It’s cold. The sky is gray and cloudy. I stand on the freezing concrete with no shoes as my socks soak up the frigid ice from the ground. My head is lifted towards the heavens in anticipation as my father calls to me to stand next to him. As I amble over to him I contemplate the phenomenon that is about to take place. We are waiting for the first snow of the long, harsh, winter. We chat, my father and I, about life, school, grades, friends, family, my job opportunities, books I have been reading, my latest artistic endeavor. I talk to him about solarization and my latest work in the darkroom at my school, he tells me about is paper on bioinformatics and how it is applicable to everyday life. We smile and nod, both wondering how it is that we are so alike, and, yet, so different at the same time. We are just passing the time now. We wait. I get anxious, jumpy, touchy, nervous that my plan will not work out. I am about to go inside and complain to my mother that it is too cold. Then I see it, right in front of me. Small, clear, soft, light, it sits on my cheek like a parrot perches on a pirates shoulder. How strange it is to know what is about to happen and have a sense of wonderment when it does. I hold my camera in front of me, steady it, and am energized with a new sense of awe. Five, ten, fifteen minutes pass. My father is preparing his camera as well. He sees photography as a necessary tool for science; I see it as an art. After a fleeting twenty minutes the occurrencethat we have so wished for all year starts to take place. Snow, beautiful, illustrious snow, falls all around my feet, swirling, dancing, waving hello to me with its icy fingers. I am elated, my father is passive. We both are looking at the same things and we both see something totally different. He sees an experiment; I see a chance to catch a good photograph. I am a scientist’s daughter, I am an artist, we are the same.