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Reflections from the SwampOur Dance with Winter

Our Dance with Winter

Reflections from the Swamp
Richard van Duyvendyk

Dear Reader

Many of us despair with all this winter cold and can’t wait for it to go. This story is about my love affair with Winter.

If you choose not to find joy in the snow, you will have less joy in your life but still have the same amount of snow.

I’ve befriended Winter. I hold her in my arms and embrace her. I walk with her, talk to her, and let her into my heart. She doesn’t like coming into the house, so we spend our time together outdoors.

Winter is the relative who comes for an extended visit. Winter alters family life and honed survival skills, offering some stormy challenges and some reprieve from the hard labour of farm life. Our place is about 500 ft. from the road and sits on the property’s high point, about 4ft above the swamp.

The driveway is lower than the adjacent property and is at a right angle to the prevailing northwest winds. Those National Geographic films showing the Sahara desert advancing on a settlement and burying it in the sand happen four or five times each Winter when the Nor’westerlies blow the snow 3 feet deep across the driveway while we sleep.

Unlike geese, Monarch butterflies, and the millions of Canadians that flock to warm places during Winter, we tend to stick around with the crows. Sure, I wouldn’t mind sipping on an endless flow of Margaritas by the pool, but then we’d miss the dance with Winter. We’d miss the snowshoeing, trail skiing, or walks across the frozen swamp. We wouldn’t see the mouse tracks, rabbits, chickadees, or coyotes calling us from across the pond.

There’s Winter’s food such as homemade soups and stews, big thick knitted woolly socks for in the house, and the cozy ugly sweaters we all love. Our favourite thing is making snow angels with our grandchildren. Living in a swamp seems to attract mosquitoes. There are no mosquitoes in the Winter. They respect our love affair with Winter and leave us alone for some reason! My bride and I can sit out in the lawn chairs by an open fire, make snowballs from the snow near the fire and sip back on a warm cup of hot chocolate. It doesn’t get any better than this.

We have a Massey Ferguson tractor with a snowblower. It should be in a museum with the mummies (and daddies) from Ancient Egypt. The tractor’s engine block stamp reveals that it was built in 1948, a few days after the assassination of Mahatma Gandhi. I don’t believe in reincarnation, but Mahatma does, so we named the tractor Mahatma. Mahatma said of Winter,” In the midst of Darkness, Light persists.”

Just as Mahatma guided the Indian people to freedom, he guides us through the snow on new pathways when we plough through the snow to the rest of humanity. The tractor has so many idiosyncrasies that no one can start it besides me. I sit up in the open wind with Mahatma and know I’m alive. We see the Sahara Desert moving in, but we feel we can move mountains of snow. Mahatma and I are one with the frozen world as we go head-to-head and toe-to-toe into the dance with Winter.

When blood retreats from my fingers and toes, I go into the house, stick my feet in the cook stove oven and put my hands in a bowl of warm water. It’s hard to find feelings more sacred than the warmth of a cook stove.

My bride set a bowl of butternut squash soup that tasted like last year’s summer garden in front of me. God, I love this country! The dance with Winter has worn out many a person, but I’m still dancing. It’s a slow dance; I’ve got Winter wrapped in my arms, and neither of us will let go. Man, that woman has a lot of spunk! She makes me feel alive! Never take her for granted; she’s powerful, beautiful, and loves to dance.

While walking with Winter in the woods, I opened my thermos and offered her a hot chocolate, but she declined. Our conversations often lull, so I quietly sat, waiting for her to speak. With a silent whispering voice carried by the wind, she told me that she loved Canada, Siberia, and Antarctica. Her favourite animals were polar bears, wolverines, and penguins. I told her I loved The Arctic, ice cream, and ice cubes in my Scotch. Winter confessed that she wasn’t keen on the tropics and found hurricanes a bit dramatic. Then, trying to be empathetic, I said that I wasn’t enamoured with the Caribbean, with all those hotels, bikinis, free booze, and the reek of suntan oils. (This statement was a lie; I waited for the lightning bolt but was mercifully spared).

We both went on talking about blizzards, ice storms, and moon-dogs. We were talking about the weather, and it was nothing too serious. It felt like a first date where we were sitting out in the snow, getting to know each other. I mustered up my courage and told her that I loved her. She smiled and said she loved me too. However, she qualified; our romance would have to be migratory, and I would have to let her go occasionally to mingle with other people in other places. I understood the parameters of our romance and agreed to her terms. What else could I do? Sometimes, we have to live in the moment.

When the geese return, Winter takes her time, packs her snow blankets, pillow-like snow clouds, and leaves. I feel like she’s giving me the cold shoulder, but I’ve learned to accept that; she couldn’t keep her spirit around here if she tried. Winter will be back. She always returns as the geese gather and leave the swamp, wings elevating them into the air, bringing them south. Flying in their V formations, the big birds begin sounding their trumpets, heralding Winter’s arrival.  When she returns, Mahatma and I will await her with open arms. We’ll be ready for the next dance with Winter on the dance floor of the Sahara. The dance with Winter is life-giving and beautiful, so beautiful. I love you, Winter; you make me shiver and feel alive!

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