Sarah J. Schaffer's column appears on alternate Fridays.

In 1654, Henry Dunster was forced to resign as Harvard's president because he thought only adult believers should be baptized. Although he went through much grief because he voiced that conviction, he admirably stood up for the principle of toleration (not to mention the fact that he gave us that house down by the river).

But on Oct. 24, 1654, when he handed in his letter of resignation to the Massachusetts General Court, Henry Dunster's troubles were far from over. It was getting to be winter--a New England winter--and Dunster was about to be evicted from the President's house.

In mid-November, he pleaded his case succinctly in a letter to the Court which said in part: "First. The time of the year is unseasonable, being now very near the shortest day, and the depth of winter.... Third. The place from which I go, hath fire, fuel, and all provisions for man and beast, laid in for the winter." Mr. Dunster obviously knew whereof he spoke (and shivered), and the Court luckily granted him a reprieve for the winter from the cold New England wilderness.

You would think that those of us who have a choice in the matter would take heed of Dunster's traumatic experience and flee as far away as possible from this frozen tundra when choosing a college. But no.

We create myths for ourselves: Harvard wouldn't be Harvard without the beautiful ice on the tree branches. Harvard wouldn't be such a brilliant place of learning if we didn't have the long winters to study. Harvard wouldn't be Harvard if the Puritans hadn't had to endure hardships that taught them the value of the work ethic.

Or Harvard wouldn't be Harvard without constantly chapped lips and red hands. Harvard wouldn't be Harvard if you were able to wear clothes between November and May that showed any part of your body besides your eyes and the tip of your nose. Harvard wouldn't be Harvard without the biting winds that freeze your jeans, eat you alive and deliver you unconscious to your doorstep.

As you might guess, I'm a native Californian, as are one-tenth of my fellow Harvardians (we're the ones whose faces you can't see under our scarves, hoods and hats). I'm from sunny San Diego, no less. And I have just one question for all you die-hard New Englanders, or those of you from places with even worse climates (perish the thought): Why be cold when you don't have to be?

Some people say they wouldn't be happy without real seasons. I felt that way too when I came to the East Coast as a first-year. Fall! I thought, imagining crunching through the autumn leaves. Snow! I thought, recalling the coziness of "It's a Wonderful Life." Winter! I thought, envisioning a chestnut-roasting afternoon tea in the middle of Harvard Yard.

And, for the first week of my first year's winter (the year Boston received 80-some inches of snow), my starry eyes reflected the snowy pavements. I loved the thought of seasons. Until the snow stayed. And stayed. And the weather dropped below zero. And the prospect of putting on a sweater, coat, gloves, scarf and hat merely to go outside made me never want to leave my dorm again.

I've often thought there was a reason the Puritans had such strict laws: The weather made them do it. The French philosopher Montesquieu suggested that climate and other environmental factors help determine forms of government. I would go a step further and say that climate determines a region's personality. After all, when you're walking around in the 17th century with nary a fox skin covering your shoulders, who wants to stop and say hello?

In all seriousness, I'm glad I came here. Seasons, like most other inconveniences, are tolerable in a four-year block. And I do finally understand what Emily Dickinson meant when she said "There's a certain slant of light, Winter afternoons."

But unlike Mr. Dunster, who toughed out the whole winter in 1654. I'm taking the high road come Tuesday, all the way to California. Have a white Christmas, New England. As for me, I'll watch it on CNN.