Illustrated by Emily Dimov-Gottshall

“Keep knocking wind, no one is going to open the door and invite you in," his Mom yelled at the storm. "Don't let it bother you, Michael. It's just showing off. It can't touch us in the house." She put her arm around him, and steered him to the table and a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

Michael nodded and glanced out the window. The sweet smell of the hot chocolate tugged his attention away from the storm. He sipped it gingerly, waiting for it to cool.

CRASH!

Michael jumped and spilled his drink on the table.

“What was that?" he said, peering out at the blizzard once more.

Then the back door opened and his father, who had been checking the horses in the barn, entered.

“The wind just knocked down the oak tree," he said, stomping his feet and shaking off snow.

Michael's eyes widened with fear. The oak tree had stood in his yard forever. If that could fall...

His father tousled his hair. "Hey is that hot chocolate I smell? And you started without me! Don't deny it, I see the chocolate mustache." Michael ducked his head and laughed.

Later that night, tucked snug in his bed, Michael had trouble falling asleep. He had never seen a blizzard. Snow was usually quiet and gentle. He remembered catching soft flakes on his tongue, while snow blanketed the ground, tucking it in for winter slumber.

Tonight’s storm was not quiet. It rattled the windows. It had knocked down the oak tree. The wind moaned and howled, circling the house like a wolf.

“I’ll huff and puff and blow your house down!” It seemed to bellow. He buried his head in his pillow and covered his ears.

By morning the storm had blown itself out. The sun was shining brightly. Deep piles of snow beckoned him to play. He prepared to go out, like a knight donning armor--snow pants, jacket, boots, mittens, scarf, and hat.

He went directly to the oak tree. Tangled roots stuck up at one end, branches at the other. Michael climbed onto the trunk and walked from end to end, balancing carefully. Snow made the tree bridge slippery. He waved and called to his father, who was plowing their driveway.

“Dad, look! I can go to the top of the tree,” he shouted. His father smiled and waved back.

Michael began to build a snowman. He struggled to roll the heavy snow into a large ball.

“Want some help, Michael?” his father asked, joining him.

Together they rolled and packed snow into three large balls, then carefully stacked them to form the snowman. Michael snapped two branches from the oak tree to make arms. He searched the ground for rocks to make the face, but the snow was too deep.

“Maybe Mom has something,” Michael said.

He raced back to the house. His cheeks tingled and his breath formed steamy puffs of air as he yelled from the door. “Mom, do you have anything we can use to make our snowman’s face?”

His Mom looked up from the pot she was stirring. The smell of hot soup, and carrots tickled his nose. She picked up the stump of a carrot from the counter and rummaged through the pantry. Smiling, she held up an old bag of nuts.

“Here you go,” she said. “As soon as you’re done putting the face on, come in for lunch.”

Michael’s stomach growled. He grinned. “Thanks, Mom. We’ll be quick.”

After Michael and his parents had finished their lunch, Michael tugged his mom's arm. “You have to come meet our snowman,” he said.

“Ok,” Mom agreed, “let me get my coat and boots.”

His parents walked to the snowman, while Michael dashed ahead.

“Oh no!” he exclaimed. The snowman’s carrot nose hung crookedly, one of his walnut eyes was missing, along with his hazelnut buttons. Michael was angry. Who had ruined his snowman?

His father pointed to a set of tracks in the snow. They followed them to the oak tree but then they disappeared under the trunk. Michael climbed on the tree and lay down. He hung his head upside down and peered underneath.

“There’s a hole,” Michael shouted. Angry chattering scolded him and he jumped back. A gray squirrel scurried along the tree trunk; its tail fluffed with alarm.

“Well, there’s your thief,” Dad said with a laugh.

“We have more nuts,” said Mom. “We can repair the snowman.”

Michael looked at the squirrel. He thought of the howling wolf wind. He imagined being inside the tree when the roots tore free. The loud crash it made as it smashed against the ground. He took the bag of nuts out of his pocket and spilled them on the snow.

“I think the squirrel needs them more,” he said. “He had an awfully rough night.”

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