Winter Tales
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Announcing the shortlist for the True Winter Tales Challenge
Well you did it again. You totally exceeded our expectations with more than 1,500 entries for the True Winter Takes Challenge!! All entries were read, and a shortlist of 15 titles was made.
It's now up to our judge, Adam Gopnik, to pick the winner. The lucky person will receive $1,000 from the Canada Council for the Arts.
You can read all of the 15 stories below. Let us know which ones you like, and which one you think deserves to win.
It's now up to our judge, Adam Gopnik, to pick the winner. The lucky person will receive $1,000 from the Canada Council for the Arts.
You can read all of the 15 stories below. Let us know which ones you like, and which one you think deserves to win.
Girl versus Janitor [Katrina Johnston - Victoria, BC]
Winter at the Sam Waller Museum [Joanna Reid - Toronto, ON]
Creating Memories [Marina Mavridis, Westmount, QC]
Fissure [Lauren Troneau, Toronto, ON]
West Hill [Robbie Dillon, Montreal, QC]
Best Served Cold [Ziyaad Mia, Toronto, ON]
Solitaire [Genevieve Jones, Killaloe, ON]
A Walk in the Snow [Christine Selinger, Regina, SK]
Bracing for Snow [Elaine McDivitt, Seaforth, ON]
C Word [Doug Koop, Kleefeld, MB]
The Canadian [Duncan Milne, Calgary, AB]
The Mainlanders [Chris Donahoe, Halifax, NS)]
The Trailer [Barbara Stewart, Langley, BC]
Hibernal [Paul Mitchell, Vancouver, BC]
Inside Out Under a Winter Sky [Chris Nelson, Calgary, AB]
During the winter of 1963, I joined a gang of grade-four girls who plotted schoolyard domination. We laid our sieges upon the ice and snow of Mount View Elementary in North East Calgary. Our opponent, the school janitor, Mr. Sadakowski, found himself deployed as an army of one against many. Intervening years have blurred my childhood ghosts, but I recall the janitor was a shrewd and worthy adversary.
No one really noticed Mr. Sadakowski except when someone barfed and he arrived like a saviour toting his grey bucket of Sorb-All sawdust. He rattled a set of keys that made his belt loops swag. He wielded a giant broom. After he had swabbed the floor, he thumped into the basement to invoke private spells upon the furnace. He staunched many an over-flowing toilet, plungered sinks and hammered cloakroom hooks.
Class schedules and bells meant that we remained strangers, but I watched Mr. Sadakowski one late afternoon as he muscled the industrial floor polisher. He etched such beautiful symmetric waxen loops. We smiled at one another briefly - secretly.
In the schoolyard, the girls hunkered down. It went like this: We spent most of our recess and before-school times constructing slides of compacted snow and ice - shaping minor ski jumps. We dragged snow with the edges of our boots and tamped it tight against short hills. Then we carried mouthfuls of water from the drinking fountains and spat upon the slides, re-freezing the surfaces to a shiny gloss. We took turns after that, launching and sliding and joyously skittering a maximum of three or four feet. Whoosh! Turn after turn and again and again until the bells tolled and our troops retreated back indoors. When we had fashioned a half dozen slides, a teacher or a parent or a school supervisor ordered Mr. Sadakowski to remove the dangerous slicks to ensure the schoolyard remained absurdly safe.
We settled into routine. The girls built. The janitor demolished. First, he used a shovel and then a hatchet. We hauled fresh batches of snow from distant fields until tiny balls of slush hung like burrs from our woolly mittens. Our cheeks stretched red and taut. We spat more water. Mr. Sadakowski applied quantities of sand and salt. We started again.
Our enterprise reached crescendo around the Christmas break. We kept Mr. Sadakowski busier than Santa. He must have exhaled a heartfelt sigh of relief when the ice-sliding girls slogged out through the playground gate for a ten-day Christmas truce.
In mid January, we built and slid again until Mr. Sadakowski rented a Big-R Snow Plow and bulldozed everything. The encroaching spring sent warmish winds and soggy snows enforced our shaky armistice.
Next year, now in grade five, we spent our recess differently - mainly leaning around the corner where the boys' side met the girls, our interest in ice-slides waning. We never noticed that Mr. Sadakowski slid into retirement. In our world, he just melted.
No one really noticed Mr. Sadakowski except when someone barfed and he arrived like a saviour toting his grey bucket of Sorb-All sawdust. He rattled a set of keys that made his belt loops swag. He wielded a giant broom. After he had swabbed the floor, he thumped into the basement to invoke private spells upon the furnace. He staunched many an over-flowing toilet, plungered sinks and hammered cloakroom hooks.
Class schedules and bells meant that we remained strangers, but I watched Mr. Sadakowski one late afternoon as he muscled the industrial floor polisher. He etched such beautiful symmetric waxen loops. We smiled at one another briefly - secretly.
In the schoolyard, the girls hunkered down. It went like this: We spent most of our recess and before-school times constructing slides of compacted snow and ice - shaping minor ski jumps. We dragged snow with the edges of our boots and tamped it tight against short hills. Then we carried mouthfuls of water from the drinking fountains and spat upon the slides, re-freezing the surfaces to a shiny gloss. We took turns after that, launching and sliding and joyously skittering a maximum of three or four feet. Whoosh! Turn after turn and again and again until the bells tolled and our troops retreated back indoors. When we had fashioned a half dozen slides, a teacher or a parent or a school supervisor ordered Mr. Sadakowski to remove the dangerous slicks to ensure the schoolyard remained absurdly safe.
We settled into routine. The girls built. The janitor demolished. First, he used a shovel and then a hatchet. We hauled fresh batches of snow from distant fields until tiny balls of slush hung like burrs from our woolly mittens. Our cheeks stretched red and taut. We spat more water. Mr. Sadakowski applied quantities of sand and salt. We started again.
Our enterprise reached crescendo around the Christmas break. We kept Mr. Sadakowski busier than Santa. He must have exhaled a heartfelt sigh of relief when the ice-sliding girls slogged out through the playground gate for a ten-day Christmas truce.
In mid January, we built and slid again until Mr. Sadakowski rented a Big-R Snow Plow and bulldozed everything. The encroaching spring sent warmish winds and soggy snows enforced our shaky armistice.
Next year, now in grade five, we spent our recess differently - mainly leaning around the corner where the boys' side met the girls, our interest in ice-slides waning. We never noticed that Mr. Sadakowski slid into retirement. In our world, he just melted.
Winter at the Sam Waller Museum [Joanna Reid - Toronto, ON]
Entering The Pas regional airport from the snowy, blustery tarmac, you find in a display case two frogs, dried and stuffed, carrying a third frog on a stretcher. Frog Stretcher Bearers reads the panel, so frank and self-evident that you look around, feeling that you've missed something. The taxidermist's whimsy - his moment of inspiration, his quiet laughter as he assembled the pieces - is not recoverable. But there is a clue; you can still learn something about where you are. The panel reads "Courtesy of the Sam Waller Museum."
When I moved to The Pas to teach geography, another teacher said that if the unique characters of the town were buildings, Sam Waller would be a skyscraper. An Englishman, a former soldier, Sam moved to The Pas in 1939, where he taught at the Big Eddy school and developed a vast collection of animal species and curios that would become his "Little Museum." Most famous is the two-headed calf, but the children who visit also remember the dressed fleas; under a microscope, the bugs appear in bride and groom outfits.
When it gets cold, I am drawn to the top floor of the Sam Waller Museum, sharing the warm, quiet space with two other women: the museum director and curator. They give me paper towels to mop up the puddles of melted snow from my boots. From a temperature-controlled room, the curator retrieves file boxes: Sam's papers for me to read. The building used to be the town courthouse and in the basement - near a kitchen where the women drink afternoon tea with chocolate biscuits - three jail cells remain.
I read Sam's diaries of Moose Factory, his life before The Pas. In 1925, after a thick frost, the men at the Hudson Bay Company pick potatoes and children glean the leftovers, selling them for three cents a pound. In late October, there is hail and fog. "We had a heavy fall of snow," Sam writes in one entry. "Snow all day," he writes in another. "Very cold and raw." After the bay freezes, mail arrives by sled team. The boys from the school teach Sam to hunt; one cold day, after following fox tracks into the forest, a small boy named Willie shoots five birds with five shots. Sam's face freezes. One afternoon Sam goes to the Company headquarters and sees a tall stack of seal skins just arrived from Whale River. There, too, on the radio, he hears a clock strike - it's Big Ben, far away in London. At home, by the fire, Sam reads David Copperfield.
