I
absolutely love winter, for the first few months at any rate. Like everyone
else, as it reaches for spring, winter becomes unbearable in a sense. This
inevitable disdain does not impede me from relishing early winter frost, and Christmas
snow, and the January thaw. I find a snowstorm peaceful and shovelling, at
times, can be quite rewarding. I am enchanted as I watch children build forts
of ice and toss snowballs like they were weapons. Growing up, my favourite part
of winter was tobogganing. I’m not talking about some kiddie ride, some safe
plateau. I’m talking about a thrill ride, a steep slope and ice to boot. I have
to admit it’s been many years since I indulged in this kind of rally. I have to
go back to the mid-1990s to garner an example. It’s not that I gave up the joy,
it’s just that with age comes the challenge of effort, effort and access.
Almost every place one could luge has transformed into subdivision after
subdivision. All the hills have found an alternate purpose. Some remain. The high school in Strathroy , Ontario
Spring
can be raw and damp and wet, oh so wet. As the winter thaws into a process of
renewal and rebirth, so too do we mere mortals embrace the coming of this
conversion. It’s a major changeover. What was once solid and cold and bitter
now mushes with the warmer ways of this season. Soggy becomes a part of living,
at least for a few weeks, sometimes more. Early spring brings the melt and
later spring brings resurrection, both literally and figuratively. As Jesus
heads off into heaven, heaven on earth returns again and again. All the
flowers, all the green, such beauty slowly rupturing the season before. What
once was covered in white now rises from the frost. Cometh the swampland. It
can be a challenge to not get stuck in it. For me, my most daunting memory of
spring comes at a cemetery. It had only been a month since he had been buried.
With the thaw, it was time to remove all the flowers, the crosses, the terms of
endearment from the grave. There were so many that the ground beneath seemed to
not unfreeze. I cleared them all in random order. With my rake in hand, I
stepped onto the mound, thinking it was still solid. I could not have been more
wrong. I sank in, one foot after another, and headed for the box below. I used
the rake to halt my descent. It reached to harder ground on either side and
acted like a stopper. I dangled in the earth and stones. The entire experience
was maddening. I cried out in good measure. For a moment, I felt like he was
calling me, bidding me to join him in the mire and slush. I do not hold a good
place for this memory. It has tainted the entire experience come warmer
weather. Spring is a lovely time of year, once it gets going. Soon, the Lily of
the Valley bloom and the black-eyed Susan’s smile at me. Life begins again,
although not necessarily for all of us. Most times, we don’t get to come back and
try all over again. Our rejuvenation is not guaranteed. Unlike with the
dandelions, all the weeds, and the English Ivy in the front yard, there are no
second chances. Spring is a time for launching new life while old life still keeps
trying. It is fresh, and glorious and a miracle in itself. At the same time, it
is decay and destruction. The constant yin and yang, the push and pull of
nature, can often be more than one has bargained for. I try to shut it out. There
is something to be said for denial and dismissal. I try not to dwell on that
sinking feeling.
In
my teens and early 20s, I was a sun worshipper. I would lay out back for so long
that I looked aboriginal. With nothing but a humble pair of shorts to cover me,
I stayed in the sun for hours at a time. I was so obsessed with my color that I
would raise my hands over my head and hold the position so my armpits got some
tan. One summer in 1983, I fell asleep holding this stance. I slept for over an
hour with my pits to the sun. By the time I woke up, the damage had been done.
Let me just say that blisters in this location are one of my least favourite conditions,
ever. Summer is a time for outdoor activities. Fairs, festivals and Monster
trucks are common here in Southwestern Ontario .
Almost every town between Windsor and Kapuskasing welcomes one summer
celebration after another. My hometown of Strathroy hosts the annual Turkey
Festival come mid-July. Stratford , Ontario hosts art shows in the park running along the Thames River Kitchener and London ,
to the Taste of the Danforth in Toronto ,
summer food attracts huge crowds. Tiny places calling out for attention offer
Street fairs and Tractor pulls, all bringing crowds to bask in the summer sun.
