Will No One Rid Me Of This Nuisance?
He, he, just kidding. We love snow. We're Canadian, after all. And it's winter isn't it? No, no it is not yet winter. Now you're kidding. Nope.
Well, you've got to admit it's pretty squirrelly when you begin having conversations with yourself. But then this is rather an odd situation, when we've been visited by winter before the season even begins. No, not odd; this is, after all Ottawa, Canada, the second coldest world capital next to Ulan Bator. So we're told. Secretly, I think we're the iciest, snowiest, most weather-vulnerable capital in the world. so there.
We've just come off a big one, a 37-centimetre dump. Well so, other areas have had it worse than us, with 50 centimetres. And we're doing all right, shovelling ourselves out from under. And there is a definable plus in all of this - the exquisite beauty of the dark and harsh cold weather landscape transformed into a wonderland of utter white. The arras cushioned and undulating in wintry white.
And the trees, bushes, any defining natural features deeply laden with snow. Errant gusts of wind lifting those wonderful crystals high into the air, crisply radiant and flushed with wonder. Makes your heart soar, just as your heart drops recalling that another 4 centimetres fell throughout the day, and it needs to be shovelled anew. And that tomorrow morning will greet us with an additional 4 centimetres. Ah well, we're Canadians, after all.
And as intrepid ravine ramblers we ventured out there today, two days after the big snowfall. Our down-filled jackets securely in place, and great big chunky-warm boots. Our little dogs similarly garbed, including boots. We waited until half-past eleven, but the temperature was reluctant to rise any higher than -14 degrees, so off we set regardless.
And it was fine, just fine. We had to struggle to get over to where the trailhead starts, but managed nicely enough. And discovered, to our great delight, that others, many other resourcefully determined boots had already tread that light fluff into a manageable semblance of a winter trail. Still tough for the dogs, but we spread our boots aggressively and flattened the snow even more for them.
And wasn't it a scene to behold! Kind of sorry I had decided not to take along a camera. True, I'd already taken similar photos a week previously when we'd had the 20-centimetre fall, but there's more, far more accumulated now, and the creek, now completely frozen, is not to be seen under its smooth white blanket; it never looked so good.
Even the uphill struggles didn't seem so bad. We barely had to lift little Riley, striving mightily to chug his chubby little legs up the gradients; Button doing far better with her long slender, strong legs, despite she's twice his age. Still, we knew better than to attempt our usual hour-long loop and felt satisfied doing less than half. Still a respectable loop, and due to the constraints, taking us almost as long.
Later, off we went to the Sally Ann, there to pick up some really excellent reading material. For excellent reading material is what any sane person - Canadian or otherwise - requires on these cold wintry days. A copy of Maev Binchy's Quentins, V.S. Naipaul's India, Sebastian Junger's Fire, and Robert Fulford's Best Seat in the House. What a perfect metaphor for the cold: India, fire, restaurant, best fireside seat in the house.
While there, I looked through the winter clothing offerings. Coming across a very comfortable looking, down-filled pink hooded winter coat for a teen. Never worn. Still hosting its original tags. One of which, rather large, hung suspended from a sleeve. And written on that tag was the tenderly loving note: "from Grandpa and Grandma".
Among the racks of everything one might hope to find in any well-stocked shop, people take their time, running their fingers through their options. Women wearing hijabs, black, yellow and white faces, elderly people, both men and women, some truly elegantly-garbed middle-class women looking for stylish bargains, and finding them. As we entered, we saw a thin, winter-dressed old woman with white, white hair, sitting immobile on a stuffed chair.
Among the racks hang clothing of every description - and this day there is a 40% off sale on women's dresses (boutique excluded). Racks of towels, bedding. Huge cages of ornamental pillows. Shelves full of shoes, slippers, boots for children and for adults. And housewares, shelf after shelf of various types of kitchen accouterments, porcelain, glassware, pots and pans. And furniture as well; sofas, bookshelves, small appliances and large.
Close by me a telephone sounds and I watch while a darkly hirsute 50ish man digs into a pocket and extracts his cell phone. A conversation ensues, finally a mumbled reply to an obvious question: "I'm just picking up my welfare cheque". Values, the perceptions of requirement certainly vary from one idiosyncratic mind to another. If an item of questionable convenience and utility is also a status symbol it becomes a vital necessity.
The very old, shrunken woman we espied on our entry is still ensconced on the chair. Her eyes dull with disinterest in the present, mind obviously back somewhere in the past. She was there when we entered, still there, in the very same place when we left. My smile left unanswered.