In my mind, the settlement glows eerily real - jagged sea ice in the bay, small wooden houses, the Company's clapboard offices. Grey light. Fences look like toothpicks in the vast white land. Meanwhile, outside the Sam Waller Museum, the temperature drops with nightfall. I'm living two winters at once. And when my car will not start because of the cold, the curator gives me a ride home.
When I moved to The Pas to teach geography, another teacher said that if the unique characters of the town were buildings, Sam Waller would be a skyscraper. An Englishman, a former soldier, Sam moved to The Pas in 1939, where he taught at the Big Eddy school and developed a vast collection of animal species and curios that would become his "Little Museum." Most famous is the two-headed calf, but the children who visit also remember the dressed fleas; under a microscope, the bugs appear in bride and groom outfits.
When it gets cold, I am drawn to the top floor of the Sam Waller Museum, sharing the warm, quiet space with two other women: the museum director and curator. They give me paper towels to mop up the puddles of melted snow from my boots. From a temperature-controlled room, the curator retrieves file boxes: Sam's papers for me to read. The building used to be the town courthouse and in the basement - near a kitchen where the women drink afternoon tea with chocolate biscuits - three jail cells remain.
I read Sam's diaries of Moose Factory, his life before The Pas. In 1925, after a thick frost, the men at the Hudson Bay Company pick potatoes and children glean the leftovers, selling them for three cents a pound. In late October, there is hail and fog. "We had a heavy fall of snow," Sam writes in one entry. "Snow all day," he writes in another. "Very cold and raw." After the bay freezes, mail arrives by sled team. The boys from the school teach Sam to hunt; one cold day, after following fox tracks into the forest, a small boy named Willie shoots five birds with five shots. Sam's face freezes. One afternoon Sam goes to the Company headquarters and sees a tall stack of seal skins just arrived from Whale River. There, too, on the radio, he hears a clock strike - it's Big Ben, far away in London. At home, by the fire, Sam reads David Copperfield.
In my mind, the settlement glows eerily real - jagged sea ice in the bay, small wooden houses, the Company's clapboard offices. Grey light. Fences look like toothpicks in the vast white land. Meanwhile, outside the Sam Waller Museum, the temperature drops with nightfall. I'm living two winters at once. And when my car will not start because of the cold, the curator gives me a ride home.
Creating Memories [Marina Mavridis, Westmount, QC]
Mom's had it. She's had it since she realized Dad doesn't have a clue where Uncle Bob's new house is. It doesn't help that every white-blanketed street looks identical to the next. It doesn't help that Mom has to practically press against the steering wheel to see beyond the furious swirl of winter storm.
"Mont Blanc," Sophie, my slightly younger sister, says. "Eiger... Nesthorn... Matterhorn." Sophie sits to my left. She has her face plastered to the windowpane so she can read the street signs. I don't know how she can see anything with the snow falling the way it is.
"Weird names," Sophie says.
"They're mountains in the Alps," Henry, our younger brother, says. He sits on my left, one hand holding his book, the other a small flashlight.
"How do you know that?"
Henry doesn't answer. He's back to his book.
"How does he know that?" Sophie again asks, only this time she directs the question towards the front where Mom and Dad sit.
"He's eight," Sophie says when they don't answer. "What kind of freak is he?"
Freak. This is what Sophie calls the intelligent person in our family.
"Try turning here," Dad suggests.
"You think?" Mom's voice is colder than it looks outside. The car inches forward, skids, then jolts to a stop. Mom presses the gas. Nothing happens.
"Tell me we didn't hit a snow bank," she says.
No one answers. Instead, we listen to the relentless swooshing of the windshield wipers. Henry lowers his window. A blast of wet cold hits my face like an unexpected punch. "We're in an alley," he says.
Mom shifts the car to reverse and presses down on the gas. Nothing. She presses down harder. Eight seconds later and the only change is the stench of gas in the car.
"I love this smell," Sophie says, inhaling deeply.
"Mommy," Henry yells, "Sophie's trying to kill herself."
Mom doesn't answer. She's too busy glaring at Dad and you can tell there's nothing positive going on in her head.
"Sudden Sniffing Death," Henry explains, "I read about it in a medical journal."
Sophie looks at Henry like he's an alien. Sophie and I don't agree on much, but I'm with her on this.
Another assault of wet iciness as mom gets out. We watch her make her way to the trunk. The trunk pops open, then closed. Mom reappears holding a shovel.
Dad reaches for his gloves and gets out. Sophie, Henry, and I follow.
"Wonderful," Mom is screaming. "This is just wonderful."
Dad starts laughing. We look at Dad. Even Mom stops shovelling and stares as Dad grabs a handful of snow and packs it into a ball. He throws it at Mom.
"What are you doing?" Mom yells.
"Creating memories," Dad answers.
This time it's Mom who laughs. She grabs some snow and throws it at me. Henry is already aiming a snowball at Dad who's gotten Sophie twice. I reach down for some magic.
"Mont Blanc," Sophie, my slightly younger sister, says. "Eiger... Nesthorn... Matterhorn." Sophie sits to my left. She has her face plastered to the windowpane so she can read the street signs. I don't know how she can see anything with the snow falling the way it is.
"Weird names," Sophie says.
"They're mountains in the Alps," Henry, our younger brother, says. He sits on my left, one hand holding his book, the other a small flashlight.
"How do you know that?"
Henry doesn't answer. He's back to his book.
"How does he know that?" Sophie again asks, only this time she directs the question towards the front where Mom and Dad sit.
"He's eight," Sophie says when they don't answer. "What kind of freak is he?"
Freak. This is what Sophie calls the intelligent person in our family.
"Try turning here," Dad suggests.
"You think?" Mom's voice is colder than it looks outside. The car inches forward, skids, then jolts to a stop. Mom presses the gas. Nothing happens.
"Tell me we didn't hit a snow bank," she says.
No one answers. Instead, we listen to the relentless swooshing of the windshield wipers. Henry lowers his window. A blast of wet cold hits my face like an unexpected punch. "We're in an alley," he says.
Mom shifts the car to reverse and presses down on the gas. Nothing. She presses down harder. Eight seconds later and the only change is the stench of gas in the car.
"I love this smell," Sophie says, inhaling deeply.
"Mommy," Henry yells, "Sophie's trying to kill herself."
Mom doesn't answer. She's too busy glaring at Dad and you can tell there's nothing positive going on in her head.
"Sudden Sniffing Death," Henry explains, "I read about it in a medical journal."
Sophie looks at Henry like he's an alien. Sophie and I don't agree on much, but I'm with her on this.
Another assault of wet iciness as mom gets out. We watch her make her way to the trunk. The trunk pops open, then closed. Mom reappears holding a shovel.
Dad reaches for his gloves and gets out. Sophie, Henry, and I follow.
"Wonderful," Mom is screaming. "This is just wonderful."
Dad starts laughing. We look at Dad. Even Mom stops shovelling and stares as Dad grabs a handful of snow and packs it into a ball. He throws it at Mom.
"What are you doing?" Mom yells.
"Creating memories," Dad answers.
This time it's Mom who laughs. She grabs some snow and throws it at me. Henry is already aiming a snowball at Dad who's gotten Sophie twice. I reach down for some magic.
Fissure [Lauren Troneau, Toronto, ON]
That winter, the lakes froze before the snow came. The wind ripped the breath from our throats and pierced our lungs with an indifferent ferocity, making the walk to school a bigger punishment than the hours spent there. We slouched in the back booth at Smitty's, smoking over coffee, and congregated, morose and restless, in each other's basements. Finally, after weeks that seemed endless, the cold relented and someone told someone else they'd heard Minnewanka was as clear and smooth as a rink. This had never happened.
We clambered into the back of Jimmy McKusker's van, a tangle of sticks and skates and bodies, reckless and eager. The lake was higher up in the valley, past the remains of a mining town that had been abandoned decades ago, its fallen walls now hidden by saplings and underbrush. The mountains reared up around us, like grizzlies catching a scent, silver tipped and deadly still, yet we barely noticed them, and were unafraid here. It was our territory.
