Dear Friends,

Whenever I think of snow, my earliest memory is that of being encased in a woolen snowsuit. It's cold. (It's snowing, for God's sake!) Everything is very quiet except for the delighted screams of the kids in the neighborhood and the thump of their Flexible Flyers as they hit the slick ground and zoomed down the hill in front of our house in New Jersey.

I remember clearly the ordeal of getting dressed. Not that it was a solo operation (nor was there much of anything that was a solo operation at the age of three-and-a-half). The suiting ceremony involved layering two or three T-shirts under a heavy, hand-knitted sweater (Baby Gap being many years in the future). Long, corduroy pants followed. These "foundation garments" were topped off with the overalls that zipped down the leg and a matching jacket that had the mittens-on-a-string already threaded through the armholes. Then, with my mother guiding my corrective oxfords, my feet would be shoved into rubber boots with toggles that she secured with an extra length of cord around the ankles (see photo of me and my older sister, Nina).

Not only were you expected to actually walk in this contraption, but you were being sent forth to perform athletic-like endeavors -- such as making snowmen or belly flopping down the hill on your own sled. Actually, moving was less like walking and more like trundling -- arms swinging wide at your sides -- like a miniature Schwartzenegger on steroids. Sweating profusely, I'd step out onto the brick front porch that was flanked by giant black walnut trees and ponder, with youthful optimism, the six icy steps of our front stoop that were the last impediment between me and "fun".

Upon reflection (having been a gourmand at an early age) perhaps it was the lure of the hot Ovaltine with the real marshmallow -- not those jet-puffed excuses -- or a cup of steaming tomato soup waiting for me at the end of those hours of aerobics, that made getting dressed worthwhile. These activities were always followed by the aroma of wool drying near a radiator. This odor always takes me back to the feel of my mother's strong, sure hands as she unwrapped me from those heavy clothes. Which brings me to snow today.

There is seldom snow here in Mendocino. If and when it comes, for some freakish reason, it's always a delight because it doesn't last very long. Here, the snow is on the ground just enough to pretend that we live in a winter wonderland (see photos of my house and my meadow). Mostly it melts. I prefer it that way. Snow to me means putting aside the things of the child and taking up life's truly challenging tasks such as driving on black ice.

Give me these lazy Mendocino winter days with a good book and a tricky puzzle. Let me plan to bake some bread and make some absurdly hearty soup that requires minimal preparation and promises many consecutive meals of enjoyment. Let me sing-along with the Messiah or go to any number of tree lightings and Christmas concerts, but please, God, don't make me shovel snow.

2000 has been an extraordinary year in many respects. The real estate market in Mendocino has been hot, hot, hot. Prices leapt up, as was to be expected. There were many multiple bids on properties. As winter approaches the inventory is low, but there is always hope that it will increase come spring. It is ever thus at this point in the real estate cycle.

I want to take this opportunity to thank all of you for your emails and phone calls -- the life-blood of any Realtor. And to the new friends I've made this year through my real estate practice and my continual search for good neighbors: I hope you are as happy as my husband and I have been since moving here.

May the new millennium bring you continued prosperity and the promise of gentler times that bond you closer to those you love. Merry Christmas, Happy New Year and Happy Hanukah.

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