I was listening to a call-in radio show the other day when a caller from Alaska mentioned that it was 18 degrees below zero there. The hosts of the show got pretty worked up about that and shouted a question that cold-climate residents often hear: “Why would anyone live there?” The caller, on the defensive, replied, “It’s the price we pay for our summers.”

I sympathized with the caller, because I’ve often been on the receiving end of such questions. The exchange stayed in my mind, and a few hours later I came up with a response that I would have liked to make to the “Why would anyone live there?” question. I would reply, “I think what you’re really saying with your question is that you can’t imagine living here yourself.” That turns the tables and doesn’t saddle the questionee with the assertion implied in the question—which is, “You must be crazy or stupid to be living there.”

People live in a climate like that of the Upper Midwest (or colder climates) for many reasons, of course, ranging from insanity and stupidity to habit, family ties, job opportunities, and, yes, preference. I can cite most of those reasons to explain why I live here. Even more than that, I’m happy to be here, and it’s not because I just endure the winter to experience our bug-filled, frequently hot summers. Winter has its joys as well as its inconveniences, and I accept it as one act in the theater of the seasons. And in the Upper Midwest that theater features lots of drama.

The drama of late has featured some overacting from Old Man Winter, who’s had a major role in this month of December. Most of the warm-climate folks would be especially glad that they’re not in the Upper Midwest. Temperatures in the early part of the month were below normal, getting down to five and ten degrees below zero (F) here in southern Minnesota. And now we’ve had a significant snowfall—eight inches or so on December 14 and 15. The snow is piled high along our sidewalk and patio. Other parts of the region, such as areas around Lake Superior, have gotten even more snow.

As adults we’re aware of the inconveniences of winter in a way that children are not. The cold, the snow, the ice—these make the tasks of daily life a little harder. Adults have to shovel the walks and drive the icy roads. We have to bundle children in winter clothes and freeze our fingers as we fasten them into car seats. For children, however, winter is mother nature’s way of providing new playing surfaces for games—sledding, skating, skiing, making snowballs and snowmen, and building snow forts. For the child winter is a time of joyful play.

It’s important to connect with that child’s joy in winter by playing outside. On Sunday, December 10, I did so by going cross-country skiing for the first time in three or four years. My skis, poles, and boots had waited patiently in the closets of the three different homes we had lived in during that time.

I found that I hadn’t forgotten much about skiing. The balance and rhythm came back to me, though I was a little unsteady from lack of practice. I made my way through a nearby park and onto the St. Olaf College campus, where I cut a new trail through a wooded area and then made my way onto established trails.

Gliding along in this natural setting, seeing the dried grasses standing in the snow and the brown trees with their branches interlaced across a cloudy sky, I was distinctly aware of a sense of joy. I felt connected to both the past and the present—to a younger self that had spent many hours in similar settings, and to an older self that simply felt fortunate to be alive and taking all this in, glad to be exerting himself and enjoying winter.

That occasional feeling of joy is one reason why I live here in a place where most people cannot imagine living themselves.

On Sunday, December 4, we made our way through the bitter cold to attend our first St. Olaf Christmas Festival, the event that more or less puts St. Olaf College on the national map. Televised annually on PBS and featuring the St. Olaf Orchestra and various college choirs, the two-hour festival is performed once each day for four consecutive days.

Before the festival began, a friend was quick to correct anyone who called the festival a “concert.” The latter word didn’t fit this religious event, in his mind. After attending the festival, I saw what he meant. This is a thoroughly religious event, a worship experience led by Lutheran clergy and incorporating Bible readings. St. Olaf is still strongly affiliated with the Evangelical Lutheran Church of America (the principal Lutheran denomination), and that affiliation is apparent in the festival. The program for the festival says that it is a “worship experience” and “an outgrowth of Christian conviction and an expression of the rich musical heritage at St. Olaf.” It also instructs attendees to hold their applause until the end, in keeping with a worship rather than an entertainment experience.