Minnewanka was longer than you could walk in a day and deeper than we could imagine, but all we cared about that morning was the ice, glinting crystalline in the sun. We laced up our skates and lobbed a puck into the air. It was caught for a moment against the sky, then hit the ice and skittered away. We were after it, swift and skating hard, taking shots on an imaginary net, reaching for a long pass, chasing the puck as it slid, black and small, along the adamantine brilliance of the frozen water. There was only our laughter and insults, and the rasp of our blades as they carved an indecipherable wilderness of crosscut lines. We scattered like coyotes and circled back and then the puck, in a misdirected ricochet, escaped from us and headed in the direction of Devil's Gap. Jack Thivierge took off after it and we all followed.
The crack was louder than anything we had ever heard, an aching explosion that echoed around us. A fissure, like a vein of coal running through a rock, split the ice behind us. Suddenly, there were breaks appearing everywhere, and a narrow glacial blackness of water opened between us and the too far away shore. I thought of nothing but that shore, and jumpskated over the rift, hearing shouts that seemed impossibly distant and not knowing whose voices they might be. Then I made it over another crack and another, scrambling across the fractured ice until I collapsed on the frozen ground, panting and slowly emerging from my terror. I got up and looked around. We were all there, still holding our sticks.
We didn't know, that morning, where we would end up, or who among us would die too soon. We didn't see the crenellated ridges of the mountains as time made visible, or the edge of the woods as some sort of threshold we would cross. We just stood, silent and breathing hard, marveling at our luck.
We clambered into the back of Jimmy McKusker's van, a tangle of sticks and skates and bodies, reckless and eager. The lake was higher up in the valley, past the remains of a mining town that had been abandoned decades ago, its fallen walls now hidden by saplings and underbrush. The mountains reared up around us, like grizzlies catching a scent, silver tipped and deadly still, yet we barely noticed them, and were unafraid here. It was our territory.
Minnewanka was longer than you could walk in a day and deeper than we could imagine, but all we cared about that morning was the ice, glinting crystalline in the sun. We laced up our skates and lobbed a puck into the air. It was caught for a moment against the sky, then hit the ice and skittered away. We were after it, swift and skating hard, taking shots on an imaginary net, reaching for a long pass, chasing the puck as it slid, black and small, along the adamantine brilliance of the frozen water. There was only our laughter and insults, and the rasp of our blades as they carved an indecipherable wilderness of crosscut lines. We scattered like coyotes and circled back and then the puck, in a misdirected ricochet, escaped from us and headed in the direction of Devil's Gap. Jack Thivierge took off after it and we all followed.
The crack was louder than anything we had ever heard, an aching explosion that echoed around us. A fissure, like a vein of coal running through a rock, split the ice behind us. Suddenly, there were breaks appearing everywhere, and a narrow glacial blackness of water opened between us and the too far away shore. I thought of nothing but that shore, and jumpskated over the rift, hearing shouts that seemed impossibly distant and not knowing whose voices they might be. Then I made it over another crack and another, scrambling across the fractured ice until I collapsed on the frozen ground, panting and slowly emerging from my terror. I got up and looked around. We were all there, still holding our sticks.
We didn't know, that morning, where we would end up, or who among us would die too soon. We didn't see the crenellated ridges of the mountains as time made visible, or the edge of the woods as some sort of threshold we would cross. We just stood, silent and breathing hard, marveling at our luck.
West Hill [Robbie Dillon, Montreal, QC]
The snow that begins to fall the morning of Jimmy Bussell's funeral is unmistakably the "sticky" type, ideal for fort-building and snowball-fighting. The big, soft flakes cling to each other as they float past the windows of Miss Kneeland's 4th grade classroom, taunting us. We squirm in our seats and silently beg the hands of the clock on the wall above her head to please - for God's sake - tick already.
When the lunch bell finally rings, we charge to the boys' cloakroom, merging into a single, swarming entity that piles over itself to stuff feet into pairs of seemingly identical snowmobile boots, slip arms down the sleeves of green nylon parkas. We explode down the school steps and head straight for the corner of West Hill Avenue, two blocks away and just beyond the sightlines of our principal Mrs. Hendry's office windows.
We hunch down between parked cars by the stop sign while our mothers wait at home with bowls of Alpha-bit soup and baloney sandwiches. When a car pulls up, we scramble from our hiding places and lunge for a spot on the rear bumper. Those of us lucky enough to get a good grip ride along when the car pulls away, the rubber soles of our boots surfing over the icy street.
If we keep it up, Miss Kneeland says, we're going to end up just like Jimmy, whose desk has mysteriously disappeared from its spot at the back of the third row. Death, apparently, means no more homework, no one forcing you to sit for hours in French class, reciting the passé composé. How bad can it be?
A blue Gran Torino rolls into the stop. I elbow my way through the pack, wrap one mitten around the wheel-well, and jam the other into the crack between the bumper and the tail-light. The car spins its tires, shrieking as it pulls away. I feel its power surge through me as it picks up speed, and one-by-one, the boys beside me fall off, whooping and laughing, into the snow.
A few yards further on, I let go but the car doesn't. I realize my hand is trapped behind the bumper and I start to panic. My heart squeezes tight as a fist in my chest. My boot hits a manhole cover, kicking my legs out from under me. The car drags me over a patch of bare asphalt, its rear tire spitting chunks of gravel into my face. I can feel my arm being wrenched from its socket.
The Gran Torino bounces in and out of a pothole. The jolt frees my hand, and tosses me, like a chewed-up candy, into a frozen snow bank. I watch the car drive off, its satanic red tail-light winking at me. My mitten, still wedged in the bumper, waves bye-bye. I brush myself off, examining my shredded parka and the gashes in the knees of my nearly brand-new schoolpants.
My mother is going to kill me.
When the lunch bell finally rings, we charge to the boys' cloakroom, merging into a single, swarming entity that piles over itself to stuff feet into pairs of seemingly identical snowmobile boots, slip arms down the sleeves of green nylon parkas. We explode down the school steps and head straight for the corner of West Hill Avenue, two blocks away and just beyond the sightlines of our principal Mrs. Hendry's office windows.
We hunch down between parked cars by the stop sign while our mothers wait at home with bowls of Alpha-bit soup and baloney sandwiches. When a car pulls up, we scramble from our hiding places and lunge for a spot on the rear bumper. Those of us lucky enough to get a good grip ride along when the car pulls away, the rubber soles of our boots surfing over the icy street.
If we keep it up, Miss Kneeland says, we're going to end up just like Jimmy, whose desk has mysteriously disappeared from its spot at the back of the third row. Death, apparently, means no more homework, no one forcing you to sit for hours in French class, reciting the passé composé. How bad can it be?
A blue Gran Torino rolls into the stop. I elbow my way through the pack, wrap one mitten around the wheel-well, and jam the other into the crack between the bumper and the tail-light. The car spins its tires, shrieking as it pulls away. I feel its power surge through me as it picks up speed, and one-by-one, the boys beside me fall off, whooping and laughing, into the snow.
A few yards further on, I let go but the car doesn't. I realize my hand is trapped behind the bumper and I start to panic. My heart squeezes tight as a fist in my chest. My boot hits a manhole cover, kicking my legs out from under me. The car drags me over a patch of bare asphalt, its rear tire spitting chunks of gravel into my face. I can feel my arm being wrenched from its socket.
The Gran Torino bounces in and out of a pothole. The jolt frees my hand, and tosses me, like a chewed-up candy, into a frozen snow bank. I watch the car drive off, its satanic red tail-light winking at me. My mitten, still wedged in the bumper, waves bye-bye. I brush myself off, examining my shredded parka and the gashes in the knees of my nearly brand-new schoolpants.
My mother is going to kill me.
Best Served Cold [Ziyaad Mia, Toronto, ON]
The warm orange glow of the parking lot lights belies the fact that it's -13 Celsius. Puffy snowflakes, the snow globe kind, meander down from heaven to join their kin, building a downy white quilt over the asphalt. As I swing the car into a parking space, the fresh snow squeaks against the turning tires. It's early January and the outdoor rink is teeming with kids eager to try out their new skates.
I find my way to the change room and plonk down beside a ruby-cheeked cherub breathlessly recounting her day, punctuated only by "and thens". Half listening to the staccato report, Cherub's father struggles to jam the miniature skates onto the kid's feet. I smile at them and realize that there aren't many adults lacing up for Skating 101.
