New Hampshire

There are things that I love about winter. Hard to remember them when you're shivering with misery and cold while cursing the day you were born, but yes, they're there even still.

Most lovely of all are bare trees. Branches that are normally laden with leaves become completely visible and I'm always struck by their skeletons. Better still is the ability to locate every bird's nest in the tree. Snow is nice, too, as are woolly hats and frosty windows. Pink cheeks are universally flattering and even pink noses turn cute in the cold. A little whiskey works wonders.

To remind ourselves of these universal truths, we went to New Hampshire where winter is a religion. Live, freeze or die. We bunked, fancy style, at the local inn and tromped around in the snow until we lost track of where we had left our fingers and toes. We visited our family's summer house which was very much living up to it's name. Not a lick of insulation and proper heat made it colder inside than out. We cozied up in the car, cranking first the heat and second the volume. Off went the wet clothes. On went the slippers. And then our cheeks tingled as we drove back down south again.