While my specifics are different, the mood is very familiar. It honestly brings a tear to my eye as I think about, and miss, my father. Another such memory is evoked by a poem by Robert Hayden called, Those Winter Sundays. Here's an excerpt:
It is still dark when my father shakes me, cold seeming to radiate from his outside clothes. He touches my shoulder, not wanting to wake my sister in the twin bed.
"I'm awake. I'm awake," I say.
He leaves, and I go to the bathroom, where I put on layers of clothes, nothing good that will get dirty or torn. I walk downstairs and head out to his truck.
Sundays too my father got up earlyMy father died at age 52 when I was 17 years old. He remains with me in spirit. Maybe it's these kinds of memories that make me love the snow.
And put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
Then with cracked hands that ached
From labor in the weekday weather made
Banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
Bring it on!