Trailing Cherub, I join a parade of snow-suited children as we waddle toward the rink. When I hit the hard air toqueless it feels like my head will crack and shatter into a million tiny pieces; an ice cream headache on steroids. The cold air is licking warmth from my head the way one devours a vanilla double scoop on a sultry August afternoon. To make matters worse, my flat feet are protesting against the unforgiving contours of my strange new footwear.
Winter and I have had a rocky relationship ever since I came to Canada. Being a child, I couldn't conceive of the icy horrors that would welcome me to my new homeland.
We arrived in the winter of 1975, having left summer's warm embrace in South Africa just days before; an inversion that, like time travel, was at once miraculous and cruel. My parents settled in Brampton, which to me, appeared to have a surfeit of snow and cold.
"Hey Paki!" he yelled across the schoolyard. "Go home."
At first, I thought he was speaking to the other kids. "What?" I asked, looking at him quizzically.
"Go back home, Paki boy" he sneered, emphasizing the epithet.
Although I didn't know what a "Paki" was, I felt it in my gut.
We abandoned words quickly, locking in an angry, hateful embrace. Except for the exchange of a few tight punches, it was more wrestling match than fight, as we rolled on the hard-packed snow. The anger was so powerful I didn't feel the cold anymore.
Once separated, we stared each other down for what seemed an eternity, like cats battling over turf. Then, the cold returned with a vengeance. I felt snow melting down my back; the icy chill invading my bones, my blood.
I hated Brampton.
I hated winter.
Puffy snowflakes are still falling gently over the floodlit rink.
"Adult Beginner Skate over here" the instructor shouts above the snow-muffled din of kids and parents. I step gingerly into the snowy rink and skate-walk over to the huddled mélange of adults.
I look over at Cherub fearlessly zipping across the ice; she is oblivious to the cold. I am ready to welcome winter's embrace.
I find my way to the change room and plonk down beside a ruby-cheeked cherub breathlessly recounting her day, punctuated only by "and thens". Half listening to the staccato report, Cherub's father struggles to jam the miniature skates onto the kid's feet. I smile at them and realize that there aren't many adults lacing up for Skating 101.
Trailing Cherub, I join a parade of snow-suited children as we waddle toward the rink. When I hit the hard air toqueless it feels like my head will crack and shatter into a million tiny pieces; an ice cream headache on steroids. The cold air is licking warmth from my head the way one devours a vanilla double scoop on a sultry August afternoon. To make matters worse, my flat feet are protesting against the unforgiving contours of my strange new footwear.
Winter and I have had a rocky relationship ever since I came to Canada. Being a child, I couldn't conceive of the icy horrors that would welcome me to my new homeland.
We arrived in the winter of 1975, having left summer's warm embrace in South Africa just days before; an inversion that, like time travel, was at once miraculous and cruel. My parents settled in Brampton, which to me, appeared to have a surfeit of snow and cold.
"Hey Paki!" he yelled across the schoolyard. "Go home."
At first, I thought he was speaking to the other kids. "What?" I asked, looking at him quizzically.
"Go back home, Paki boy" he sneered, emphasizing the epithet.
Although I didn't know what a "Paki" was, I felt it in my gut.
We abandoned words quickly, locking in an angry, hateful embrace. Except for the exchange of a few tight punches, it was more wrestling match than fight, as we rolled on the hard-packed snow. The anger was so powerful I didn't feel the cold anymore.
Once separated, we stared each other down for what seemed an eternity, like cats battling over turf. Then, the cold returned with a vengeance. I felt snow melting down my back; the icy chill invading my bones, my blood.
I hated Brampton.
I hated winter.
Puffy snowflakes are still falling gently over the floodlit rink.
"Adult Beginner Skate over here" the instructor shouts above the snow-muffled din of kids and parents. I step gingerly into the snowy rink and skate-walk over to the huddled mélange of adults.
I look over at Cherub fearlessly zipping across the ice; she is oblivious to the cold. I am ready to welcome winter's embrace.
Solitaire [Genevieve Jones, Killaloe, ON]
When Frank said, "It's over", I cried for seven hours, then shopped for my own house on the Internet. It had to be under $30,000 and as close as possible to my family in Ottawa. I found it in Coe Hill, Ontario, population 300. Three hundred descendants of miners, strong enough to winter here.
Now the big question is, who am I, by myself? Am I strong enough? I think of Granny going through the war and hope I have some of her strength.
Cold reaches in to tickle my cheek through a crack in the kitchen window. The weatherman cheerfully announces the first real snow, coming tonight.
"Good afternoon Ma'am, I do much of the plumbing around here. I know your house, those kitchen pipes freeze real easy..."
"Mrs. Jones? I'm calling from Greenfield Insulation. Did you know you may be losing as much as 40% of your heating dollars due to lack of attic insulation?..."
"Mrs. Jones, your oil tank needs to be restin' on a solid cement pad. Can't be on those blocks you have there. We can't fill it 'till that's fixed."
Dusk brings the snow. Pretty at first: white lace softening ragged edges, bare branches. The wind picks up and by midnight the storm is hurling white across the hill; filling, drifting, smothering. I prop my new shovel by the door.
***
I drift up from sleep, pitch dark, wondering what woke me. A low rumble growing on the road outside. My window vibrates as the heavy plough passes. The sound fades and I drift back under warm quilts, comforted.
***
First snow, pristine. The village has been Norman Rockwelled in the night. Sun glares off snow diamonds, stinging my eyes. I stuff myself into layers of wool and Gortex and shovel my way to the laneway, desecrating, my boots beginning the ruin.
Half an hour later, I am bent over, gasping, back screaming. Only one quarter of the laneway is cleared. It's too much. This is too hard. Frank did the heavy stuff. I am out of shape, too weak. What if it snows every day? What if I sprain my back or have a heart attack? I could croak right here by the garbage cans and not be found 'till some neighbour dog gets curious! I fight to catch my breath, hot tears stinging my cheeks. Do. Not. Panic.
A pickup slows at my house. I wipe my face. The man veers over the sidewalk, and with a few swoops of his blade, he clears the end of my laneway, then leaves with a wave. I can hardly believe it: help from a stranger, like a Disney movie. Grinning, I finish the shovelling.
Back in my house, I soothe my aches with the best hot chocolate in the history of the world. Bundled in Grannie's heavy bathrobe, I pad to the kitchen window, stuff my half melted marshmallow in the crack, and smile at the snow coming down. Pretty.
Now the big question is, who am I, by myself? Am I strong enough? I think of Granny going through the war and hope I have some of her strength.
Cold reaches in to tickle my cheek through a crack in the kitchen window. The weatherman cheerfully announces the first real snow, coming tonight.
"Good afternoon Ma'am, I do much of the plumbing around here. I know your house, those kitchen pipes freeze real easy..."
"Mrs. Jones? I'm calling from Greenfield Insulation. Did you know you may be losing as much as 40% of your heating dollars due to lack of attic insulation?..."
"Mrs. Jones, your oil tank needs to be restin' on a solid cement pad. Can't be on those blocks you have there. We can't fill it 'till that's fixed."
Dusk brings the snow. Pretty at first: white lace softening ragged edges, bare branches. The wind picks up and by midnight the storm is hurling white across the hill; filling, drifting, smothering. I prop my new shovel by the door.
***
I drift up from sleep, pitch dark, wondering what woke me. A low rumble growing on the road outside. My window vibrates as the heavy plough passes. The sound fades and I drift back under warm quilts, comforted.
***
First snow, pristine. The village has been Norman Rockwelled in the night. Sun glares off snow diamonds, stinging my eyes. I stuff myself into layers of wool and Gortex and shovel my way to the laneway, desecrating, my boots beginning the ruin.
Half an hour later, I am bent over, gasping, back screaming. Only one quarter of the laneway is cleared. It's too much. This is too hard. Frank did the heavy stuff. I am out of shape, too weak. What if it snows every day? What if I sprain my back or have a heart attack? I could croak right here by the garbage cans and not be found 'till some neighbour dog gets curious! I fight to catch my breath, hot tears stinging my cheeks. Do. Not. Panic.
A pickup slows at my house. I wipe my face. The man veers over the sidewalk, and with a few swoops of his blade, he clears the end of my laneway, then leaves with a wave. I can hardly believe it: help from a stranger, like a Disney movie. Grinning, I finish the shovelling.
Back in my house, I soothe my aches with the best hot chocolate in the history of the world. Bundled in Grannie's heavy bathrobe, I pad to the kitchen window, stuff my half melted marshmallow in the crack, and smile at the snow coming down. Pretty.
