Minus 9 degrees was the forecast for Sunday morning, and that’s what we got in Springfield Center, New York.

The scene looking out on Lake Otsego was mostly white. Two to three inches of snow early Saturday morning blanketed the lake and the hills beyond. The branches and trunks of trees were frosted. It was eerily still. The sun had yet to rise above the mountain behind the house. There was a glow in the sky. My son Jack poured me a mug of fresh brewed coffee.

Plans were set. My son Ted would leave by 9 in order to meet up with his daughter, Sydney, who is a freshman at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute in Troy, New York, and Jack, his dog Sunny and I would follow about a half hour later to join them for brunch at a local eatery.

“I better let her out,” Jack said looking down a Sunny, whose dark brown eyes looked up at us as we took our first sips of coffee. Sunny didn’t waste time; she quickly returned to her kitchen vigil of breakfast preparations.

“The snow is crunchy,” Jack said, rubbing his hands.

I scanned the lake. On Saturday there were at least two dozen ice fishermen out there standing in twos and threes or huddled in small tent-like structures they had pulled out on the ice on sleds. Early Sunday morning, the lake stretched unblemished for as far as we could see. It was too cold for ice fishing.

We were snug, encapsulated in an environment far away from the rest of the world, yet as close as our cellphones. Better still, none of our phones rang.

The snow and the bitter cold all seemed possible when we talked about checking up on renovations to what had been my father’s home in Springfield Center and is now ours. After all, this is winter and upstate New York winters have a reputation of being harsh.

I looked forward to seeing the work being done, which hopefully will be by the time warm weather arrives. But more than that, I was excited about spending time with Jack and Ted and time to share memories, dreams and laughs.

What I hadn’t calculated was the impact of the weather. It froze out the rest of the world.  On Saturday we drove into nearby Cooperstown. The roads were empty, and I expected the Mecca for baseball fans to be deserted at this time of year.  It wasn’t. I was surprised there was a wait to place an order at Stagecoach Coffee. Evidently the locals were eager to escape the solitude of winter. It was a friendly and welcoming environment.

We wouldn’t be eating out. Jack and his wife, Jen, had planned the menus. Jen left Jack with precise directions and Ted and I marveled at his cooking skills. We sat by the fire,  played with Sunny, who loved the attention, playfully guarding her Y-shaped hard plastic chewy and rolling on her back to have her stomach rubbed.

We talked about times together, family and friends, crazy experiences and things we hoped to do.  We talked about politics and world events, but not much.  We knew where we stood.

All of that was distant in an icy world where the solitude and family bonds united us.