(Go here to see parts I and II.)  It was a cabin.  No motor vehicles allowed, and a mile cross-country ski in.  My uncle rigged sleds attached to poles that we could clip around our waists to carry our luggage in on.  And the adults had to take multiple trips.  To help Santa bring all the presents in in black bags.  And to get to the kitchen, you had to put your skis back on and and head a few hundred yards for breakfast.  Lunch.  Dinner.  But in the kitchen there was a chalk board.  So we would just hang out there for a while and snack in between meals.  And play hang-man.

And with no cars, or snowmobiles, or sounds around anywhere, we just hung out together.  As a family.  And made stuff up.  Like trying to ski down a hill with cross-country skis on.  Which doesn’t work.  Or opening a second story window and sliding down the roof into a pile of snow at the bottom.  When adults weren’t around.

One year on Christmas Eve my grandma told me to put my snow gear on.  I didn’t ask questions–I just did it.  Cousins and siblings asked us what we were doing, wondered if they could come with.  And my grandma said no.  (She said no.)  The night was quiet, the snow was falling peacefully.  And we went outside together.  Just me and my grandma.  She said we were going to make snow angels.  So together, we laid in the dark, in the snow, the large, soft flakes falling all around us.  And we made angels.  And laughed.  It wasn’t cold.  There were no distractions.  And at that moment time just stopped.  And it was just my grandma and me.