reasonable explanation, I’m pretty sure he was the one who told on us. The first car to come along belonged to a neighbor, a fellow-Yankee who had outfitted his tires with chains and stopped a few feet from our sister’s body. She took her place, this six-year-old in a butter-colored coat, and we gathered on the curb to watch.

Let it snow book characters drivers#

We chose a quiet dip between two hills, a spot where drivers were almost required to skid out of control. When we asked her to lie in the middle of the street, her only question was “Where?” Her eagerness to please was absolute and naked. All you had to do was call her Tiff, and whatever you wanted was yours: her allowance, her dinner, the contents of her Easter basket. She’d do just about anything in return for a little affection. He’d gone to work specifically to escape our mother, and between the weather and her mood it could be hours, or even days, before he returned home. My sister Gretchen suggested that we call our father, but none of us knew his number, and he probably wouldn’t have done anything anyway. Selfish mothers wanted the house to themselves and their children were discovered years later, frozen like mastodons in blocks of ice. Dusk approached, and as it grew colder it occurred to us that we could possibly die. “You are going to be in so much trouble when Dad gets home!” we shouted, and in response my mother pulled the drapes. We pounded again and again, and when our mother failed to answer we went around back and threw snowballs at her bedroom window. It’s us.” We knocked on the pane and, without looking in our direction, she refilled her goblet and left the room. Drinking didn’t count if you followed a glass of wine with a cup of coffee, and so she had a goblet and a mug positioned before her on the countertop.

Normally she waited until five o’clock to have a drink, but for the past few days she’d been making an exception. I rang the bell, and when no one answered we went to the window and saw our mother in the kitchen, watching television. A few hours later, we returned home, surprised to find that the door was locked. My sisters and I went down the hill and sledded with other children from the neighborhood. We reminded her that it was our house, too, and she opened the front door and shoved us into the carport. “Get the hell out of my house,” she said. It wasn’t a gentle request but something closer to an eviction. Our presence had disrupted the secret life she led while we were at school, and when she could no longer take it she threw us out. On the fifth day of our vacation, my mother had a little breakdown. There were eight inches on the ground, and, rather than melting, it froze. School was cancelled, and two days later we got lucky again. Snow fell, and, for the first time in years, it accumulated. Winters were frustratingly mild in North Carolina, but the year I was in the fifth grade we got lucky.