There’s a joke that goes: “What are the four seasons in New England? Winter, still winter, and three months of bad sledding.” Any shrewd Yankee – or wise visitor – chuckles at this saying but knows it just ain’t true. Rather, winter in the northeast is a wonderland of opportunity. As the sage Henry David Thoreau observed, “a healthy man, indeed, is the complement of the seasons, and in winter, summer is in his heart.” And in Concord, where Thoreau tread across snowy dells and meadows blanketed in white, hearts are “warm and cheery, like cottages under drifts, whose windows and doors are half concealed, but from whose chimneys the smoke cheerfully ascends.”
When Sophia Peabody met Nathaniel Hawthorne at her home in Salem, Massachusetts, he had little to offer but his Byronic good looks. He had published two books, but they brought him neither fame nor fortune, and at age 33, he had run out of ideas and motivation.
“I will take another walk to the Cliff, another row on the river, another skate on the meadow, be out in the first snow, and associate with the winter birds. Here I am at home. In the bare and bleached crust of the earth
I recognize my friend.”