There was a snowstorm on the evening on which I was born. The date was 1918. The place was Hanover, New Hampshire where my father taught philosophy at what was then a small college. I grew up where the Connecticut River dominated the valley, and the ocean seemed an enormous distance away. Our house was at the top of a hill, and a garden extended from the back door to the banks of the river. We had a gardener who came twice a week to take care of it. It wasn't unusual in that time and place.

Apple cider warming on the wood burning stove is the first thing that I remember. My older brother putting on layers of winter clothes to go sledding on the hill behind our house. The puddles on the floor which his boots made when he returned. My mother sitting on the windowseat sketching snow covered trees.