This 94th annual festival (it began in 1912) featured an impressive array of music from the 16th to the 20th centuries, from traditional Christmas carols to Ralph Vaughn Williams’ “Ring Out, Ye Crystal Spheres.” As interpreted by artistic director Anton Armstrong and others, the music and singing were superb. Particularly moving was a choral piece called “Gaudete,” composed by Steven Sametz and set to Medieval lyrics.

St. Olaf was founded in Northfield, Minnesota, by Norwegian Lutherans, so the Christmas festival is also something of a celebration of ethnic heritage. I wore my Norwegian sweater, one of dozens in the crowd who did so. Unfortunately, I missed the Scandinavian buffet preceding the performance, which featured pickled herring (a favorite of my grandfather), lefse, lutefisk (which I have yet to try), fruit soup, and more.

For many, including St. Olaf parents and alumni, this is a favorite Christmas tradition. Clearly, it touches many lives, and each performance is packed. Tickets to the festival are difficult to get, and we were able to do so only because my wife teaches at the college. However, you can experience the festival on the radio Friday, Dec. 23, 8 p.m. at 99.5 KSJN, Minnesota Public Radio’s classical station (also available at mpr.org). The festival will be broadcast on national radio December 14.

PBS will also broadcast a different event, “A St. Olaf Christmas in Norway,” on December 21, 24 and 25. This one-hour program was filmed in Nidaros Cathedral in Trondheim during the St. Olaf Choir’s 2005 tour of Norway, which commemorated Norway’s centennial. The program will also be distributed internationally by the Norwegian Broadcasting Corporation. Check out PBS’s web page for “A St. Olaf Christmas in Norway” and the festival’s broadcast page for more information.

For part of the two years that I taught as a lecturer in the University of Minnesota English Department, I shared an office with Shannon Olson, who at the time was completing an M.F.A. and working for the department chair. Little did I know that within a few years Shannon would publish two novels with major publishers, Welcome to My Planet (Penguin, 2000) and Children of God Go Bowling (Viking, 2004).

I finally read Welcome to My Planet. The book’s narrator—who shares the author’s name—is an outspoken young woman who is nevertheless held back by self-doubt. As the story opens, Shannon feels stuck in her life: she has just turned thirty and feels dissatisfied with her annoying boyfriend and boring job. In therapy from the book’s opening, she manages to build up the nerve to make a decisive break, dumping both boyfriend and job, moving back in with her parents, and enrolling in the graduate English program at the University of Minnesota. The rest of the story concerns her expanding new life.

The voices of two other women also figure prominently in the book: Shannon’s therapist and her mother, Flo. Shannon’s journey is as much about discovering her mother—what to emulate and admire in her, and what to avoid—as it is about discovering herself. And her therapy provides an important vehicle for her new self-understanding.

Olson’s writing is best when dealing with her narrator’s family history and romantic relationships. She paints a vivid portrait of family life and the mother-daughter bond.

The book’s form is another of its strengths. Olson keeps this confessional story light in part by her choice of form: chapters broken into sections that alternate between a narrative of events in the present and a running general commentary, including rumination on past events, family history, and regional character.

On that issue of region, Shannon has a hard time imagining herself living anywhere other than Minnesota—a fact that she attributes to her fear of “the possibility of infinite possibility.” She envisions that fear and its limitations this way:

I picture myself in a hot air balloon just floating off somewhere, higher and higher in the cold, dark air. Eventually that balloon is going to pop. My family, and this place—Minnesota, this silly place with its terribly cold winters and emotionally repressed Scandinavians—are like sandbags that weigh the balloon down, the stakes and ropes that tether it to the ground. Without them I’d be frightened to death of where I might wind up.

Despite those possibilities that exist elsewhere, Shannon stays near home to explore the different possibilities presented by a deeper knowledge of family and place. And there is no indication that she is any poorer for doing so.