It's snowing heavily in Northfield at the moment. After lunch, Clara and I waxed up our skis, which have been languishing unused in the basement for nearly two years, and drove over to the Lower Arboretum for a lovely hour-long ski. We skied along the river, up through the oak savanna, and across the open prairie (where Clara likes to imagine she's Anne Bancroft skiing across Antarctica). Nothing could be lovelier than the Arb in winter. The snow blotted out everything but the grasses and the trees, and we seemed to be alone in a wilderness. After the ski, we came home to another winter treat that I missed last year in England—pickled herring on Triscuits. I also got out the double Gloucester and stilton and poured a warming glass of port. Unfortunately, Peter called to say that he had missed the bus—don't ask me how—and needed to be picked up at the middle school. Soon I was outside again, pushing the car—with Clara at the wheel—out of a snowbank at the foot of the driveway. Winter is here and, despite the occasional hassles, I couldn't be happier.