On mornings like these, I feel a false sense of kinship with those who live in Arctic regions. I prepare myself for the journey into town by piling on my winter coat, scarf, mittens, and boots which so readily accompany me outside these days. As I step out from the warmth and comfort of my sleepy home, I peer out of the garage door opening to see a handful of balsam firs sway knowingly in the audible wind. Below the trees, two men stand chatting away while snow spills over like piles of dry sand into the partially plowed driveway. The road just beyond them is barely visible and yet to be plowed at all. But nobody shows signs of concern over the conditions around us--not even the firs.
