We finally have a December that looks like the Decembers I remember from my childhood: snow, cold winds, clear blue sky, and I’m transported back to the winter my dad created a skating pond. That was a magical time for me. I knew my goal of being a world-famous figure skater would be realized when he snaked the garden hose from the basement utility sink, out the window and onto the small vacant lot that abutted our old duplex. I developed a routine that ensured warmth if not glamour. I’d shove my skinny little feet into my skates, lace them up (making sure that the bells in the pom poms were loose enough to jingle), button up my jacket, wrap a muffler around my neck, tie on my hat, pull down my woolen mittens from the “idiot strings” that kept them attached to my coat. My imagination told me I looked just like Sonja Henie. (I had a strong imagination as a kid.) In reality, I more likely resembled the Michelin Man. But doesn’t one's reality lie in what one believes?