Everyone has a right to privacy, in public or anywhere else.
Well, you've got to admit it's pretty squirrelly when you begin having conversations with yourself. But then this is rather an odd situation, when we've been visited by winter before the season even begins. No, not odd; this is, after all Ottawa, Canada, the second coldest world capital next to Ulan Bator. So we're told. Secretly, I think we're the iciest, snowiest, most weather-vulnerable capital in the world. so there.
We've just come off a big one, a 37-centimetre dump. Well so, other areas have had it worse than us, with 50 centimetres. And we're doing all right, shovelling ourselves out from under. And there is a definable plus in all of this - the exquisite beauty of the dark and harsh cold weather landscape transformed into a wonderland of utter white. The arras cushioned and undulating in wintry white.
And the trees, bushes, any defining natural features deeply laden with snow. Errant gusts of wind lifting those wonderful crystals high into the air, crisply radiant and flushed with wonder. Makes your heart soar, just as your heart drops recalling that another 4 centimetres fell throughout the day, and it needs to be shovelled anew. And that tomorrow morning will greet us with an additional 4 centimetres. Ah well, we're Canadians, after all.
And as intrepid ravine ramblers we ventured out there today, two days after the big snowfall. Our down-filled jackets securely in place, and great big chunky-warm boots. Our little dogs similarly garbed, including boots. We waited until half-past eleven, but the temperature was reluctant to rise any higher than -14 degrees, so off we set regardless.
And it was fine, just fine. We had to struggle to get over to where the trailhead starts, but managed nicely enough. And discovered, to our great delight, that others, many other resourcefully determined boots had already tread that light fluff into a manageable semblance of a winter trail. Still tough for the dogs, but we spread our boots aggressively and flattened the snow even more for them.
And wasn't it a scene to behold! Kind of sorry I had decided not to take along a camera. True, I'd already taken similar photos a week previously when we'd had the 20-centimetre fall, but there's more, far more accumulated now, and the creek, now completely frozen, is not to be seen under its smooth white blanket; it never looked so good.
Even the uphill struggles didn't seem so bad. We barely had to lift little Riley, striving mightily to chug his chubby little legs up the gradients; Button doing far better with her long slender, strong legs, despite she's twice his age. Still, we knew better than to attempt our usual hour-long loop and felt satisfied doing less than half. Still a respectable loop, and due to the constraints, taking us almost as long.
Later, off we went to the Sally Ann, there to pick up some really excellent reading material. For excellent reading material is what any sane person - Canadian or otherwise - requires on these cold wintry days. A copy of Maev Binchy's Quentins, V.S. Naipaul's India, Sebastian Junger's Fire, and Robert Fulford's Best Seat in the House. What a perfect metaphor for the cold: India, fire, restaurant, best fireside seat in the house.
While there, I looked through the winter clothing offerings. Coming across a very comfortable looking, down-filled pink hooded winter coat for a teen. Never worn. Still hosting its original tags. One of which, rather large, hung suspended from a sleeve. And written on that tag was the tenderly loving note: "from Grandpa and Grandma".
Among the racks of everything one might hope to find in any well-stocked shop, people take their time, running their fingers through their options. Women wearing hijabs, black, yellow and white faces, elderly people, both men and women, some truly elegantly-garbed middle-class women looking for stylish bargains, and finding them. As we entered, we saw a thin, winter-dressed old woman with white, white hair, sitting immobile on a stuffed chair.
Among the racks hang clothing of every description - and this day there is a 40% off sale on women's dresses (boutique excluded). Racks of towels, bedding. Huge cages of ornamental pillows. Shelves full of shoes, slippers, boots for children and for adults. And housewares, shelf after shelf of various types of kitchen accouterments, porcelain, glassware, pots and pans. And furniture as well; sofas, bookshelves, small appliances and large.
Close by me a telephone sounds and I watch while a darkly hirsute 50ish man digs into a pocket and extracts his cell phone. A conversation ensues, finally a mumbled reply to an obvious question: "I'm just picking up my welfare cheque". Values, the perceptions of requirement certainly vary from one idiosyncratic mind to another. If an item of questionable convenience and utility is also a status symbol it becomes a vital necessity.
The very old, shrunken woman we espied on our entry is still ensconced on the chair. Her eyes dull with disinterest in the present, mind obviously back somewhere in the past. She was there when we entered, still there, in the very same place when we left. My smile left unanswered.
Everyone has a right to privacy, in public or anywhere else.
Labels: Peregrinations
posted by Pieface @ 5:24 PM
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