The frigid North.

The frigid North.

Where men (And some women, I suppose, although I don't know any.) haul ice houses complete with windows and a door out onto frozen lakes and leave them there all winter, taking up weekend residence while they fish the places where, in the summer, they'd need Bermuda shorts and a snorkel.

The frigid North.

Where trekking to Target with MSC in the winter burns 2,400 calories, what with all the snowsuit bundling and unbundling.

The frigid North.

Where it snows and snows. And then snows some more. Where, out of necessity, even the four year olds grow tough enough to play out of doors for literally hours on end.



The frigid North.

Where big boots on feet and snow chains on tires are a recommendation, if not a requirement.



The frigid North.

Where you travel hours south for Christmas and, you were so far north to begin with, that you're still in the frigid North when you arrive at your parents' house.



The frigid North.

Where you live so close to Canada that Canadian change is accepted at your local grocery store. (You know the one, the one where you can trade plastic placards with numbers on them for bags of groceries--that may or may not be yours--so you don't even need to get out of your car in the snow.)



The frigid North.

Where you're not even afraid to get out of your car anyway. Where winter makes her own sandbox year after year. Yards, decks and cul-du-sacs full of snow become virtual playgrounds as cold becomes our way of life for at least 5 months out of the year.



The frigid North.

Where, during winter, playgrounds are forsaken as slides are traded in for sleds.



Yes, the frigid North.



We're at home here.