This is what I think of when I think of snow; When I was a kid, my Memere, with whom I share a birthday, would tell me about how her mother died when Memere was 14. They lived in northern Maine, on the Canadian border and it was 1936.

Snow had been falling all day, which was normal, but it was heavy and deep. My great-grandmother went into labor and things went very wrong - and the doctor couldn't get through the snow to their home. And so she died in childbirth.

From then on, Memere couldn't stand to live in the country. She left Maine at 18 and came to Hartford where she lived for 20 years, moving after that to the center of Glastonbury.

Pepere loved the country and his gardens, so they tried living in Coventry for six months in the 50s, but she hated the country so much that they quickly moved back to Hartford. She could never stand to be isolated again.

I suppose that rubbed off on me.