By Winthrop

The Italian word for winter is Inverno. This sounds very much like inferno which is Italian for hell. Anyone familiar with Dante’s Divine Comedy knows that unlike the common conception of hell as an exceedingly warm place for unredeemed sinners, the very nastiest region reserved for the worst of the worst was a desperately frigid place called Cocytus where those unfortunate souls were encased in ice, and worse, with the devil himself sharing their misery.

Which brings me to the subject of New England winters. Dante’s version of hell resonates with many of my peers when the days grow short and temperatures fall causing them to sprout snowbird plumage and fly off to warmer climes. Edith Wharton’s star-crossed title character in Ethan Frome is described as having been in his grim presumably-Berkshires village for too many winters and it is observed, “Most of the smart ones get away.” While modern transportation and technology options have mitigated the forced isolation of communities like Ethan’s fictional Starkfield during the seemingly endless winters, there is no question that many of us approach it with trepidation and as a period that must be endured by hunkering down and going out to buy bread and milk whenever the weather channel decides that a snowstorm should have a name.

It was not always thus. Before the blizzard of 1978, snowstorms were just, well, snowstorms and considered as normal as summer showers. What we called blizzards never seemed to meet the official criteria, but we knew one when we saw one. February 1978 brought the full onslaught of winter’s fury and laid bare our vulnerability to a cataclysm of nature. I still recall pulling my sled down the middle of Woodland Street because there was no vehicular traffic to join the line to get into Russell’s Supermarket on Central Street. Storm preparations have not been the same since.

To observe through a window in a comfortable living room a raging northeaster with windwhipped snow blowing sideways is an awe-inspiring experience that never grows old. Contrary to what many think, the term northeaster refers not to this region of the country; but to the direction of the wind in these cyclonic storms. A particular peeve is the widespread use of that awful affectation, nor’easter! One would have us believe this neologism is a nautical term along the lines of fo’c’sle (forecastle) or bosun (boatswain). And maybe it is, but not by authentic New England seamen who would no doubt pronounce it nawtheastuh.

The best strategy of coping with winter is to embrace it. Rather than dwelling on the shoveling, scraping, slipping and sliding, frozen fingers and toes, instead rejoice in no mosquitos and ticks, no yardwork, outdoor walks in the fresh, clean and bracing air, skiing, snowshoeing, sledding, ice skating, snow man construction, snowball fights and sleigh rides that those poor deprived souls in the south can’t have.

Yet even the most fervent of us winter buffs believe it is too long, and anyone lucky enough to get away from it for at least a week or two will jump at the chance. Nevertheless, we are truly blessed to live in a special place with four glorious seasons each having its own unique charm.