An obscure town nests on the smallest of branches stretching outfrom Massachusetts, a great oak of our nation. The gulls and other birds of thesea seemingly overwhelm the human population of this miniscule peninsula. It isour feathered friends’ hopeless devotion to the uninviting, bleak coastline ofour town that remains constant with the arrival of winter. With the first greatfrost, all color is flushed from our withering hamlet, stripping trees of theirdignity and chasing visitors back to their inland homes.

Never will theycomprehend our secret – a whisper carried through the air at the mercy of thewind. They’ll never know the beauty encompassed by the iced-over bay as eachfrozen crystal does its part to capture the morning’s pastels, only to mirrorthem to an undeserving eye. Kept still within these bits of ice lives an anxiousreminder of summer, showing through even stronger as winter meltsaway.

Most only know of our beautiful beach during the hot, bustlingmonths of July and August, and have never witnessed the wonder of seasonaltransition.

For it is Hull’s secret of spring magic which no visitor will everunderstand – and it is this for which I will carry an undying pride foreverything that dwells within all seven square miles of my small, isolated townof Hull.