The year I turned 7 has blurred in my mind the way old photographs fade and fray at the edges.
We had just moved to Mabank in the thick of “white flight,” though I wouldn’t understand that phrase until much later. Life here, an hour southeast of Dallas, felt small-town simple: penny candy at Hughey’s Department Store, matinees at the Matex Theatre, teachers leading us down the sidewalk in our “tennie” shoes to whatever film they decided was worth a lesson. On special days, we clutched nickels and headed to Hughey’s counter, overwhelmed by glass jars of jelly beans and chocolate balls.
But it wasn’t the candy or the matinee that stuck with me. It was the sight of Snow.
