I sit watching fine, fluffy snowflakes swirling outside. Trucks rev up to plow another Maine winter storm. In Boston’s December, damp cold sliced my bones like icicles. In southern Connecticut, winter crowded me between teeming cars and snowy banks of the Merritt Parkway, but my winters in our northernmost County, Aroostook, bring the starkest memories.

My introduction to Maine winters was savage. Our first baby was born in Presque Isle in late November; her six-week checkup was scheduled for a 10-below-zero day. “How can I take a baby out in this weather?” I asked myself. I canceled. The rescheduled appointment was a balmy 10 above, so I bundled her excessively, called a cab and met the pediatrician, telling him I was afraid she’d be 6 months old if I waited for reasonable weather. He smiled.

In Aroostook I met hardy pioneer spirits, learned it can be too cold to snow and discovered a marvelous invention: the head bolt heater to plug into cars overnight, permitting them to start in the mornings without the battery exploding. That happened once. Lesson learned.

On Thanksgiving Day 1969, our twin girls arrived.

In ruthless January, we moved into our first home. The expansive house overlooked the Aroostook River. Baby girls in yellow snowsuits, faces covered with filigree blankets, were moved into the expansive dining room amid packing boxes. The house had been a two-family, so we closed off the upstairs in winter and still had more space than in the apartment. The three girls could romp without disturbing neighbors. There was a fireplace in the kitchen, which I fed all day. Life was hectic and our activities kept us warm.

The apex of winter happened one New Year’s Eve. Our friends gathered often for house parties, game nights and bean suppers. We hosted the New Year’s Eve party. Noisemakers, hats, kisses and hope escalated at midnight and fatigued soon after. As things wound down, guests went to start cars. I heard that brittle, dry sound snow underfoot makes in brutal weather. It creaks much like old wooden stairs in a spooky abandoned barn. I checked the outdoor thermometer. It could register 50 below. Mercury pooled below that; it was off the charts … in the negative. Cars moaned to start. Would they be safe? People had been drinking.

“Call the sitters, stay the night,” I implored. They poo-pooed me. I was from away. These Mainiacs knew how to winter like other creatures of nature. They had instincts and experiences which informed survival.

The snow is majestic in December and holy at Christmas. The white drifts will become a menace in January and a groan by February. Today I have flashlights, a propane fireplace and logs ready in the woodstove in case electricity quits. I am watching TV, connecting to the internet and heating tea in the microwave. All is good. I’ll imagine I’m inside a snow globe. After all, I spent 10 winters in Aroostook.