A winter walk down our street made me appreciate another season in New England yet again. I think of all the places we have lived and how much I missed it here. Some days I wasn’t sure exactly what I was missing as we were living and functioning wherever we were. Life was going on. My walk last weekend told me just what it was. It was the stillness of an antiquated New England street after a fresh snow. It was the 19th century houses heavy with icicles and frosted window panes. It was the crunch of light, fluffy snow compacting under my boots. It was my neighbor’s plaid fur lined hat and friendly wave. It was the way the wood smoke smells drifting out of the chimneys as it find its way upwards, past the tall snowy pines and leafless birch trees until it has spread out into the solid gray sky.
