... is talking about the weather

So I'm sitting in my home office now, wearing a sweater, writing this and listening to Blue Rodeo. But I'm not really listening to Blue Rodeo. Instead I'm listening to the wind rush between my house and the neighbor's. It gusts strong, like nature trying to remove a pesky bug from its shoulder. When it does, it whips around the plastic covering the wood that is for burning from time to time this winter. If I were to go and look into the back yard I'd see about a centimeter of snow lit up by the lights on the little street next to us. I'd also see the big chestnut tree that no-one seems to love but me, seeming to hop up and down like a kid trying to reach a cookie.

I lived in Barbados for three years, but I spent about 5 holiday seasons there. You want to talk about cognitive dissonance? Try to image seeing a choir of people who have never seen a jacket, let alone snow, singing "Frosty the Snowman". I remember trying to describe snow to people there, and it was tough to explain how it fell, how it stuck to things, how it accumulated. It was also impossible to explain the expanse of it, how it would stretch the horizon out, how it made things brighter, how it made things quieter, how it made you feel coddled but also isolated. Never mind trying to explain how a lake could freeze; that was out of the question.

What was surprising was how much I became a novice about it all when I moved back to Canada. I remember the day after the first snow storm, waiting for the bus to take me to school and just standing by the side of the country road, my mouth agape, looking at the pine trees that seemed to have grown a full foot from all the snow on them. I had forgotten how the top of something, like a branch, would be snow covered while the bottom would be completely exposed, almost like nothing had happened. I also forgot the sound of walking on snow that had been packed down, how it was like some kind of natural styrofoam. I had remembered what snow was, but I forgot about how it really changed the world around you.

It changed things so much that I was like a kid again. There were two reasons to love snow back then: days off and snowbanks. We had long driveways in Minto, and there was a guy who came around with a snowplow to clean them all. My brother and sister, when they were home together, would get out not too long after and we'd start working on the snow forts, with tunnels and steps and little outlooks. And then I'd go over the Trevor's and we'd work on his. And this would go on all day, until we finally came in all apple cheeked, soaked through with melted snow, the only thing really keeping me in being the promise of a nice hot bath.

As much as I like to pretend there is no sentimental part of me (HA!) I still get like a kid every time it snows a significant amount. I like looking out the window and seeing it fall in the streetlight, at watching it fly sideways in the wind. When it's not too cold, I actually feel a little bit more alive when my cheeks freeze on the way home from work, and love how my legs feel cold while my torso is nice and toasty warm, thank you very much beloved peacoat. Even right now, every time the wind dies down and I can't hear it I feel the same way I do when my absolutely favourite song has stopped playing on the radio: I know it'll come back, but I missed the time I had when it was here.

Oh sure, I know in a few weeks I'll be signing a different song, complaining about my glasses fogging up when I go inside, my eyes watering and freezing, and snow getting into my boots when I'm shoveling. And by March I'll be going stir crazy wanting to see actual earth. But there will always be part of me that likes looking out the window, watching the wind and thinking "Wow...and to think that wasn't here this morning!"