The ice storm was beautiful, cold and clear. Trees sheathed in ice, icicles dripping like a lace tablecloth off the picnic table, birds to our surprise darting about as if at play, flashing their colorful wings, everything still except for their chirping and the snapping of frozen limbs. We lost power. We huddled in front of the fire, listened to the battery-operated radio or to nothing at all but the crackling (fake) log, lit the night with honeysuckle candles.

Before it all melted away next day, I went swimming just to prove I could, ice still hanging from the deck chairs, me in the outdoor pool in midest -winter, thinking of all my dear snowed-in up your eyelashes also-lucky and beloved friends up North.

Today is the first anniversary of our move from there to here.