writing prompt: i knew there was a reason why i hate snow

I haven't loved snow for years. Since I was about eleven, actually. I will always remember one particular Christmas Eve. Pretty much since I outgrew Santa Claus, family tradition had it that we got together at our house on Christmas Eve, went to midnight mass (except for my father, who had a nap on the couch in the meantime), came back to enjoy my mom's and my aunt's great cooking, and unwrapped our presents at two or so in the morning before heading to bed. Even though we were at home, and our guests were my mother's sister and her husband and two kids, we all dressed up for the occasion. Nice dresses, nylons, dressy shoes - the works.

So this particular year, my mother, my aunt, my two cousins and I crammed ourselves into our sky blue Toyota Corolla and headed out to church, about a mile away. The evening was grey and heavy, but not too chilly. We attended midnight mass and skittered out of church an hour later, anxious to get home and start the festivities. I use the term skittered since that's pretty much what we all did the second we set foot onto the front steps. The freezing rain probably began to fall the second we were all inside, for by the time we emerged, it had already stopped, leaving the entire town coated in a thin sheet of ice.

I should mention that my home town has a hill at one end and a dip in the middle. My mother was always a skittish driver, but this was simply beyond her abilities. We tried one road; fortunately, we were completely alone when he failed to make it up the hill and proceeded to slowly skid back down to our starting point. We tried another. This time, it was my mother who backed off, convinced that we would be unable to control the car's descent and that we were doomed to smash into the old train overpass if we tried. She parked the car back in the church parking lot and declared that we were going to have to walk home. In our dresses, nylons and dress shoes.

We slipped and slid along as best we could, until we got to the parking lot right in the hill where the train passes overhead. At this point, I had begun to understand my mother's fear; I wasn't sure I would be able to make it down that short stretch of sidewalk without doing a faceplant. So much so, in fact, that I pulled my winter jacket as low as it would go under my bottom, and simply slid down the hill without the benefit of a Crazy Carpet. It ruined my nylons, but I was otherwise intact. My mother and aunt had a go at it standing up; if memory serves me correctly, one finished on her derrière as myself, the other had at least a hand on the ground, and may have completed the maneuver facing backwards. The boys instead opted for crossing the street and tramping down the low snowbank that had accumulated there on previous nights. Other than the incline on the other side of this dip, the rest of the trip was uneventful, other than the fact that by the time we got home, our fingers were numb from grabbing any railing, post or icy surface we could to stay upright.

My father had a bemused look on his face when he saw us walk in, and asked us what had taken us so long with a smirk. Nonetheless, the fire in the fireplace may have been the cosiest I've ever experienced, and the rest of that particular Christmas went off as planned, without a hitch.

So what does this have to do with snow? Well, not much at first glance. But it marks the start of my not appreciating winter as a whole. I could also relate the times I tried skiing, or snowboarding, or the time my mother broke her wrist when I tried to teach her to skate. Let's just leave it at "I'm not made for winter climes." If I could hibernate, I would. If I could have a beach house in the Caribbean, I would.

Tonight, my plans have gone awry; I'm waiting for the tow truck to come pull my car out from its forty degree angle in the snowy ditch (although, now that I look at it, it's not a ditch, it's simply the other side of the snowbank.) And as I stand here by the side of the deserted road, I remember: I knew there was a reason why I hate snow.

(777)

prompt: some like it hot

Last week, the maples that make up the last little wooded area on my home town’s territory made their last stand, their vibrant red hues blazing in defiance of shortening days and plunging temperatures. Raging against the dying of the light, it seemed. This week, their leaves have turned crisp, no longer softly rustling in the breeze; now they crackle and crunch like the chrysales of so many butterflies flown south in search of sunlight and warmth. How I wish I had wings like the geese, to lift my head and take to the skies. It’s a common wish, one I hold dear year-round, but one which intensifies every October. I can imagine their sore shoulders and their struggle to continue, lest the cold and snow catch up and trap them mercilessly with no access to food or water to fuel the next stage of their journey. But are their bodies as sore as my heart aches once the last days of Indian summer have gone? Oh, to be a bear and sleep my way through winter, waking only once the suns’ rays begin to feel warm on my skin once more. To dream of warmer days through the bleakest of Februaries.

The forecast calls for snow for many areas of the province tonight; just the thought makes me want to cry. And to those who would have me embrace the season, I will say I have tried skiing and snowboarding, and I have absolutely no sense of equilibrium on a slope. I'm much more effective on a flat surface, but ice skates give me blisters the size and colour of loonies within an hour or so (and no, it's not that they aren't laced up tightly enough - I've had them laced by a college-level athlete, with exactly the same results. It's just something about my arches, I guess.) So that leaves me with what? Cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, and ice fishing? It's just not my thing. So I batten down the hatches and wait for the storm to pass, finding comfort in warm blankets and hot chocolate, and dreaming of May.

