Snowmakers ran shifts 24 hours a day, but it was in the evenings when they fired up most of the guns.  On a hill cluttered with empty vacation homes, the headlights of my father’s car were only occasionally confused with those of a visiting renter.  Snowplows, with their laborious back and forth scraping were easy to differentiate.  They never got stuck in the steep pitch of driveway leading up to the house, and Bud Kohler, who, after two decades of matrimonial strife, was hired to take care of the driveway, often helped me yank my battered little front wheel drive compact out of the six-foot banks that lined the drive.