So, what's my excuse? Why do I spend the month of December scraping my windshield with a plastic cassette cover and tiptoeing through snow banks like a lunatic because my Sorrels have yet to migrate out from the back of the closet? You would think that a meteorologist, of all people, would be there on the front steps, shovel in hand, wrapped in a cocoon of Gore-Tex and down, staring sky ward for a glimpse of the season's first snowflake.

For me, and many of my fellow winter weather worshipers, the anticipation of winter actually supersedes winter itself. I get so caught up in the drama of winter's first snow storm that I just don't think about snow tires or windshield fluid or even where I buried my mittens.

If waking up to a fresh snowfall doesn't bring some sort of primal combination of comfort and wonder, then it's really time to start thinking about a different latitude. Here in New England you can't look at snow as the stuff that slows down the commute or cancels the meeting, because if you get into that rut you'll be miserable for a third of the year. Remember that for an all too short part of our lives, that period we refer to as childhood, a winter snowstorm provides perhaps the single most joyous occasion imaginable: a no-school day.

I remember this particular form of drama unfolding with the evening forecast, and the TV weathermen (they were all men back in the dark recesses of the 1960s) could play it for all it was worth. Back then there were no computer-enhanced radar and satellite pictures, or earth-track-whatever graphic gizmos to play with. Instead, a TV weather map was actually drawn on the blackboard with isobars and fronts and lows and highs and other such things meteorological. Like reading, it summoned the imagination, and it was this excited imagination that kept my junior high brain racing long after the body, and the parents, said it was time for bed.

I don't know what first creeps into the 6 a.m. consciousness of a dreary school-bound 12-year-old on a normal day, but on a not-so-normal, potential-no-school day, there's an influx of information that can size up the meteorological situation before the head rises from the pillow. The sound of traffic provided the morning's first weather observation.

First of all, was there any sound at all? Were the whines and whirs of tires muffled by snow? On only one day, in February of 1969, do I remember waking up to the wonderful silence of more snow than could be plowed. It was a week before I saw a school bus.

The speed of traffic also gave clues, as could the sound of splashing puddles, that dreaded sound of water in its liquid form that surely meant a change to rain, and a waste of perfectly good precipitation. The best clue, of course, was the snowplow. The slow-moving muffled sound of a plow pushing deep snow was what I wanted to hear. If a plow whizzed by, scraping its blade against the pavement, leaving nothing in its wake, then the school buses were soon to follow.

In the town where I grew up, the fire whistle blew at 6:45 if school was canceled. On such a day, the sound heard in most houses at 6:46 was the sound of kids like me jumping out of bed. The memories of such moments are so strong that to this day I can't imagine a casual acceptance of a fresh coating of snow, or less than a few moments of pure amazement over what the atmosphere can produce.

I spent time this past fall combing the New Hampshire hills for woolly bear caterpillars. I found two. I was hoping to conduct some scientific research on a well-known bit of winter weather folklore that ascribes the woolly bear with a prognosticative proficiency beyond that of your average larvae. This is how the story goes: If the woolly bear's coat consists of a narrow brown band sandwiched between two wide black bands of fuzz, then a cold and snowy winter awaits. If the brown band is wide and the two black bands skinny, you can leave the snow shovels in the basement. The problem with my not-so-significant sample of two caterpillars was that one little fella (just assuming) possessed the former characteristics, the other the latter.

The fact is, the woolly bear's autumn sartorial splendor has about as much to do with the severity of the upcoming winter as it has to do with the price of lawn furniture. And this has been proven by real scientists, not only by me. It is amazing that in spite of their relative inaccuracy, winter weather proverbs endure. The squirrel and its acorns, the goose bone and its spots, even the groundhog and its own holiday, have all quite miserably failed any scientific scrutiny hurled their way. Yet, the folklore survives.

While woolly bears change coats, people respond to winter by creating myths, legend, and folklore, I guess in some way supplying a sort of psychological edge. It's optimism and control we yearn for as the days become frightfully short and dark, the trees bare. With the end seemingly near, we'll take proverbs, the Old Farmer's Almanac, and woolly bears to put our minds at ease.

With my woolly bear survey run amok, I wondered if my desire to look into the future might be better served by observing my fellow humans' behaviors, rather than by crawling around in the forest, measuring the stripes on caterpillars and counting acorns. In October, I learned that not a single snowblower could be found in stores from Boston to Washington, D.C. Sold out! And in upstate New York, bags of rock salt were flying off the store shelves at a pace never seen before. Also, just down the street, my neighbors have stacked a dozen cords of firewood, twice as much as last year.

It's mid-November as I write, and so far the fall has been extremely warm and dry. An elderly friend says the snow won't fall until the ponds freeze. I asked when that would be and she said "Oh, after the swamps are full." So, according to this bit of wisdom, we need a warm rain then a dry cold spell before the white stuff begins to pile up and the ultimate source of all the earth's energy, the sun, seems to go into hiding.