Oh. Wait. Oops, it appears that the original writing prompt had more to do with chili than with...chilly. In that sense, I must agree that spices are trips. As far as my taste buds are concerned, I'll try anything once. Call it extreme culinary sports. Although, I must admit, there comes a point where the peppers are so strong that all that remains is heat. Just like an overly bright light is completely blinding, spices can completely obliterate any surrounding flavours. That's where I draw the line, personally, not because I can handle the heat, but because there's more to the dish before me than just heat (or at least, there should be.) So put a dab of wasabi on my sushi, add some jalapenos (now, where the heck did the tilde go on my laptop?), a touch of habanero, or the smoky smoothness of chipotle peppers to my quesadilla, and mix up your smoothest curries. I'm in. (Although on second thought, my stomach also wishes to mention that a dish of butter chicken will do just fine, too, in a pinch.)

(537)

writing prompt: raindrops on roses

Well, there are no roses in my back yard – I’m not nearly attentive enough a gardener to go down that route. I tend to prefer plants that fend well for themselves; I have lilies, peonies, hydrangeas, lily of the valley, and some raspberry bushes that reward me with tart treats right around my birthday. This year as a whole has been strange, weather-wise, and our summer has been soggy, to put it mildly. And oddly enough, I haven’t experienced a single instance of that warm summer rain that you walk barefoot in, completely oblivious to the fact you are drenched through and through. It’s a blissful occurrence that I warmly recommend to everyone.

I was once caught in such a downpour as I was walking home from the mall. It was coming down hard, but it was warmer than any swimming pool. In any event, I must have looked pitiful, because I actually had four separate cars slow beside me and ask whether I wanted a lift. I thanked all four profusely, but with a beaming smile, declined their invitation, saying it was a lovely experience. I remember one lady, a soccer-mom type, who wistfully smiled back at me before driving off; for a moment, I think something clicked inside her, a long-forgotten memory of treating herself to silly things like walking in the rain. That glimpse in her eye seemed to betray a sudden urge to pull over and join me. I do hope she did eventually yield to that harmless temptation.

The last time I was blessed with such summer rain was during a street fair event in Montreal. Sainte-Catherine Street is the commercial artery stretching east-west through the downtown area, bustling at all hours of the day or night, both on the sidewalks and the street itself. It had been closed for a huge sidewalk sale/community fair, all the way from Atwater Street to University Street, if memory serves me correctly. That’s a stretch of almost 2 kilometres reclaimed from vehicular traffic, if only for a few days. The train station was at one end of this route, and the booth where I was volunteering at the other. As the day wrapped up, it began to rain, first a few drops that barely gave visitors pause, gradually growing to a forceful shower that prompted people to take cover. We were soaked by the time the booth was taken down anyway, so I enjoyed the stroll back to the train station, fully appreciating walking down the centre line of what is usually a safety nightmare for pedestrians. (OK, so Montreal pedestrians themselves are a nightmare, but that’s a whole other post!) The majority of people huddled under shopkeeper’s canopies, while the rest of us ambled about, smiling knowingly at each other in acknowledgement that we were sharing a delightful secret in the midst of the unaware.

(478)

spring is in the air

...and this time, I think it's for real. There was another gaggle of geese this morning, followed closely by a half-dozen lollygaggers, whose insufficient numbers only allowed them to form a diagonal. And I'll mention it here, more as a note to self: the bird Sandra saw in her window was a Northern flicker.

Not only is the sun out, it actually feels warm. As for me, well, hibernation is over, and to switch metaphors in mid-sentence, it's time to exit the coccoon. I want to cut my hair, I've bought more clothes in the past week than I have in the past six months, and it's wonderful. I still haven't figured out the next tattoo, but that's OK - I have until September for that. (Unless you count making the appointment, but that's much less committal.) I do think Scott has the edge, though; 2008 is gearing up to be the year I follow through, so it would be fitting that I finish my back. We'll have to see how that plan holds up, budget-wise; if I need to scale back, I will probably go for the Babelfish I promised myself. And I didn't have to explain the concept to Scott, so that puts him in the running for that one, too.

Monday in six: Went to bed before 10 pm.

Tuesday: Disasters, dilemmas and emergencies - oh my!

(230)

joy to the world

Today, spring came back. For real. My heart soared.

