As I walked slowly down the orange, needle carpet, between the houses, along the ridge path, where Indians from bygone years once traveled, I was on the lookout for something unusual. You see, the new fall season that I longed for each year, was at hand. I once lived in New England where fall leaf watchers would anxiously wait for the magnificent matinee to begin and might walk a similar pathway. They would dress for New England's brisk weather in snug wool shirts and L.L.Bea

A hunk of sand enclosed in a fuming wintry mass of saltwater was my promised land. Designing perfect houses, drawing ridiculous cartoons, rendering landscapes and writing chapters from my imagination defined my being. With my own true scholarly love. I passed those frigid months indoors with mounds of quilts, roaring hearth fires and gallons of deep hot chocolate. No amount of bitter winds, knee high snow or windows of empty neighboring homes could keep me from basking in con