Winter Remembered

Winter has a way of making you yearn for the snowy landscapes of your memories. Germany at Christmas was always a favorite—strolling through twinkling Christmas markets that felt plucked from a storybook, wandering cobblestone streets lightly dusted with snow. The scent of roasting chestnuts and spiced glühwein lingered in the frosty air, wrapping you in warmth even as the cold nipped at your nose.

In Vermont, mornings began on snow-covered slopes, skis carving effortless paths through powder as the crisp mountain air filled your lungs. Evenings meant something quieter: the soft crackle of a fire, a blanket draped over your legs, and mugs of cocoa topped with marshmallows that melted into swirls of sweetness. And on many occasions, something stronger.

Southampton in winter, when the tourists were gone, had its own kind of magic. The beaches, so often bustling in the summer, became windswept and serene. It was a time for quiet reflection, the waves lapping at empty shores under a pewter sky.

Vinalhaven, Maine, was quieter still. When the water froze solid and even the ferries stopped running, the island seemed suspended in time.

The crab shanty in the photograph was hidden off the beaten path—a path few people knew existed. In winter, it stood as a lonely outpost, its weathered walls holding fast against the icy winds. The crabber, bundled in layers against the cold, worked steadily, securing his belongings before the storm rolled in. The shanty is gone now, taken by the sea, but its memory endures, just like so many other snowy days.