Pat woke me up with the marvellous idea of going to the flea market. For those who don't know, there's an indoor flea market integrated into the drive-in. When the weather is nice, it expands and people set up throughout the drive-in parking lot. Today, it was packed as if it was July. Subconsciously, everyone, and I mean everyone, came out for a stroll and some bargain hunting. Teenagers in huddles, toddlers howling in strollers, slow-walking seniors...and a lot of dogs. And the canines seemed to be appreciating the walk as much as their masters, if not more. Bernese Mountain Dogs, Dachshunds, Pomeranians, a gorgeous blue-merle Shetland Sheepdog, a couple of Pugs, of course...and sadly, vendors of puppies. I won't get started, if only because I'm tired, and I feel I've said it so many times (although not in this forum). The guys today were hawking particularly big boys - Cane Corso and Neapolitan Mastiffs. The pups were about eight weeks, I'd say, and already they could take on even my Droz (or Papa, topping out at maybe 22 or so pounds.) Goddess bless those pups; may they land in good homes (hoping against hope) and live out long, happy, healthy lives.

Pat stopped the guy with the black pug, just to pet the dog and chat; I know he stops to pet almost every pug we cross, but he makes it a point to stop the black ones, just in case...Sometimes, when he sees someone walking down a side street with a small black dog, as he's driving by, he'll turn around to go check. Just in case. Sometimes I wonder if he does that for me, or for himself; either way, I love him all the more for it.

But enough with the darkness, today was a marvellous day. I came out of hibernation, and it was wonderful. We crossed paths with half of everyone we knew, bumping into someone new every couple of steps. Of course, this is standard for Pat, but heck, even I met someone I used to work with, and that's something else. (come to think of it, I bumped into another coworker on Tuesday, too...now I won't see anyone I know for a year or so!)

Friday in six: Brothers of Destruction are back, baby.

Saturday: A little bit of spring cleaning.

Sunday: Sunshine, melting snow; it's about time.

one last bit about winter

I warned that some of these texts may well be rants. Here are the first two.

1. Last Saturday's Montreal Gazette had an article on exhausted snow crews ("Snow crews are like punch-drunk prizefighters", by Alan Hustak, Saturday, March 15, 2008, page A8.) I sympathize with these guys, I really do; I'm the type who would hibernate if I could. But one part drove me up the wall.

"Among the biggest frustrations for snow crews are well-intentioned residents who hire private contractors to clear their driveways or re-arrange piles of snow in their neighbourhood.

"It's very disheartening," Wadsworth said. "You think you've cleaned the street, you look behind you, and you see snow from a private driveway dumped where you have just finished working.""

Umm, I really hate to break this to you, Mr. Wadsworth, but if I had a dollar for each time the snowplow dumped a three-foot high snowbank just as I/my boyfriend/my dad/anyone else I know finished shovelling the driveway right before leaving for work, we could all SPEND OUR WINTERS IN JAMAICA!!! Suck it up, at least you're PAID to live with the frustration.

2. Prior to the last big dump (which was just over a foot of snow), we broke our last remaining shovel. So we headed to our local hardware store (which, for reasons soon to be obvious, will remain nameless). In the parking lot, four guys were busy shovelling around their loading deck. Inside, we were greeted with barbecues, gazebos, lawn chairs and gardening tools.

"I'm sorry, we don't have shovels anymore. The season's over."

- You do realize half your staff is outside shovelling, it's barely March, and they're predicting between one and two feet of the stuff over the weekend???

- That's marketing's decision. Sorry."

Isn't one of the basic tenets of marketing to provide the product at the moment the customer needs it? Or maybe that just makes too much sense. In the meantime, I hope they choke on their weedwhackers.

Fortunately, friends of ours, with apparently more sense than **** (that's how many letters in the name of said hardware store) happily provided us with their spares to get us through the storm.

Now, since I want this blog to mainly be a positive experience, I will kwitmybitchin.

overdosing on white stuff

For the uninitiated, the first time is a rush. Some quickly get addicted. Just as fast, some overdose, the problem being that we don't get to choose the amount. And this year, even the hardier among us have begun to lose their smile over the white stuff.

By the end of this week, spring will have sprung. At least the calendar says so. Mother Nature isn't so sure; she's threatening to precipitate on Wednesday and Thursday - tune in to find out whether it'll be rain or snow. She's been really #$%?&* this year; after years of abuse, who can blame her?

For the first time in my life, I will send my boyfriend to shovel the roof; a spate of roof collapses has made me nervous. I sleep poorly, and as soon as I get up in the morning, I check my old house for any new cracks (I already know the old ones intimately.)

Thus I sum up the unease I've felt all week: Horizontality allows worries to bubble up.

I doubt I'll see daffodils this year, and crocuses are certainly out of the question; I'm hoping to have grass by my birthday. Maybe lillies.

I've often joked that there should be a bylaw that states that snow is restricted to north of St. Jerome any time past January 6. Right now, I just want it all to start going away. I'm sick of the snow, and sick of hearing people gripe about the weather. So I will stop now.