“Think warm.” That’s all I’ve been able to tell myself and my family these last few frigid months, in the vain hope that bone-chilling, teeth-chattering cold can be reduced to a state of mind.

It hasn’t worked. No conjured images of beach towels, boardwalks, and blazing suns can mask the mercury on the car thermometer, which the other morning registered -14 degrees. It is the kind of weather that freezes ink in pens, makes every uttered syllable a marathon, turns shovels into anvils and reduces White House hopefuls and media members touring the state every four years to grimacing, flannel-clad popsicles.

It is also part of what makes us the New Englanders we are. No matter how much we complain – and we have a talent for it – we are no doubt sturdier, grittier and some might say more philosophical because of our winter weather. So much of the poetry, photography and memories readers across the state have shared with us these last few months have reflected both the stoicism and even appreciation folks here have for our four distinct seasons. It is, to be sure, a grudging appreciation at times!

“New England has a harsh climate, a barren soil, a rough and stormy coast, and yet we love it, even with a love passing that of dwellers in more favored regions,” former Massachusetts Senator and Presidential candidate Henry Cabot Lodge once said.

He was right. And that was in the 1920s, before the age of HVAC, arctic fleece, tanning salons and Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. It was a time before, for many homes, there was even a car to shovel out in the morning.

I recall the tale told to me of a security guard in Manchester, a craggy WWII Pacific campaign vet in his 80s, who recalled what it was like growing up in Portsmouth during the 1920s and 30s, and weathering the worst Mother Nature could throw at them each winter. He’d grown up in a one-room home where siblings would take turns sleeping close to the pot-belly stove (when it worked), where the restroom was a crudely-fashioned outhouse on the dock with a hole at the bottom (you had to be quick, he recalled!), and where some nights were so frigid, wet hair could become brittle and the icebox was left open just to keep food cold.

“And you know what?” he said. “We couldn’t complain. Because that was all we knew back then.”

I would bet you he was at least trying to think warm, though.