WEATHER GONE WACKY!

                                               

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Methinks that Mother Nature sure must be pissed off at something this winter.

Sunday, January 20, 2013, 3:00 a.m. – house is still and quiet but through my open bedroom window, I can hear the wind wailing around the corners, reminding me of a long-drawn out E note on an alto sax in a bad jazz riff.  A rumble reaches my ears and I think, “Is that... thunder?”   Can’t be, it’s January.  We're supposed to have snow in January, not thunderstorms.

Deciding I was having a weird dream, I turn my back to the window and do some deep breathing - in through the nose, out through the mouth.  Restarting the music CD I had fallen asleep to some hours earlier, I focus on that instead of the noisy maelstrom outside, in what is normally a pool of peace.

Starting to relax again and on the verge of sleep, bass drum rolls rumble lazily through my window.  Again?  Thunder?  Is that really thunder?  Incredulous and exasperated, I fling the covers aside and jump out of bed to close the window.  I’m tired of being woken up by Mother Nature’s cacophony of bad music and of course, want to keep the rain out.  I fast-crank the window shut, shivering all the while.  Too bad I don’t have someone I can shove out the side of the bed and ask nicely (demand) that he close the window before we get soaked.  Well, there are good things and not-so-good-things about sleeping alone.  This is one of the not-so-good-things.

Rushing around to my side of the bed (Sofie, The Wonder Dog occupies the window side), I quickly crawl back in, quietly cursing the now-freezing sheets.  I guess most people keep the heat at a ‘normal’ level but since I like to sleep with the window open, I don’t see how that makes much sense in my house.  So, at night, the programmable thermostat is set to drop to brrrrrrrrrr(ish) 63° f (17° c).  The cats are glad that I set the gas fireplace remote to ‘Auto’ and it comes on when the living room temp drops to 68° f (20° c).  At least then, they won’t freeze to death (with their fur coats hmmmm).

Yanking the covers up around my ears and trying to tuck them around me as snugly as a cocoon, I dislodge one of the braver felines who seems to share my love of frigid. She mutters something rude and then settles down again, as I clutch the quilt up around my neck, to keep a cold draft out.  Pinky pushes herself down into the ‘v’ of my bent knees and starts kneading.  Her purr is much more soothing than the raucous chorus still reverberating outside.  Of course, her sharp little nails piecing the blanket aren’t.  I give the quilt a yank and she kinda goes flying a bit.  She runs out of my bedroom in a snit and I start my deep breathing again.
  

As I warm up a bit and my body stops shivering, I begin to relax and my mind goes back to growing up in Montreal.  It was a wonderful place back then – oh, about 50 or so years ago. Winter was my favourite season.  So many funny and wonderful memories flit into my tired mind. 
 
You know people here in Ontario bitch every time it snows – the near north (my new home town), south of 7 (Highway), The Town down under...  Every time it snows, the city, especially the south of 7 area, goes into panic mode and the city stalls.  You’re lucky if you can get to work in 2 or 3 hours and you only live 20 miles (30 km) away.  Oh and then getting home…But then, that's Toronto.  The MINUTE one white, fluffy, flake touches the ground in that city, traffic grinds to a halt and doesn't ever seem to get back to normal until June.
 
One time I remember the then-mayor of the GTA (Greater Toronto Area) calling out the military ‘cause Toronto got slapped with a lousy 3 feet (1 metre) of snow.  I still laugh when I remember good ol' Mel doing what he did.  The then-mayor delighted the rest of the country by drafting Canadian soldiers to wage war on snow drifts and free buried bus shelters.  Boy, it’s a good thing he was mayor in Toronto and not Montreal.  A smile curves my lips as I remember Mel’s Folly that January 4, 1999.
  
As I slip back to my childhood, a memory which always makes me laugh now, comes to mind - we are living on Walkley Avenue, in NDG.  It has been snowing for what seems like days and days.  My mom is so worried about my dad getting home from work safely and then, not being able to find a place to park.  My two sisters and I decide to brave the elements and dig out a parking spot on the street for him.  There was a space almost right in front of our row house and we bravely troop out into the swirling snow and gusting wind to wage war and liberate a parking spot. 
 
The three of us shovel furiously but it seems like we’re not making much of a dent in the drift that was taller than all of us.  The crap shoved up by the plow was almost more than we could move.  My mother keeps a close eye on us from the living room window, our baby sister clutching at her house dress to keep her balance, merrily waving away.  Boy, she was lucky that she was too little to hold a shovel. 

                                                   (Me & The Baby Sister)

Finally, finally, we got a space cleared that was just big enough for my father to get the car into.  Wearily, we start back to the house, no energy left to even lift our feet clear of the snow-clogged walkway.  We fall into the tiny foyer and start stripping off our Michelin-man type snowsuits and then the 4 or 5 layers we were wearing underneath.  To this day I wonder how we were able to bend any of our joints, dressed as we were.

Just as we were almost out of our snowsuits, we could hear our mother gasp and then start pounding on the window, where she was still standing, watching out for dad.  As one, we ran into the living room, asking what was wrong.  My mom turns around and yells that some S.O.B. (didn’t know what that meant for years), was parking in Daddy’s spot.  Not on your life, we yell.  Re-energized by the injustice of some schmuck stealing our hard-won parking spot, we pull up our snowsuits, throw on our boots and run back outside, brandishing our shovels. 

The S.O.B. has already made it about halfway to his house and was carefully ignoring the three shrieking banshees behind him.  O.K.  He wants to play dirty, we can play dirtier.  Up we stomp to the top of the five foot drift, which covers most of the sidewalk.  Standing shoulder-to-shoulder, we start kicking the snow bank we had just finished shoveling up, back down against the driver’s side, all the while yelling at the S.O.B. to come and move his car.  He stops walking and turns to see what we were doing.  Encouraged, we jump off the snow bank and run to the passenger side and start shoveling the plow crap up against that side of the car.  He realizes that we’re shoveling him in, and runs back.  We give a mighty cheer as he moves his car, all the while mouthing obscenities at the three sweet innocents.  We heave tired sighs, as we realize that now we have to shovel out the space again but at least it wasn’t as bad as the first time.

Another grumble intrudes on this childhood victory and I slide into memories of The Storm

of ’69…    

   

   Left to right – Me the 2^nd child, the third youngest, the oldest & the shortest, The Baby Sister)

*Image courtesy of by Vlado/FreeDigitalPhotos.net