If winter comes...

It's that time of year.

We've come to expect snickers and murmurs of sympathy from our southward neighbours as they plant tomatoes and cucumbers, while our gardens still slumber under three feet of hard-as-concrete winter precipitation. We endure the jokes about having barbecues in shoulder deep snowdrifts, and then discarding our parkas and Baffin boots to dive into holes chopped in the lake. We know about the head-shaking, the barely-held-back laughter.

Yes, it's spring.

It says so on the calendar, yet the Weather Network announces that today it is -18C with a windchill of -27. The Cowboy is out ploughing snow. Again. Still.

Nevertheless, it is spring.

I took this photo yesterday, at the community hall about three miles away. It was -9C. But for these children, the day holds nothing more than a last half-hearted gasp of winter's icy breath. They've tossed their coats, hats, gloves. It is spring, after all.

This photo was taken March 28, 2011. The gate to the road was five feet deep in snow.

One of my favourite photos of the thousands I have, taken May 22, 2010. Yes, May. The leaves were out, grass was green, new babies were everywhere, and fifteen inches of snow fell. We had family come to visit us, and about an hour before they arrived, the power failed. We spent three days playing cards by candlelight and slept with extra blankets on our beds. We cooked almost every meal on the grill. It was spring, after all, the time for cooking outdoors.

When Spring comes, she comes in a hurry, in the blink of an eye. Overnight, the snow melts, and a faint green blush appears in the timber and in the fields. The next day, it seems, we are mowing and planting and seeding and eating fresh lettuce from our gardens. Flowers bloom furiously and profusely.

“It is spring again. The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart.” ― Rainer Maria Rilke

For 85 glorious frost-free days, the greenness is intense and exquisite, very nearly as blinding as sun on snow. It is for those short days we live and dream and work and endure and bear up. And ironically, for many, the first flurries in the fall are welcomed, as they bring a time of putting up one's feet for a bit. Those lazy days don't last long. There's plenty to do.

We put up with the long, dark days, suffering from cabin fever that makes us cranky and sometimes a little squirrelly. Finally, when we can't take being holed up any more, right about now, we doff our winter gear and have a picnic. Go snowmobiling in shorts and flip-flops. Get out the barbecue and our bicycles. 

Why do we stay? people ask, if it's so miserable and long. The answer is simple: it is where God would have us for now. And maybe there's a little bit of insanity involved.

I had thought to hush the snickers and quiet the condolences, but I think I've only confirmed the legends of our northern-ness. So keep chuckling and making jokes and doubting our sensibilities. We are almost there.

“If winter comes, can spring be far behind?” 
― Percy Bysshe Shelley, Ode to the West Wind