EDMOND — Friday was one of those days that make it hard for me to see a house as a house. A house is an economic data point. A house is a product whether on the market or off. This house is the sum total of the construction materials, labor and risk that W. Ray Newman Homes put up right here, in Park Lane Estates, Section 2, Block 009, Lot 013, back in ’87. Friday. It’s 2 p.m., and I’m working at the kitchen table in this house, but because it’s not just a house, I keep having to get up and tend to things. Just now, I got up to go reopen the front door so I could see it snow through the storm door. My wife, who slept in today, her birthday, just came in and closed it out of habit. Before that, I got up to take Bailey, our poor, half-crippled dachshund, from his recovery-room-cage a few feet away out to a Nature’s Miracle-brand puppy-training pad in the sun room where he, again, failed to do his business. Before that, I got up to carry our primary cat, Ice T, outside to let it snow on him, for the sheer fun of it: He was bug-eyed and amazed — then put off. It’s been snowing hard all day, the kind I haven’t seen that much lately, having lived most of my life by now in the land of sleet, freezing rain and ice. It’s had me thinking of other snows and other houses: the 1940s farmhouse I started growing up in two miles east of Muldrow, the house next door that my folks built in the late ’70s, where I finished growing up. Snow memory: Pancho, my big sister’s Chihuahua, on a visit from Fort Worth, jumping out into fresh white snow over his little head, and jumping back out of freshly yellowed snow in an instant, some kind of lands-peed record. Another one: When it snowed something like nine Wednesdays in a row, so Muldrow let out school early nine Wednesdays in a row, and school was out nine Thursdays and Fridays in a row, and the school year then never seemed to end. Another one: Walking across our pasture to the Union Pacific railroad line, a 2/3 -mile hike, then another mile or so west toward Muldrow along the track, in a snowstorm, to meet Rob McKinney halfway so I could borrow his new Fleetwood Mac "Rumours” eight-track. Mama said I could go — I was 13, I guess — but that I couldn’t walk along the slick highway because she was afraid somebody would slide and run over me. Rob, a couple of years older, offered me a Marlboro red. I took it mainly for the heat. None of which has much to do with a house. But the snow didn’t let me stay house. It let me work at home, and today there’s snow place like home.