The frigid air blowing off the surface of the Lake nips at my cheeks and reddens the tip of my nose. I drop a few coins in the parking meter in front of the old stone library on Genesee and scurry across the street to admire a pair of dangling sparkling diamond and amethyst earrings that match the iciness of the day and the lengthening purple shadows of the afternoon. Inside the jewelry shop, I take a moment to thaw while I ogle a strand of lustrous pearls as white as the snow outside.

Slightly warmer, I venture back outdoors to join in the merriment of an old-fashioned Dickens Christmas. I'm overdressed in my 21st century clothes for the improvisational street theater, where locals roam the village dressed in top hats and long swirling skirts looking like they just stepped out of a Victorian Christmas card. My nose tugs me in the direction of the charred smell of chestnuts roasting over an actual open fire which engrosses my senses as I waddle down the street, scarf pulled tightly around my neck, and mittens shoved under my coat sleeves to ward off the wind. I side-step to avoid the horse-drawn carriages, my boots leaving human tracks in the soft snow next to horseshoes. I feel lucky when the soft, chewiness of the chestnuts rewards my efforts. My heart warmed, I pause to listen to a chorus of festive carolers singing strains of Joy to the World. Finishing my snack, I can't help but join in because heaven and nature really do sing here in Skaneateles.

Even though the shadows are beginning to grow long, the magic of the "Long Beautiful Lake" ripples through the town as a blast of wind gusts across the clear aquamarine water, ice crystals forming near the shore, as if to remind the revelers why people settled here in the first place.  Translated from Iroquois, Skaneateles Lake (pronounced "skinny atlas") stretches 16 miles across the counties of Onondaga, Cayuga, and Cortland, New York, but is only about three quarters of a mile wide. The quaint New England-style Village of Skaneateles (population under 3000), nestled on the northern side of the Lake about 20 miles southwest of Syracuse, is the sixth largest of the Finger Lakes. Today there is no one on the Lake, but in a few months' time that will change when visitors trade their snowmobiles for sail boats and snowboards for stand-up paddle boards. Dinner cruises will resume and diners will marvel at the pristine waters of one of the cleanest lakes in the world.

I crisscross the streets noting the many bed and breakfasts, eateries, and specialty boutiques and take a slight detour around the back of the Blue Water Grill, away from the more than 40 shops on the main drag and on Jordan and Fennell Streets, down to a charming gazebo in a park near the shore of the Lake.  The view from here of the backsides of the shops reflected in the water, look like they might just topple into the Lake. I imagine painters in berets and flowy white shirts at easels painting this scene impressionist style, but on a much warmer day.

Across the street, the Sherwood Inn welcomes me into a warm wooden tap room reminiscent of Revolutionary War times, which is when this town began. The other guests are friendly and it's here that I learn that the transformation into a Victorian Christmas Village starts the day after Thanksgiving and runs through the Sunday before Christmas every weekend from noon to 4 p.m., except December 24, when the good folks of Skaneateles close up shop at

3 pm. I learn that some of the performers are professionals, and as I've already witnessed, stop to talk with whomever they meet as they meander in and out of shops.

While the area might be known for its friendliness, it is probably best known as one of the nation's wine regions. The wine trails center around other lakes in the area, but less than a mile up the road from the stone library where I'm parked, the elegant Mirbeau Inn and Spa offers local libations in a unique digital pouring system. The bar offers tastes of local Chardonnay and Cabernet Franc, as well as one of the region's most famous varietals, Finger Lakes Riesling.

As I acclimate to the French country-style surroundings at the Inn and ponder the menu, a gaggle of Rubenesque women dressed in thirsty terrycloth robes and slippers, faces shining from exfoliation, enter to mull over the myriad wines encased in the wall, where the system lets them choose 2 ounce pours, or more. I notice they choose more. Other guests checking in for the night traipse over a wooden bridge and through the Monet-inspired garden to reach their quarters. I settle on the salmon, thinking Van Gough would enjoy the stars here tonight. It's then that the bartender informs me that I should return on an evening when the Inn hosts a paint night—guests sip from carafes and splatter canvases to their heart's delight. I think I will.

As I tuck in for the night, I muse on the day's adventures, and I'm reminded of the words of Tiny Tim, "God bless us, every one!" and I think that we are very blessed by the settlers of Skaneateles who over the years have preserved God's primeval Lake for posterity.