The winter sun delivers a less concentrated beam of energy, for a shorter period of time each day. In winter, the sun's lack of enthusiasm means that food is scarce, that water is frozen, that shelter is needed, and that life is tough.

It's no surprise that many of our winter holidays are steeped in traditions that involve lots of food. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Chanukah, Candlemas (which has evolved into Groundhog Day) - all are associated with feasting. In spite of the shortages, food is set aside for these occasions to remind us that life goes on, to provide that needed shot of optimism.

Huge chunks of the globe don't even have winter. This begs the question, What is winter? Ecologists define a winter climate as one that includes three months of average temperature below 30 degrees Fahrenheit, and two months of snow-covered ground. A line across the country separating areas with and without these criteria runs roughly on a sweeping arc from Philadelphia to Denver to Seattle. To the north of this line, true winter; to the south, fake winter. Coincidentally, or maybe not, this line also marks the southernmost end of the range of spruce trees, truly winter's indicator species.

There is a climate boundary along this line as well. It marks the average southern terminus of what meteorologists call Arctic air masses, huge pools of heavy cold air that spill out of central Canada, spreading like poured molasses, undercutting the warm southern air at precise, clashing battle zones known as fronts. Forgive the military analogies, but it is the confrontation of air masses of conflicting density and moisture content that produces the atmospheric dissonance we call storms. It is no coincidence that the bulk of this continent's winter storms cruise this very zone, lumbering their way from west to east.

All living things cope with winter in one of two ways; they either hang around and deal with it, or they leave. It's that simple - fight or flight. Winter ecologists call these two coping mechanisms tolerance and avoidance. Now, don't look at this as a conscious decision that every individual member of every species makes every year around Labor Day. Making decisions is not something you would associate with, oh, say, a dandelion. The decisions are made via adaptation, through genetic trial and error, taking thousands of generations and in some cases millions of years.

A huge number of species, including alligators, avocado trees, and tropical fish, made the "decision" long ago to not even bother with winter. My neighbor made the same decision last year and now winters in Miami. There certainly is some sense in this nonconfrontational approach. Most of the world's living things live in perpetual summer; relatively few are equipped for winter.

"Leaving" for the winter doesn't always mean not showing up in the first place; another way to "leave" is to simply die. This is the tried-and-true response of all our annual plants and several of our insects and spiders. This ultimate decrease in energy demands is not as draconian as it may sound. It is a successful strategy. The key is to leave behind some seeds or eggs, whatever the case may be, for next spring.

I think most of us would equate this concept of leaving for the winter with migration, a strategy seldom found in the plant kingdom for obvious reasons, but employed frequently by birds, the most mobile segment of the animal kingdom. Broad-winged hawks, for example, will mass in the tens of thousands for an energy-depleting, 3,000-mile flight from the cold. Some years, only half of the birds survive the round trip to the tropics and back to the North Woods. Migration takes it's toll, but so does winter.

For the species that have evolved the capability of toughing it out, there are two options: activity and inactivity. Activity means work to make up for the sun's laziness. It's the mind-boggling metabolism of the chickadee that raises the temperature of its golf-ball-size body to 110 degrees. And it's the voracious appetite of the short-tailed shrew that won't allow it to stop its subnivean insect hunting for more than a matter of minutes, lest it keel over and die. And, for you and me, it's the harvesting of trees, the mining of oil and coal, and the preserving of food.

Inactivity, practiced by dormant perennial plants, is also employed by the couch potatoes of the animal and human world. Inactivity lowers energy needs. The white-tailed deer will do its best to fatten up in the fall in preparation to stand in one place and nibble on twigs all winter long. Honey bees will cram into the hive and beavers will huddle in the lodge, using each other for insulation. Bears, woodchucks, and chipmunks go beyond behavior modification; winter conditions trigger an internal metabolic shutdown in the stingiest balance of the energy budget - hibernation.

Cold-blooded creatures have the toughest row to hoe. Like our friend the woolly bear, or the turtles and salamanders burrowed into the mud, insects, reptiles, and amphibians have to find a winter home that will hopefully stay above freezing. Some garter snakes have been found frozen solid in midwinter - remarkably, a survivable predicament for them.

Winter storms help these critters by blanketing their subterranean beds with a life-saving insulation layer, often provided by a northeaster, or, recognizing the ol' New England fondness for contractions, a nor'easter. This fabled storm is fed by a giant counterclockwise swirl of energy whose northeast wind scoops moisture from the Atlantic, freezes it, and deposits it inland as warmth to the burrowing shrew, as joy to the soon-to-be-out of-school child, and as a surprise to the meteorologist.

Winter transforms. But, to me, it does so in a manner that is non-threatening because winter is temporary. To winter is to survive, not to change. Winter is respite and it is renewal. Fighting it causes frustration, embracing it brings strength. For the woolly bear, the woodchuck, the spruce tree, the snow flea, and the meteorologist, winter is perfect. Every year, a familiar visit. Every year, a perfect beginning.