Tollhouse & The Old Sierras

Usually the story is best told by my father.  

I don't remember why we were at the lake.

Surely, the sandy edges were frozen over, as snow covered the splintery steps of the marina.

For whatever reason, a Papa bear & his Young were sleeping the night in the woods.

Streetside at a pay phone, a Papa shared words with a Mama, while the Young kicked baby flakes into the icy curb.

& as cordial sentences were uttered, & weighty plans being made, the Young slyly eyed a snowy step wall.

& before a Papa could prevent the unpreventable, the Young ploughed his head into the cold bank.

& they all smiled, too.