A Walk in the Snow [Christine Selinger, Regina, SK]
Everyone has that one day they remember; that one winter day that really stands out amongst the rest.
In late December of 2006 I had flown from my home in Regina to Kamloops, where my sister Chelsea was in the Adventure Program at Thompson Rivers University. I was thrilled to be with her; I knew she was excited to show me everything she had learned and I was even more excited to get to meet her friends and participate in just a snippet of the activities the mountains had to offer.
We spent the first day skiing and snowboarding, and on my second day we were slated to go snow-shoeing through the trails at Sun Peaks. I was looking forward to spending a day at a slightly slower (and flatter!) pace, but my body had suddenly become aware that I had tried to learn to snowboard the day before. I awoke to numerous bruises and muscles the screamed even on the trip down the stairs. Though I tried to whine my way out of it, Chelsea insisted that we stick to our plan.
It was December 17. It was sunny and decently warm for that time of the year. Although my leg muscles continued to ache, they loosened up after the first kilometer and I found that I was really glad we had come. We stopped in a clearing about halfway through our loop and sat in the snow to eat our picnic lunch. The view was absolutely breathtaking. The sun reflected brightly off every untouched snowflake. A vast clearing of glitter framed with evergreen trees. The slopes of Sun Peaks in the distance, and the smell of truly fresh air. Crisp and cold with only the sounds of the birds and wind to echo back to us. I took many pictures that day but, as usual, the pictures truly cannot do it justice. It was the moment that made it perfect. The exercise had caused my lungs to breathe a bit harder than they normally do and I was warm despite the cold weather.
My right snowshoe broke about halfway back to the trailhead; I struggled with it for several kilometers, tripping on everything on the trail and digging my way out of my fair share of holes. As frustrating as those last few kilometers were, words cannot explain how glad I am to have had that day. It's been five years, but I still remember the warm burn of well-used muscles.
The next day a rappelling incident fractured a vertebrae in my lower back and I have been a paraplegic ever since. Though I have since been out sit-skiing, nothing can quite measure up to my picnic lunch in the snow with my sister. I look back at it nostalgically, not with sadness, and remember it as both the perfect way to end a story and a great beginning to an even better story to come.
In late December of 2006 I had flown from my home in Regina to Kamloops, where my sister Chelsea was in the Adventure Program at Thompson Rivers University. I was thrilled to be with her; I knew she was excited to show me everything she had learned and I was even more excited to get to meet her friends and participate in just a snippet of the activities the mountains had to offer.
We spent the first day skiing and snowboarding, and on my second day we were slated to go snow-shoeing through the trails at Sun Peaks. I was looking forward to spending a day at a slightly slower (and flatter!) pace, but my body had suddenly become aware that I had tried to learn to snowboard the day before. I awoke to numerous bruises and muscles the screamed even on the trip down the stairs. Though I tried to whine my way out of it, Chelsea insisted that we stick to our plan.
It was December 17. It was sunny and decently warm for that time of the year. Although my leg muscles continued to ache, they loosened up after the first kilometer and I found that I was really glad we had come. We stopped in a clearing about halfway through our loop and sat in the snow to eat our picnic lunch. The view was absolutely breathtaking. The sun reflected brightly off every untouched snowflake. A vast clearing of glitter framed with evergreen trees. The slopes of Sun Peaks in the distance, and the smell of truly fresh air. Crisp and cold with only the sounds of the birds and wind to echo back to us. I took many pictures that day but, as usual, the pictures truly cannot do it justice. It was the moment that made it perfect. The exercise had caused my lungs to breathe a bit harder than they normally do and I was warm despite the cold weather.
My right snowshoe broke about halfway back to the trailhead; I struggled with it for several kilometers, tripping on everything on the trail and digging my way out of my fair share of holes. As frustrating as those last few kilometers were, words cannot explain how glad I am to have had that day. It's been five years, but I still remember the warm burn of well-used muscles.
The next day a rappelling incident fractured a vertebrae in my lower back and I have been a paraplegic ever since. Though I have since been out sit-skiing, nothing can quite measure up to my picnic lunch in the snow with my sister. I look back at it nostalgically, not with sadness, and remember it as both the perfect way to end a story and a great beginning to an even better story to come.
Bracing for Snow [Elaine McDivitt, Seaforth, ON]
It was snowing in Ottawa, November 21, 1968. I sat in the doctor's office with my mother, my father waiting outside in the car. Parking was a problem downtown. The steel brace running up each side of my left leg from floor to hip was tingly cold from the walk in. My white orthopaedic shoes were worn and starting to pinch my toes. I refused to wear the monstrous rubber overboots, heavy to drag and swing through any weather. A boy at school called them Frankenstein boots. My empathetic mother drove me the two blocks to school and back each day in winter. I stayed in at recess.
We waited in silence save for the tick tick of the wall clock, announcing every minute the doctor was late. Suddenly, he breezed through the doorway in a way that it wasn't obvious how he opened and shut the door so quickly. I wondered if he was a ghost, x-rays clutched in his hand. My mother straightened, bracing for news with a hopeful smile that reminded me of our dog begging. I was embarrassed first, then shamed. This was the third time in six months that we were here waiting for the right news. Three years of wearing the brace.
"She needs new shoes," the doctor said politely, pointing at my feet. The brace stuck out into the middle of the tiny room quivering as if in agreement. I stared at my mother, her poise beginning to crumple in tandem with my sinking heart. The doctor scribbled on his clipboard then, seeming to notice the oppressive quiet he looked up and bent quickly on one knee before me.
"Real shoes," he said, "snow-boots too, I would say."
I walked out of the medical building scuffing my braced leg through the snowbank edging the walkway. In the car, I tore off the ugly old shoes and the steel. My father drove with mad happiness through the growing snowstorm to get to the shoe store before closing. I couldn't walk on my leg that had been hibernating for years but had become a good right-legged hopper in that time. The shoe store glowed with the jewels of winter fun. I didn't care about shoes, I wanted boots. Fancy black lace-ups with a tiny heel that would prove impractical for a ten year old, but beautiful.
At home I quickly pulled on my brother's snowpants, grabbed mitts and hat and went back outside. The snow was falling lightly, the sun had set. The front lawn was a magical pillow where I hopped, rolled, made snow angels, and revelled in bending my left leg. I tried a few steps but lacked enough muscle to hold me. I sat breathing the cold air, watching flakes weave their way to the ground. I looked up once and saw my mother watching me through the picture window. I stayed out till nine.
We waited in silence save for the tick tick of the wall clock, announcing every minute the doctor was late. Suddenly, he breezed through the doorway in a way that it wasn't obvious how he opened and shut the door so quickly. I wondered if he was a ghost, x-rays clutched in his hand. My mother straightened, bracing for news with a hopeful smile that reminded me of our dog begging. I was embarrassed first, then shamed. This was the third time in six months that we were here waiting for the right news. Three years of wearing the brace.
"She needs new shoes," the doctor said politely, pointing at my feet. The brace stuck out into the middle of the tiny room quivering as if in agreement. I stared at my mother, her poise beginning to crumple in tandem with my sinking heart. The doctor scribbled on his clipboard then, seeming to notice the oppressive quiet he looked up and bent quickly on one knee before me.
"Real shoes," he said, "snow-boots too, I would say."
I walked out of the medical building scuffing my braced leg through the snowbank edging the walkway. In the car, I tore off the ugly old shoes and the steel. My father drove with mad happiness through the growing snowstorm to get to the shoe store before closing. I couldn't walk on my leg that had been hibernating for years but had become a good right-legged hopper in that time. The shoe store glowed with the jewels of winter fun. I didn't care about shoes, I wanted boots. Fancy black lace-ups with a tiny heel that would prove impractical for a ten year old, but beautiful.
At home I quickly pulled on my brother's snowpants, grabbed mitts and hat and went back outside. The snow was falling lightly, the sun had set. The front lawn was a magical pillow where I hopped, rolled, made snow angels, and revelled in bending my left leg. I tried a few steps but lacked enough muscle to hold me. I sat breathing the cold air, watching flakes weave their way to the ground. I looked up once and saw my mother watching me through the picture window. I stayed out till nine.
