It was just a year ago that I fell not once but twice on thick boilerplate ice in my driveway, with nothing major damaged but a good bit of bruising and a bonus set of head x-rays to show for it. It had been a long spell of below freezing temperature with various bits of precipitation, non-meltable because of the low temperatures so it had built up to an impressively hard and slippery state.

Almost every year about this time when the temperature starts dipping into the “man is it cold” state of things I am reminded of this book. I live in a much colder house than many but it’s nothing like the days of late 18th and early 19th centuries. When the family gathered around an inefficient fireplace or small stove, where the temperature gradient in the room was extreme. People slept together just to stay warm. Having enough seasoned wood was not a luxury and families would consolidate into fewer rooms to conserve precious heat.

Sarah Emery recalled that “the winter of 1820 and 1821 was remarkably cold….China cups cracked on the tea table from the frost, before a rousing fire, the instant the hot tea touched them; and plates set to drain in the process of dishwashing froze together in front of the huge logs, ablaze in the wide kitchen fireplace.

II recommend the read and the resulting debunking of romantic myths about the early days of New England life: Our Own Sung Fireside, Images of the New England Home 1760-1860 by Jane C. Nylander