An important part of living in New England was revealed to me today. It is a lesson learned.

For the last few weeks, with the fading of bright reds, yellows and oranges along the landscape and the arrival of a somewhat sodden gray, we’ve been getting ready for winter’s challenges. As first-time New Englanders, we’re excited, determined and ever-so slightly concerned. So we now have several really nice wool sweaters, some silk long undies, snow boots, fur ear muffs, a pair of oil lanterns, lots of batteries, more candles than any cathedral would require for mass, a full propane tank to fuel the grill in the event of power outages, gallons of water for drinking and whatever, food stocks to hold out for at least a week, an emergency radio, an Eskimo dog for additional warmth, and a wood stove, which we successfully fired up for the first time a few nights ago. And today we got our delivery of a cord of wood.

Herein lies the lesson.

The truck arrived with the wood — kiln-dried, nicely cut and ready for burning throughout the winter months — right on schedule, backed up to the shed in the yard, and dumped one cord of really great looking wood in front of the shed. Then the driver drove away. “Hey,” I shouted, then more loudly, “HEY!” Who’s going to stack this cord in the shed, I asked out loud? As the truck disappeared down the road, it dawned on me for the very first time that I was going to be the one stacking that cord of terrific-looking wood in the shed. That now-evident fact had never occurred to me. So I promptly called my long-time New England friend and asked if this had ever happened to anyone here before? When she finished laughing, I knew the answer.

So today, I’ve been stacking a cord of wood. Frankly, before today I had no idea how much wood was in a cord. I mean, in Atlanta, who needed wood? If it was cold today, it would be warmer tomorrow, so just turn up the heat. Of course when it never gets warmer until April, you’ve got to do something else. Welcome to a New England winter. So as I say, I’m now slowly, slowly reducing that pile of wood into sort-of neat rows inside the shed. I suppose there’s an art to stacking, somehow, but I have no clue what it might be. In fact, I actually doubt there’s an art to it. It’s just work.

But there’s really a rather cheery epilogue to my learning. Apart from making it clear that we are here for the long haul, we’ll get through winter and eagerly look for spring (or mud, whichever comes first), there’s finally the sense that I’m becoming a New Englander. Not just someone who is here, but someone whose home is here now, and whose life is here now, too. And someone who welcomes — well, at least accepts — some of what that means. And I must confess, it feels pretty darned good. At least as long as I can find the aspirin.