C Word [Doug Koop, Kleefeld, MB]
It seems I'm not the only one who doesn't want to be outside this morning judging by the reticent pink smudge on the Manitoba horizon. The CBC radio goofballs are yammering on about wind chill and what not. They sound so happy, so warm. Slugging back the rest of my paper cup coffee I ease the truck door open. A swirl of coffee/sweat vapor curls up into the freeze dried air. I cram my wool lined hardhat on.
The snow squeals under my heavy rubber boot heels packed hard as concrete from a hundred tradesman's trucks. I light a cigarette and the crystalline air petrifies my lungs. In sixty seconds my beard is white with frost. I unload the tools and drag the ladders off of the roof rack. Metal screeches against metal making my shoulders quiver like a hoochy mama.
The drywall crane is idling only a few feet away a leaking outrigger pissing thick black fluid into the snow. The wind ruffles my sleeves looking for a friend. I go to plug in my power cord, compressor in one hand, air hose over my shoulder. The drywall loaders are passing a joint around inside the garage. I recognize one of them and he offers me a hit. It's important to be polite. Soon the sweat will be steaming off of their backs like buffalo as they trudge through the house hauling two hundred pound armloads of wallboard. If it wasn't for the heavy metal you could almost hear their shoulders tearing apart little by little.
My compressor groans like an old man and starts to run tentative -pissed off. I get up on my scaffold avoiding the little pools of ice on the planks and start hanging metal on the eaves. Icicles rattle against my hardhat bouncing into space. I have to make a fine cut with my snips so I drop a glove to improve my accuracy. The wind returns, vengeful now it burns my face. I grab the metal in my bare hand. It sticks. I try to ease my fingers away gently but a hunk of skin rips off. There's a little blood but it doesn't hurt. It won't until I thaw out. The skin clings to the metal facia like a booger meanwhile the corner I just finished joining looks perfect. I smile through the ice in my beard feeling like a pirate, a stupid frozen pirate.
Kids, seriously, stay in school.
The snow squeals under my heavy rubber boot heels packed hard as concrete from a hundred tradesman's trucks. I light a cigarette and the crystalline air petrifies my lungs. In sixty seconds my beard is white with frost. I unload the tools and drag the ladders off of the roof rack. Metal screeches against metal making my shoulders quiver like a hoochy mama.
The drywall crane is idling only a few feet away a leaking outrigger pissing thick black fluid into the snow. The wind ruffles my sleeves looking for a friend. I go to plug in my power cord, compressor in one hand, air hose over my shoulder. The drywall loaders are passing a joint around inside the garage. I recognize one of them and he offers me a hit. It's important to be polite. Soon the sweat will be steaming off of their backs like buffalo as they trudge through the house hauling two hundred pound armloads of wallboard. If it wasn't for the heavy metal you could almost hear their shoulders tearing apart little by little.
My compressor groans like an old man and starts to run tentative -pissed off. I get up on my scaffold avoiding the little pools of ice on the planks and start hanging metal on the eaves. Icicles rattle against my hardhat bouncing into space. I have to make a fine cut with my snips so I drop a glove to improve my accuracy. The wind returns, vengeful now it burns my face. I grab the metal in my bare hand. It sticks. I try to ease my fingers away gently but a hunk of skin rips off. There's a little blood but it doesn't hurt. It won't until I thaw out. The skin clings to the metal facia like a booger meanwhile the corner I just finished joining looks perfect. I smile through the ice in my beard feeling like a pirate, a stupid frozen pirate.
Kids, seriously, stay in school.
The Canadian [Duncan Milne, Calgary, AB]
The train sits idling at the station, waiting to disembark. The temperature drops so low in the approaching dusk that the tracks start to crack from the cold. My mother leads my brothers and I through the train cars like ducklings wrapped in technicolor one-piece snowsuits. Our cabin is clean and cold and lifeless, nothing like the warm and happy home we are leaving behind for a new life in Toronto. As we settle in, the train lurches forward, like some great beast just awoke from its winters sleep, its bones creaking from the frost. We're moving, slow at first, but ever faster, hurtling across the great white abyss and into the unknown. It's December 22nd, 1995.
That night, my mother reads to us from The Polar Express, an old favorite. Her voice mixes with the click-clack of the train as it speeds through the night, rocking us to sleep on our collapsable beds. Suddenly, the train feels a bit more like home.
The next morning, a steward comes in to turn down the room. His real name is Kevin, but we all call him Kofax. He's big and jolly. He tells us jokes and shows us card tricks. He even brings us a little plastic Christmas tree hung with ribbons and bells from the dining car.
We spend the day roaming through the cars. My youngest brother Tristan follows where ever we go. When we return to the cabin, he's nowhere to be seen. Five panicked minutes later, Kofax knocks on the door and leads Tristan in, sobbing and shivering in a t-shirt and underwear. He got stuck in the little space between the cars, and wasn't big enough to reach the handle.
That night the train comes to a stop just outside Winnipeg. The world outside looks like a snow globe yet to be shook, a flat white disc capped by a dome of black. In the distance there are silhouettes of buildings with warm yellow lights shining in the windows, a beacon of humanity in an otherwise empty world. Kofax comes to say goodbye, snowshoes in hand. He jumps off the train into the fresh fallen snow, and sets off. In the now warm and cozy cabin, we watch him go. In the sky, the northern lights shine, casting ghostly green shadows on a solitary figure in a field of white, making his way home.
Over night we trade the tired flat whiteness of the prairies for the jutting rocks and pine mosaics of the Canadian Shield. Out the window, icy waterfalls hang from the rocks like snapshots, eternally frozen in time.
Gradually this wild and frozen world gives way to more civilized climes. We pack our bags as the train slides into Union Station, and say goodbye to that small place we had made our home, however brief. We exit the station just as snow begins to fall. Our journey, along with our old life, is over. A new one has just begun.
That night, my mother reads to us from The Polar Express, an old favorite. Her voice mixes with the click-clack of the train as it speeds through the night, rocking us to sleep on our collapsable beds. Suddenly, the train feels a bit more like home.
The next morning, a steward comes in to turn down the room. His real name is Kevin, but we all call him Kofax. He's big and jolly. He tells us jokes and shows us card tricks. He even brings us a little plastic Christmas tree hung with ribbons and bells from the dining car.
We spend the day roaming through the cars. My youngest brother Tristan follows where ever we go. When we return to the cabin, he's nowhere to be seen. Five panicked minutes later, Kofax knocks on the door and leads Tristan in, sobbing and shivering in a t-shirt and underwear. He got stuck in the little space between the cars, and wasn't big enough to reach the handle.
That night the train comes to a stop just outside Winnipeg. The world outside looks like a snow globe yet to be shook, a flat white disc capped by a dome of black. In the distance there are silhouettes of buildings with warm yellow lights shining in the windows, a beacon of humanity in an otherwise empty world. Kofax comes to say goodbye, snowshoes in hand. He jumps off the train into the fresh fallen snow, and sets off. In the now warm and cozy cabin, we watch him go. In the sky, the northern lights shine, casting ghostly green shadows on a solitary figure in a field of white, making his way home.
Over night we trade the tired flat whiteness of the prairies for the jutting rocks and pine mosaics of the Canadian Shield. Out the window, icy waterfalls hang from the rocks like snapshots, eternally frozen in time.
Gradually this wild and frozen world gives way to more civilized climes. We pack our bags as the train slides into Union Station, and say goodbye to that small place we had made our home, however brief. We exit the station just as snow begins to fall. Our journey, along with our old life, is over. A new one has just begun.
The Mainlanders [Chris Donahoe, Halifax, NS)]
Snow exploded through the ferry doors as they opened. We waited impatiently for the semi-trailers to roll off first. Looking up through the windshield, there was almost no black in the night sky. "We're gonna be knee-deep in virgin powder come morning!" said Pete, giving Josh a birthday punch in the arm.
We crawled into the Port Aux Basques Irving gas station, skis on the roof of the van.
When the first semi pulled in, coming back the other way, I was in the store modelling dollar sunglasses, preparing for our big night out in Corner Brook. The driver entered and filled a cup with coffee. "Yer balls'd have to be biggern yer brain to attempt dat," he said.
A second semi pulled in, the driver brushed snow from his arms and shook his head. When the third pulled in, I knew. "Road's closed," was all the driver said.
St. Christopher's Hotel overlooked the harbour. We convened in Colin's room over some beers.
"Not a very memorable way to turn twenty-one," said Colin.
Josh shrugged, satisfied to be with friends. We all took a drink.
