As a child living in Maine, I learned to live with bitter winters. Some say it forges character; I tend to think it is the reason I escaped to a warmer climate as soon as I possibly could.

One breath-freezing afternoon in early winter, however, I recall strolling courageously across an iced-over pond near my house, which was a breeding ground for squadrons of mosquitos in warmer weather. The stretches of frosty gray ice were outlined by a fringe of evergreens where land stood. Everything had closed up for winter, and the frozen pond, in its barreness, creaked under my weight, as if warning me not to tread upon it. The smell of woodsmoke hung in the air, and the North Wind whistled across the frozen pond, stinging my ears until they were numb. Even though I was bundled up well, I could feel the biting chill through my winter garb.

Seeing myself as Dorothy Hamill, I attempted a few pirouettes on the soles of my boots, ecstatic to be literally walking on water. Clearing off the wind-blown snow with my mitten, I tried to peer through the ice and the air bubbles dancing just under the surface, into the inky blackness, wondering how anything could survive in the depths below. Yet, my fisherman neighbor regularly pulled out his wriggling catch through the hole he bored in the ice. This gave me hope. It proved that life could persist in the most inhospitible of environments, provided you stay away from the hooks.

Traipsing back to my house, I watched the charcoal smoke from the chimney soar upward and then, mesh with the cold greyness of the sky. I rushed home to be on the other side of that chimney, keeping warm while waiting for the day I could escape.