"March is the worst," one friend said, turning up his nose at the slush and mud and car exhaust-stained snow cakes strewn along the side of the avenues. This year, there is less slush and more ice, but it’s more or less the same.

"This is the ugliest time of year," he said.

I was unconvinced, and remain so.

If the grimy slush provided a cold welcome, St. Patrick’s Day was the perfect counterbalance. Kegs-n-Eggs at the local pub should be standard operating procedure for Welcome Wagons across the country. And its existence cemented our conviction that Cooperstown is, indeed, America’s Most Perfect Village.

Not that I needed much convincing. When I arrived here a year ago, I was smitten; a love-struck sycophant who thought this idyllic little corner of the world could do no wrong.

I also was pragmatic enough to know that putting something on a pedestal is often rewarded with disappointment. The more I idealized this leafy lakeside village, the greater the risk that ordinary truth would wheedle in and dull the sheen of things. There was no way the reality of life here could compare to the fantasy of village perfection, so I waited to be disillusioned.

Spring came along and dappled the hillsides with the yellow-green of new leaves. We inherited gardens from our home’s previous owners, and every week revealed a new bloom, a new botanical surprise.

We surprised ourselves by taking our first careful steps into farm life by bringing home six chickens. Even more surprising _ most of them are still alive.

Summertime enchanted us with fireworks on the lake. Bee, who hates loud noises, watched them with me from the safety of the back seat of the mommyvan, and declared they were "just like Cinderella."

Autumn was a blaze of fluttering color and apple-scented breezes that gave way to our first winter, first snowfalls, and first blizzard.

It goes without saying that the place is beautiful, though. The bigger question is whether it would feel like home.

For me, the answer came at Christmastime, just before our trip to adopt Posey, when Bee received two unrelated invitations to ride with Santa Claus in the Village parade.

We bundled up and waited for the man of the hour and his lovely wife to arrive. When he did, Bee decided that _ sirens be darned _ she’d rather ride the fire engine into town than be pulled by horse-drawn carriage sitting next to Santa’s sleigh.

Bee waved and giggled and leaned over to me and whispered, "I wish my sister was here."

As we passed the intersection of Main and Chestnut streets, drawing closer to Santa’s house, Bee asked me if we could ride in the parade again next year. (That’s my girl _ always looking ahead.)

I didn’t have a chance to answer her before Mayor Carol Waller assured her that, yes, she could ride again next year ... WITH her sister.

It would be foolish to think that it’s possible to come to a small town and immediately feel like you had lived there all your life.

But when you come to a village and find that you are welcomed and your children are appreciated, you realize it is possible to make a home and add your own unique stitch to the fabric of life there.

What could be more perfect than that?

Elizabeth Trever Buchinger is a freelance writer who is taking off her coat to stay a while. She can be reached at villagewordsmith@hughes.net.