"There's no sense sitting here," said Pete. "We're in Newfoundland, there's a bar open somewhere."
We bundled-up and took a bottle for the road. Around the corner, the lights of a small, green building called like a beacon.
Snow blew into Lukey's Boat Lounge as we entered. The door slammed hard behind us, announcing our arrival. Two weathered men in rubber boots looked up from their game of crib and tumblers of black rum. In the back, a dozen middle-aged women stood around dart boards. One was still holding her dart mid-throw when they turned to inspect us. The country music didn't stop, but it felt like it. We walked straight to the bar.
The bartender was the only one remotely close to our age, dyed blonde and dressed like she was in an L.A. nightclub. "Where you by's from?" she asked, smiling as if the answer was the punchline to her joke.
"Halifax," Colin said. "What's, uh, goin on?"
"Ladies' dart night," she said. "Yer right on time."
Darts were abandoned in their boards, the tables brought together. "Turn up the music!" yelled a woman applying lip-balm who could've been my mother.
"Yer no good to us standin over there," said the one beside her, pulling out chairs. "Sit!"
We were portioned out to the pack, one of us for every three of them, bottles of Black Horse set before us. "Poor bastards. Ain't easy bein from away, but yer here now. Drink to that!"
They pulled up their sweatshirt sleeves, punctuating the conversation with howls and slaps of laughter. "His birthday? Twenty-one? Sacred heart a Jesus!"
That's when the night took a turn.
We never paid for another drink. The dance floor was warm when we left, our voices hoarse and singing. Arm-in-arm, the roaring women disappeared into the blinding storm. On the walk home, we praised the snow like children.
We crawled into the Port Aux Basques Irving gas station, skis on the roof of the van.
When the first semi pulled in, coming back the other way, I was in the store modelling dollar sunglasses, preparing for our big night out in Corner Brook. The driver entered and filled a cup with coffee. "Yer balls'd have to be biggern yer brain to attempt dat," he said.
A second semi pulled in, the driver brushed snow from his arms and shook his head. When the third pulled in, I knew. "Road's closed," was all the driver said.
St. Christopher's Hotel overlooked the harbour. We convened in Colin's room over some beers.
"Not a very memorable way to turn twenty-one," said Colin.
Josh shrugged, satisfied to be with friends. We all took a drink.
"There's no sense sitting here," said Pete. "We're in Newfoundland, there's a bar open somewhere."
We bundled-up and took a bottle for the road. Around the corner, the lights of a small, green building called like a beacon.
Snow blew into Lukey's Boat Lounge as we entered. The door slammed hard behind us, announcing our arrival. Two weathered men in rubber boots looked up from their game of crib and tumblers of black rum. In the back, a dozen middle-aged women stood around dart boards. One was still holding her dart mid-throw when they turned to inspect us. The country music didn't stop, but it felt like it. We walked straight to the bar.
The bartender was the only one remotely close to our age, dyed blonde and dressed like she was in an L.A. nightclub. "Where you by's from?" she asked, smiling as if the answer was the punchline to her joke.
"Halifax," Colin said. "What's, uh, goin on?"
"Ladies' dart night," she said. "Yer right on time."
Darts were abandoned in their boards, the tables brought together. "Turn up the music!" yelled a woman applying lip-balm who could've been my mother.
"Yer no good to us standin over there," said the one beside her, pulling out chairs. "Sit!"
We were portioned out to the pack, one of us for every three of them, bottles of Black Horse set before us. "Poor bastards. Ain't easy bein from away, but yer here now. Drink to that!"
They pulled up their sweatshirt sleeves, punctuating the conversation with howls and slaps of laughter. "His birthday? Twenty-one? Sacred heart a Jesus!"
That's when the night took a turn.
We never paid for another drink. The dance floor was warm when we left, our voices hoarse and singing. Arm-in-arm, the roaring women disappeared into the blinding storm. On the walk home, we praised the snow like children.
The Trailer [Barbara Stewart, Langley, BC]
For two years after my bankruptcy in 2001, I skittered around the edge of homelessness in Victoria, B.C., the best Canadian city to face the worst of personal disasters. Winter pansies still blossomed in December and spring snowdrops poked through the mud in January. Yet these mercies of latitude failed to cheer me.
I was 48 years old, divorced, depressed, earning barely above welfare. Finally in October 2002, I called family in Quesnel for help. Three weeks later, I followed Uncle Rob's packed horse trailer on a 650 kilometre drive north through the Fraser Canyon to Quesnel and the promise of a new life. Various relatives took turns housing me while I searched for work, until December, when Aunty Madge found a friend who was willing to let me live in his travel trailer. I was elated. They had parked it alongside her mobile home with an extension cord for heat and light.
My joy was short-lived. The trailer was an old 14 footer from the 70s. A leak in the roof had rotted the bed mattress. There was no bathroom. The furnace didn't work. Even with the windows shut, the curtains blew in the wind. Power to anything more than one small cube heater overloaded and tripped the circuit breakers in the mobile home. Outside, it was 20 below and snowing.
But Aunty Madge was a northerner, a woman who had raised four kids in places often without electricity or running water. She had memories of treacherous ice roads and kitchens so cold that baby bottles were kept in coat sleeves to keep the milk from freezing. Now in her sixties, she wasn't going to take any guff from winter.
"We'll throw a tarp over the roof and pull out that mattress. You can use the foam mattress from our boat," Aunty Madge said. "And I've got a sleeping bag that's good to 40 below. Your Uncle Cliff used it for years hunting."
That night I crawled into the trailer bed fully dressed. The sleeping bag was ripe and the mattress reeked of boat diesel. Twice I moved the heater closer to the bed. The cold overcame it. And then in a suicidal fit of rage and self-pity, I pulled the heater inside the sleeping bag and cradled it between my belly and my knees with the hope of starting a fire. It was the longest night of my life. In the morning my hair was frozen to the pillow.
The northern winter exposed the fight to survive, tore the season from my heart and mind. I had to get up, put my shoulder to the day and go look for a job. The car was low on gas. Behind the trailer, towering cedar and birch boughs were etched to a mere twig in fresh snow. Nothing moved. A frozen clothesline crossed the yard, an exquisite white suspension. I wanted to cry for the grace of it.
I was 48 years old, divorced, depressed, earning barely above welfare. Finally in October 2002, I called family in Quesnel for help. Three weeks later, I followed Uncle Rob's packed horse trailer on a 650 kilometre drive north through the Fraser Canyon to Quesnel and the promise of a new life. Various relatives took turns housing me while I searched for work, until December, when Aunty Madge found a friend who was willing to let me live in his travel trailer. I was elated. They had parked it alongside her mobile home with an extension cord for heat and light.
My joy was short-lived. The trailer was an old 14 footer from the 70s. A leak in the roof had rotted the bed mattress. There was no bathroom. The furnace didn't work. Even with the windows shut, the curtains blew in the wind. Power to anything more than one small cube heater overloaded and tripped the circuit breakers in the mobile home. Outside, it was 20 below and snowing.
But Aunty Madge was a northerner, a woman who had raised four kids in places often without electricity or running water. She had memories of treacherous ice roads and kitchens so cold that baby bottles were kept in coat sleeves to keep the milk from freezing. Now in her sixties, she wasn't going to take any guff from winter.
"We'll throw a tarp over the roof and pull out that mattress. You can use the foam mattress from our boat," Aunty Madge said. "And I've got a sleeping bag that's good to 40 below. Your Uncle Cliff used it for years hunting."
That night I crawled into the trailer bed fully dressed. The sleeping bag was ripe and the mattress reeked of boat diesel. Twice I moved the heater closer to the bed. The cold overcame it. And then in a suicidal fit of rage and self-pity, I pulled the heater inside the sleeping bag and cradled it between my belly and my knees with the hope of starting a fire. It was the longest night of my life. In the morning my hair was frozen to the pillow.
The northern winter exposed the fight to survive, tore the season from my heart and mind. I had to get up, put my shoulder to the day and go look for a job. The car was low on gas. Behind the trailer, towering cedar and birch boughs were etched to a mere twig in fresh snow. Nothing moved. A frozen clothesline crossed the yard, an exquisite white suspension. I wanted to cry for the grace of it.
