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You know it's been a hard winter when you find yourself shoveling snow from the roof top on a 30-degree day and think, "Sure is a pretty good day for shoveling snow from the roof."

If you've ever shingled a roof in August, you know that shingling is torrid, sweaty business. Shoveling roof-top snow in January is pleasant.

That's what I was thinking when my daughter drove up in her red '96 T-bird before heading back to college. She gave me a worried look that clearly indicated that my activity had an even lower approval rating than the time I bought her "Scrabble" for a gift.

There was a time in my daughter's pre-school days when I could do no wrong. I was the best fisherman, swimmer, juggler, runner, cyclist and teacher. More than anything, I was the best at giving her underdogs, those pushes in her yellow and blue swing, so fast and hard that I went under the swing as she soared toward the tree's upper limbs.

At her request, I got the pleasure of eating lunch with her monthly through the sixth grade. I helped her with spelling words over breakfast. She would laugh over silly sentences made up for each word, "Chair. The amazingly thin hippopotamus with a pink tutu sipped her tea in her majestic chair. Chair." She spelled "chair," giggling at my foolishness.

Soon her middle school years came and friends became increasingly important. "Dad," she said. "You hang around too much when my friends are here." My role in her life was becoming smaller as time went by. I lost my ability to help her in math around ninth grade.

High school arrived with driving and cell phones and other competitors. Teachers often had the last word on subjects, and parental opinions were often dismissed. I found a bright spot in teaching her how to drive a 5-speed manual transmission.

Growing pains are a shared experience, and my daughter's increasing need for independence loomed larger with each day leading up to her high school graduation and her departure to college.

From the vantage point of my roof, I look at my 19-year-old. I can tell she's afraid if she doesn't leave while I'm two stories removed, that she may have to stay forever. She's also starting to worry about next summer and what it will mean to come back home. She'll have rules to follow, a job to hold and household chores to be done.

I will most certainly say things to her that my father once said to me: "You can only be independent when you're financially independent." She'll call me a "fun-hater." Our relationship has played itself out over the years with different cast members.

My daughter says her goodbyes and drives down the road, her T-bird taking the curve with a swagger that only the young can manage. I look on with parental disapproval mixed with a tinge of envy. She has the makings of a charmed life.

I have no doubt that she'll find a way to pay the bills but worry that she won't pursue what makes her the happiest. That's her challenge though; all I can do is support her and let her know that if she comes home, it will be business as usual. That may be just enough to keep her pursuing her dreams.

From my snowy roof, I look down the bend of the icy road, where her car swept past but left no trace, and see the limb where my little girl's yellow and blue swing hung. For a moment, I'm drawn back to that place in time, on a cool, summer's day, when I could do no wrong giving her underdogs in June.

- Doug Clough

Doug Clough writes a column for the Ida County Courier in Ida Grove, Iowa, called "From our backyard…" His work has appeared in Farm News, The Iowan and Boating World, and he served as a travel scout for Midwest Living. "I am a father of a salad bowl family (aka 'blended'), a customer service manager, the possession of my Labradoodle and - in a former life - an English teacher. Someone has to enjoy that mix; it may as well be me," he says.