I am not so good in all that heat. I now burn like a son of a bitch. In 1990, I
attended the London
air show. It was a clear and very humid day. I sat hatless, watching every
plane go by with a sense of nostalgia and fascination. Like with my armpits,
the blisters were not my favourite consequence. The top of my head looked more
like a fried egg than a noggin. When I got home, I tried a cream to soothe my
forehead. It was more like putty than lotion. Getting it all off ripped open
each and every fester. I had to soak my head in the bathtub just to settle the
sting. I have always been a swimmer. Even as a child, I spent as much of it as
possible near the water. I trained as a lifeguard and excelled in lifesaving
procedures. My heart was never in it for that glory. I simply loved to swim and
I took advantage of anything that promoted me doing so. I have entered every Great Lake Great
Lake Lake Ontario
Who
would imagine that so much death could be so beautiful? It is ironic that my
favourite season of all comes with such decomposition. The world begins to
change from deep green to vibrant, if only for the shortest of time. It’s like
watching a pretty corpse rot on the spot. Autumn is falling leaves, and
Halloween and cold overnights. In Southern Ontario ,
from late September to early November, it is orange and yellow and red for as
far as the eye can see. It is breathtaking, at least if you pay attention. How
could you not? Everywhere you go there is a rainbow, a line of colour unending
until all those leaves finally drop. The wind brings a chill and finally you
can wear your heavier clothes. As the shorts disappear into limbo, sweaters and
long pants and my much favoured jacket all call to me for their freedom. Raking
leaves is much more than a duty. It can be a joy if you get to watch someone
else do it. Fall has always brought with it the most wonderful aroma. There is
nothing more reminiscent of Autumn than the smell of burning leaves. It is now
illegal to burn them within town limits, but when I was growing up in
Strathroy, almost every home, from town end to end, had smouldering piles of
dead things ablaze at the curb. Later in the season, the smell of pumpkin
lingers on your hands after all the carving is done. Canadian Thanksgiving
comes in October but with much less pomp and circumstance than how our American
neighbours to the south celebrate. I bask in the season. I find serenity
walking in a changing woods and peace driving along the highway, glimpsing tree
after tree as they shed their bounty. There is no other season that makes me
feel so good about something that really is kind of sad. Melancholy can be a warm
thing if taken in good measure. As a boy, piles of rejected foliage built in
depth and were pulled into each other. I used to love to run and throw myself
into the middle of each. It was not only the little thrill I did it for. For
me, there was nothing more compelling than the pissed off look of adults who
had to start raking all over again. These days, all I am left with are the
pretty pictures in my mind of Autumn days and frosty nights. I am fortunate
that at this time of year, they coincide with the real deal. There is still
magic however, mingled in with life, there is death but it can be such a lovely
thing.
Every
season has something magical about it; whether those falling leaves in Autumn,
rebirth in Spring, the warmth of Summer or crisp snow on a Winter’s day. It is
so true that you always find what you are looking for. You can enjoy the heat
or enjoy the cool inside, because of the heat. You can stomp through puddles or
walk in the mud instead. You can make snow angels or simply pile up the white
stuff. You can run through the leaves or bag them as you go along. Everything
has this duality. It really all comes down to how you see the world. For me,
the four seasons each bring great memory and much nostalgia. At times, a wave
of sombre visits me as I visit them. Like clockwork, they work me every time. Year
after year, each one chases me, always reminding me to breathe in deep and
notice, one must notice. I am fortunate to live in the Great
Lakes basin. We get the full foursome, every year. Each brings
with it an unpredictability that is not always so gentle. Each season is
qualified to stand on its own. I don’t dread them coming. I don’t try to wish
them away. What I do try to do is embrace them, take from them those things
which delight me decade after decade. I don’t need Vivaldi to inspire me. I
don’t need anything but I’ll take it.
Photos
Winter 1996
Strathroy Ontario
Spring 2016
Summer 2013
Port Burwell Ontario
Fall 2015
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.