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(This essay appeared in the Salem News on Feb. 22, 2014. Reposted by permission.)

As I write this, the North Shore has gotten a break in the snowy onslaught we recently experienced. On Wednesday we emerged, like hermits, to savor the 22-degree weather. The drip-drip of melting snow was music to the ears.

At the same time it's too early to make jokes about the Winter of 2015. At this point no one is breathing easily. Yet at my house, I'm experiencing a sense of liberation: Freedom from the tyranny of the Killer Icicles.

These weren't your everyday icicles, these were prehistoric, reminiscent of the Ice Age. At their peak, before we felled them - or rather before Joe Malloy felled them - they were more than a foot wide and eight feet long. They hung from our front porch like dinosaur teeth. Early on, before they grew to mammoth proportions, I posted photos on Facebook. I even made jokes about them. Meanwhile, they continued growing during the night as we slept.

Every morning I opened the front door to peek at the monster appendages. No longer content to be outside, they'd entered our porch, morphing into a solid mass. I was reminded of a photo I'd once seen of a frozen Niagara Falls, the jagged spikes suspended in the air. Eventually I stopped opening the door. I feared coming downstairs and finding the icicles had worked their way inside, their tentacles creeping across the carpet. I realize this might sound paranoid. On the other hand, when the snow outside is halfway up your windows and the prospect of more snow threatens to engulf your house, you feel vulnerable.

During the worst of the blizzard, Beverly residents got updated phone messages from City Hall. One concerned the falling temperatures and the possible loss of power during the night. In that case, citizens were told to call the police; a "warming room" would be made available. I had a vision of this space, the air steamy as residents thawed.

At our house, we had no alternative source of power. Without electricity, we're toast - no, we're bread; toasting required electricity. We depend on National Grid for everything: cooking, heating, microwave popcorn. Thus, when the temperature dropped to the single digits, I was prepared. When I climbed into bed that night, I wore two woolen sweaters, sweat pants, insulated socks and a scarf. If we had to make an emergency trip to the warming room, I was ready. Not one to get unduly alarmed, my husband remained in his pajamas. Meanwhile, I got the cats' carriers out, hoping they'd be welcomed as well.

Although we survived the night, my Mini Cooper remained buried in snow. When it was finally excavated, I turned on the ignition. An unfamiliar symbol appeared. I looked it up in the Mini owners' manual: engine malfunction. Gary, of Farms Full Service station, told me to bring it in. Fortunately, as it warmed up, the Mini ceased to display the disturbing symbol.

Before heading out to Gary's station, I bundled up. From the hall closet I dug out a Swiss military hat, bought years ago from the Vermont Country Store and never worn. The hat has a visor, padded ear flaps and attached scarf. It's a serious winter hat with everything but shoulder pads. I unearthed it from a carton stuck high on a shelf in our front closet. Alas the moths had beaten me to it. They had filigreed the wool so it resembled a black lace mantilla with ear flaps.

Meanwhile, the monster icicles grew. There would be no peace with them encroaching upon our home. At that point I called in the big guns: Joe Malloy, a retired Beverly Farms firefighter. He donned snow shoes and scaled our 10-foot "lawn" armed with a rubber mallet and a roof rake. Over the next hour Joe did battle. In the end, the giant icicles had been felled. For the first time in a week I breathed easier.

- Sharon L. Cook

Sharon L. Cook is author of A Nose for Hanky Panky and A Deadly Christmas Carol.