Luke's POV Set during 'Love and War and Snow' in the first season

"Some traditions are nice," she tells me with an unfailing smile, explaining how she loves the holidays and her annual walk in the first snow of the season. She makes me what to smile.

I tell her how my dad used to be a reenactor in Star's Hollow Revolutionary War reenactment. It is strange, because I rarely talk about my father, even to family and the people who were closest to him, let alone someone who never even met him. He was a great guy. I almost tell her how I used to like the reenactments, but I don't, because the reason is too much.

I ask if she wants to come in the diner for a coffee. She refuses with a smile and says she wants to enjoy the snow, her gift, for a bit. I watch as she walks away giggling. Gosh, Lorelai was pretty.

As I walk back into the diner I recall back to when I first came to this town. My father's family was from here, but not my mother's. We moved here when I was about five, just before I would start school. My parents had lived out of Star's Hollow for the first few years of their marriage, but thought that is where they wanted to raise me and, eventually, my sister.

I remember clearly the first reenactment my father, William, was involved in. I could not wait for it and when it came, I stayed out as late as my mother, who would laugh cheerfully about the silliness of it all, would let me, just watching the group of men, dressed up as a small militia stand in to solid, unmoving lines for hours, or at least it seemed like hours. I knew then, that one day, when I grew up, I wanted to be one of those men standing in uniform with a musket, waiting for the redcoats.

I almost laugh I as wipe the tables at that thought. Now, I wouldn't be caught dead anywhere near even enjoying that stupid practice, but back when I was barely a child, it was my dream. As I grew up, it became a little more cheesier and stupid each year, yet still remaining in my subconscious was the urge to be one of them one day.

Then, when I was still in high school, my mother died, and she took part of Dad with her. Indeed, it hurt all of us, she was an amazingly kind person, but it did not affect anyone more than it did my father. He lost some of his spirit and some of his heart with her. I don't know if anyone else noticed but me, because he continued with raising Liz and me and going about his job. And yes, every year he was out there with his musket, standing in the cold, awaiting the never coming enemy.

I did not understand then why Dad continued doing it. He did not find the joy in it as he once did, but I know now, or at least I have a good hunch. It was like he was waiting for Mom to show up, chuckle good naturedly, and tell him he was being silly for doing this, and he was getting too old to do it. Or perhaps reprimand him for buying his own muskets, which were only any use once a year, and the money could have been spent on something more useful, but not actually mad, and walk away muttering something about boys always having to have their toys.

I look out the widow again to see the men standing, shivering, out in the heavy snow. It was crazy. They were crazy. So I guess my father was crazy too. As I grew out of my teens, I could not understand why my father did it. I know now…

Mom's death took a toll on Dad's health as well. He was getting sick more often, thus making him physically weak. It was heart-wrenching, and ironic, to see him deteriorating, especially at such a young age because, if you knew him, he was anything but weak…mentally, spiritually, physically, or emotionally. I thought he should stop reenacting, for his health, so did the doctor…but he was as stubborn as a mule. He did it anyway.

I guess I blame that night, so many years ago… It was frigid night, cold and windy and snowing, which was probably worse part, yet there they were, including my father, standing out in it.

He got a cold from that night, a cold that turned out to be pneumonia, pneumonia that took his life. His immune system was too weak to fight it off and his will to live died a bit each day since Mom died.

I sighed to myself as I carried a tray of coffees to the reenactors across the street. I guessed I blamed that stupid reenactment for my father's death, so every year it reminds me of him. Not the strong, loving, heartful him. But rather the weak, dieing, tortured him. The him that wasn't him.

As I am taking orders and handing out coffees, I hear Lorelai's laugh behind me. Maybe I'll tell her now, about why I hate this tradition so much. She would be one to listen and understand and sympathize without giving me pity that I hate. Maybe with her help, she can teach me to love old traditions…and the snow.

I turn my head and see her with someone else. They are laughing and holding hands, as Lorelai twirls in the falling snow, then lean in and they kiss.

Now I stand here, shocked, mouth agape, still as a statue, confused, but knowing one thing for sure…I could never love the snow.