Hibernal [Paul Mitchell, Vancouver, BC]
It was the silence. Every morning for three years, since moving to Rome from Canada, my day had begun with a soundtrack--the screech of rolling shutters as the local shops opened; the chatter of passersby under my windows; the roar of engines as cars ran up my street--a street so narrow that I had to open the door and check for traffic before stepping out into via dei Neofiti.
But on this mid-January morning--silence. Opening the shutters I was confronted with an unbroken blanket of blinding white snow--the first snowfall in Rome in 45 years. I donned my so-far unused winter boots and set off to work along the powder-covered streets that led from my house to one of Rome's main streets--the via dei Fori Imperiali--linking the old Forum and the Roman Coliseum.
The air was bracing and I thought, "Winter, my friend, I have missed you!" Winter was blowing me a brief kiss today. Kicking snow, I remembered childhood winters. This snow was damp, clumping. I reached down and packed a hard snow ball and let it fly. For the first time in more than 2000 years Julius Caesar took one directly to the head. The snow splattered over the statue, cleaner and more transient than the pigeon droppings that were Caesar's daily fare.
Breaking trail as though I confronted a vast wilderness, I walked through the pristine snow-covered ground to my Metropolitana stop. Echoing in the silence, one bus creeped hesitantly along near-empty streets. I was content--the silence, the familiar bouncing glare of snow in bright sun, the crisp air.
As I exited the subway, a single set of footprints led from the Metropolitana and disappeared up the street. The prints left a deep wavy tread in the pristine blanket of snow and I followed them, as if tracking a deer in the wilderness. The trail preceded me through the streets, finally ending at my office building. Now the single track joined the tracks of a small herd heading towards my office building.
Once inside, these transformed to wet boot prints on the marble floor. I followed them to the cafeteria--normally full of morning coffee drinkers--but now almost silent.
One brave lonely barista labored at the espresso machine to produce coffee for the mere handful of people who made it through the historic snowfall. I surveyed the scene--one Finn, one Norwegian, one Swede, one Minnesotan, and one winter-clad person from Northern Michigan. The trail led to my Canadian colleague from Saskatchewan.
"I tracked you from the subway Michael," I said.
"Yes I broke trail coming here," he said proudly and his gaze swept the empty cafeteria. "A snow day," he said. "I never dreamed I would have a snow day in Rome."
But on this mid-January morning--silence. Opening the shutters I was confronted with an unbroken blanket of blinding white snow--the first snowfall in Rome in 45 years. I donned my so-far unused winter boots and set off to work along the powder-covered streets that led from my house to one of Rome's main streets--the via dei Fori Imperiali--linking the old Forum and the Roman Coliseum.
The air was bracing and I thought, "Winter, my friend, I have missed you!" Winter was blowing me a brief kiss today. Kicking snow, I remembered childhood winters. This snow was damp, clumping. I reached down and packed a hard snow ball and let it fly. For the first time in more than 2000 years Julius Caesar took one directly to the head. The snow splattered over the statue, cleaner and more transient than the pigeon droppings that were Caesar's daily fare.
Breaking trail as though I confronted a vast wilderness, I walked through the pristine snow-covered ground to my Metropolitana stop. Echoing in the silence, one bus creeped hesitantly along near-empty streets. I was content--the silence, the familiar bouncing glare of snow in bright sun, the crisp air.
As I exited the subway, a single set of footprints led from the Metropolitana and disappeared up the street. The prints left a deep wavy tread in the pristine blanket of snow and I followed them, as if tracking a deer in the wilderness. The trail preceded me through the streets, finally ending at my office building. Now the single track joined the tracks of a small herd heading towards my office building.
Once inside, these transformed to wet boot prints on the marble floor. I followed them to the cafeteria--normally full of morning coffee drinkers--but now almost silent.
One brave lonely barista labored at the espresso machine to produce coffee for the mere handful of people who made it through the historic snowfall. I surveyed the scene--one Finn, one Norwegian, one Swede, one Minnesotan, and one winter-clad person from Northern Michigan. The trail led to my Canadian colleague from Saskatchewan.
"I tracked you from the subway Michael," I said.
"Yes I broke trail coming here," he said proudly and his gaze swept the empty cafeteria. "A snow day," he said. "I never dreamed I would have a snow day in Rome."
Inside Out Under a Winter Sky [Chris Nelson, Calgary, AB]
It seemed a reasonable decision at the time.
Never having worn skates, joining the company hockey team would be a good way to learn to skate.
I thought it odd they'd even ask me. But after only a few months I'd discovered Canadians were nice that way - very inclusive.
Then I learned about our first opponents and understood why any warm body, even mine, would do.
We would play the inmates at Edmonton Maximum Institution. An away game.
The convicts had found getting opponents difficult. The police team had baled as had the firemen. Only us, a team of journalists, had taken the challenge.
I bought my first stick and skates, thinking that's all I needed. That other equipment; elbow pads, shin guards and a helmet? That was stuff for people who could actually play.
I just wanted to stand up.
So we made the trek to the Max. Getting in didn't take too long; security tended to work in the reverse direction.
We found an affable bunch of opponents and a lovely, outdoor, floodlit rink.
Things didn't go well. Before the game started our goalie had an epileptic seizure. We weren't sure if it was fate, fear or excitement that brought it on. We did know we were already one down so, with nine players left standing, I'd be seeing ice time.
Not knowing the intricacies of hockey I was happy to start on the bench and absorb the incongruous nature of my surroundings.
A few months earlier in 1981 I'd been covering riots in rain-swept Liverpool as Northern England came to painful grips with what would become known as Thatcherism.
Now, under a clear, crisp, Northern Alberta sky I was playing a strange new game against opponents serving life sentences.
Under a mix of moonlight and floodlight it was blissful.
Until I took to the ice.
Or rather the ice took to me as I fell, got up, fell again and finally managed to stay upright with aid of my stick.
If our goalie's premature exit hadn't tipped them off then my appearance on the ice signaled to the inmates' their opponents were not of the highest caliber.
I played forward as I couldn't skate back to defend and various inmates chatted about their lives inside and their hopes for the future. We didn't worry about the puck at that end of the ice.
The game was supposed to be non-contact with no slap shots. But for a man serving 25 years without parole a two minute stint in the penalty box wasn't much of a deterrent.
We got hammered. In every sense.
Near the end I lay there on the cool ice, looking up at the wonderful dark, winter sky.
This was still a long way from being home.
But I knew now that home was only a matter of time.
Never having worn skates, joining the company hockey team would be a good way to learn to skate.
I thought it odd they'd even ask me. But after only a few months I'd discovered Canadians were nice that way - very inclusive.
Then I learned about our first opponents and understood why any warm body, even mine, would do.
We would play the inmates at Edmonton Maximum Institution. An away game.
The convicts had found getting opponents difficult. The police team had baled as had the firemen. Only us, a team of journalists, had taken the challenge.
I bought my first stick and skates, thinking that's all I needed. That other equipment; elbow pads, shin guards and a helmet? That was stuff for people who could actually play.
I just wanted to stand up.
So we made the trek to the Max. Getting in didn't take too long; security tended to work in the reverse direction.
We found an affable bunch of opponents and a lovely, outdoor, floodlit rink.
Things didn't go well. Before the game started our goalie had an epileptic seizure. We weren't sure if it was fate, fear or excitement that brought it on. We did know we were already one down so, with nine players left standing, I'd be seeing ice time.
Not knowing the intricacies of hockey I was happy to start on the bench and absorb the incongruous nature of my surroundings.
A few months earlier in 1981 I'd been covering riots in rain-swept Liverpool as Northern England came to painful grips with what would become known as Thatcherism.
Now, under a clear, crisp, Northern Alberta sky I was playing a strange new game against opponents serving life sentences.
Under a mix of moonlight and floodlight it was blissful.
Until I took to the ice.
Or rather the ice took to me as I fell, got up, fell again and finally managed to stay upright with aid of my stick.
If our goalie's premature exit hadn't tipped them off then my appearance on the ice signaled to the inmates' their opponents were not of the highest caliber.
I played forward as I couldn't skate back to defend and various inmates chatted about their lives inside and their hopes for the future. We didn't worry about the puck at that end of the ice.
The game was supposed to be non-contact with no slap shots. But for a man serving 25 years without parole a two minute stint in the penalty box wasn't much of a deterrent.
We got hammered. In every sense.
Near the end I lay there on the cool ice, looking up at the wonderful dark, winter sky.
This was still a long way from being home.
But I knew now that home was only a matter of time.
