In November of this past year my now husband, then boyfriend, Nick, took me on a modest vacation to the woods of south-western Michigan, just an hour and a half away from our apartment in Chicago. It was my birthday and we were looking forward to a busy few days of hiking and kayaking together. But the weather had turned cold and wet and we spent the majority of our time alone in the Great Room of the rambling, old hotel in which we were staying, lounging on furniture fashioned from logs, flanked by double stone fireplaces; the only guests during an off-season weekend. Nick read, I knit; a circle scarf and the second sock of a fat woolly pair. It was peaceful and I felt tremendous contentment as I counted out my stitches. Toward the end of the trip he proposed to me while on a soggy, but wonderful hike after which we returned happily to our empty Great Room where he read and I knit.