I must say I never grew to like Canadian winters. I've been here since 1966, and although I tried to embrace it, (I even tried cross country skiing in my younger days) the prospect of facing all that cold and snow fills me with dread every fall. Autumn can be almost indescribably beautiful at times. The changing colours of the leaves are a joy to watch. Nature gradually pulls into itself to prepare for another year of growth - I get all that. But with it comes the knowledge that I'm in for at least 5 months of cold, icy snow and darkness. I just can't get my head around that.
This fall, the cold weather seems to be arriving earlier than usual. This morning, I looked out my bedroom window, as I always do, and saw that there was a light dusting of snow on the roof, and the mill ponds had a skin of ice. Yuck! I really shouldn't complain too much. Areas just to the north of where I live had a goodly dumping of snow yesterday, and highways had to be closed with multiple car pile ups. It won't last long for those poor beggars, as temps. are due to rise back this weekend. But the writing is on the wall. Winter is upon us.
My mother and sister live in Ottawa, a place known for its true Canadian winters. It snows a lot more there, and the temps. are reliably ten degrees colder than where I am. My mother, who's 83 now, bravely states that she loves winter, but somehow I don't quite believe her. She walks her Yorkie dog Jenny four times a day in all weathers. I worry about her slipping on the ice, and it's happened more than once, happily with no lasting damage to either herself or Jenny. Sometimes, though, Mum lets the odd wistful sigh escape. Wouldn't it be lovely to go away again, like we used to? To dance under the palm trees again.
My mother loves to dance. She always has. Not the partner-led ballroom type of dancing, but free-spirited, toss your hair with abandon style of dancing. No partner needed or desired. Given the right kind of music: rhythm filled, with a pulsing beat, and she's off. It doesn't matter where we are, she's up on the floor, or beside her table (never on it, though, as I recall!) she's moving to the beat in a world of her own. Caribbean music is a favourite for Mum, and over the years I've done my best to save up and take her there. We've made several trips together, mostly just the two of us, to Cuba, Jamaica, and Barbados. It satisfies my need to see the ocean, and get a little winter warmth. And it has given her something to look forward to in the depths of cold winters.
My hubby doesn't go, as he refuses to fly. His years of business travel took their toll, and his engineer's brain just can't accept the fact several tons of steel can safely sail through the air at great speed without incurring a great deal of risk. But he knows that a happy wife is one who gets some summer sun in the winter, and so he grits his teeth, deals with his worries, and does the best he can to support her. It's the second marriage for both he and I, and having learned a lot the first time around, we do our best to promote each other's wellbeing and happiness.
With my mother's advancing years came the inevitable health challenges, and the realization that her dancing days were numbered. It seemed that impending winter always brought with it the familiar refrain: "I don't think I'll ever get to dance again." Of course, this would melt any daughter's heart. Especially one who dreads winter for her own reasons, and harkens for a beach. But this year, I warned her early on that there would be no trip in the offing. Hubby and I had shut down the pottery biz by and large, and there was no money in the coffers for any trips.
Yet this year too, my mother's plaintive lament rang in my ears. "That's ok, I'll go with your sister!" she said. Hmmmmmmph, thought I, memory returning to the last time the three of us, my younger sister, my mother and I went to Jamaica. It was a lot of fun, for sure. One fond memory was of Mum asking several handsome young Jamaican men to pose with her for a holiday snap. "It's easy" she says. "I just go up to them and tell them they're the most handsome man I've seen today. Then, to be kind to an old lady, they can't refuse having their photo taken with me. Works every time!" My sister was keen for me to join them. So I said I would look on line for deals. Maybe if the price was right, I could make some extra pots to sell and ...
I'm so weak. I 'm booked to go with them for a week on December 8. Hubby is doing his best to act pleased, and I'm refusing to watch certain TV shows about plane crashes. Here we go again. The palm tree is waiting for you, Mum (and a few handsome men to boot).
This fall, the cold weather seems to be arriving earlier than usual. This morning, I looked out my bedroom window, as I always do, and saw that there was a light dusting of snow on the roof, and the mill ponds had a skin of ice. Yuck! I really shouldn't complain too much. Areas just to the north of where I live had a goodly dumping of snow yesterday, and highways had to be closed with multiple car pile ups. It won't last long for those poor beggars, as temps. are due to rise back this weekend. But the writing is on the wall. Winter is upon us.
My mother and sister live in Ottawa, a place known for its true Canadian winters. It snows a lot more there, and the temps. are reliably ten degrees colder than where I am. My mother, who's 83 now, bravely states that she loves winter, but somehow I don't quite believe her. She walks her Yorkie dog Jenny four times a day in all weathers. I worry about her slipping on the ice, and it's happened more than once, happily with no lasting damage to either herself or Jenny. Sometimes, though, Mum lets the odd wistful sigh escape. Wouldn't it be lovely to go away again, like we used to? To dance under the palm trees again.
My mother loves to dance. She always has. Not the partner-led ballroom type of dancing, but free-spirited, toss your hair with abandon style of dancing. No partner needed or desired. Given the right kind of music: rhythm filled, with a pulsing beat, and she's off. It doesn't matter where we are, she's up on the floor, or beside her table (never on it, though, as I recall!) she's moving to the beat in a world of her own. Caribbean music is a favourite for Mum, and over the years I've done my best to save up and take her there. We've made several trips together, mostly just the two of us, to Cuba, Jamaica, and Barbados. It satisfies my need to see the ocean, and get a little winter warmth. And it has given her something to look forward to in the depths of cold winters.
My hubby doesn't go, as he refuses to fly. His years of business travel took their toll, and his engineer's brain just can't accept the fact several tons of steel can safely sail through the air at great speed without incurring a great deal of risk. But he knows that a happy wife is one who gets some summer sun in the winter, and so he grits his teeth, deals with his worries, and does the best he can to support her. It's the second marriage for both he and I, and having learned a lot the first time around, we do our best to promote each other's wellbeing and happiness.
With my mother's advancing years came the inevitable health challenges, and the realization that her dancing days were numbered. It seemed that impending winter always brought with it the familiar refrain: "I don't think I'll ever get to dance again." Of course, this would melt any daughter's heart. Especially one who dreads winter for her own reasons, and harkens for a beach. But this year, I warned her early on that there would be no trip in the offing. Hubby and I had shut down the pottery biz by and large, and there was no money in the coffers for any trips.
Yet this year too, my mother's plaintive lament rang in my ears. "That's ok, I'll go with your sister!" she said. Hmmmmmmph, thought I, memory returning to the last time the three of us, my younger sister, my mother and I went to Jamaica. It was a lot of fun, for sure. One fond memory was of Mum asking several handsome young Jamaican men to pose with her for a holiday snap. "It's easy" she says. "I just go up to them and tell them they're the most handsome man I've seen today. Then, to be kind to an old lady, they can't refuse having their photo taken with me. Works every time!" My sister was keen for me to join them. So I said I would look on line for deals. Maybe if the price was right, I could make some extra pots to sell and ...
I'm so weak. I 'm booked to go with them for a week on December 8. Hubby is doing his best to act pleased, and I'm refusing to watch certain TV shows about plane crashes. Here we go again. The palm tree is waiting for you, Mum (and a few handsome men to boot).
