Life in the Snow Globe

Ontario has turned into a virtual snow globe this past week and I have been on the inside looking out, having been in quarantine with a death cold. Since I rarely succumb, and having been put out to pasture and therefore able to retire to my couch, I shall not complain. It is a sneaky bug; you are awakened in the night by that call of nature, and you just want to slip back into to bed without awakening the sleeping dragon, but it arises to tickle your throat. Then it unleashes a terrible thundering bark, which signals the sinuses to fill and then..the atomic sneeze. The walls vibrate and it is necessary to collect your pancreas and any other organ that was expelled in the explosion before you can retire once more. It is like having a house guest who stays long past his welcome, with the threat of a return for another stay. You are not quite sure if they have actually gone. I am cautiously optimistic today, that we are approaching the front door in the process of making our goodbyes.

On the up side, there really is no place like home, and home is the only place you want to be when you are sick. We live in a mature neighbourhood, which means that the view from the windows is full of lovely tree canopies that connect to form squirrel super highways. Right now there are a lot of high speed chases going on with lofty daredevil jumps, like some kind of action movie. While grey squirrels are more likely to approach to pick up peanuts when I put them out, and the black ones, which are really grey ones (true story), are more skittish, the black ones are more aggressive in the tree arena. In the forest however, the red squirrel, though much smaller, is the most aggressive...and vocal. 

Most of the backyard and boulevard trees are deciduous, so in the winter it is not unusual to see a Cooper's Hawk perched up high watching for something to eat. I don't think that my feeders have provided any avian meals for the hawks yet, but I have seen large numbers of sparrows suddenly disappear into the big spruce or the hedge to find cover.

The sparrows spend a lot of time perched on or in the "Burning Bush" or Euonymus alatus bush close to the house. You would think that the blue spruce next to it would be warmer and provide more protection, but they seem to feel safe in the dense thicket of branches and the clear view that the shrub provides. In the fall, if the bush gets enough sun, the leaves turn a glorious red, hence its familiar name. 

It is odd to see the bridge without any mourning doves or blue jays on its railings. I hope that the clematis I planted will survive the winter to grow up and over the bridge come spring. Sometimes my plants survive the weather but not the bunnies that might nest under the spruce. 

My grey-muzzled boy knows how to spend the winter in your golden years; couch, blanket and snooze. He still turns into a pup for the few minutes that it is necessary to leave the warmth and brave the cold. He has a little snuffle in the snowbank, and a gambol down the path that is shoveled for him, then back to the blanket. The pause that refreshes.

I got to thinking about winter when I was growing up. I remember wearing brown galoshes that went on over my shoes and closed at the top with a buckle. My first skates little metal frames with two parallel blades, that then buckled onto my boots. we would 'skate' on little patches of ice on the sidewalk and stay outside forever. It seemed to me that there was a lot of snow because I remember making forts in the pile of snow at the bottom of the driveway, and mazes on the front lawn. I went looking through the older photos to see if I could document my memories. 

What I discovered was that picture-taking was mostly for documenting summer vacations and family occasions and not winter frolic, so there was a dearth of photographic memories of the wintertime. This leads me to believe that the last photo might show a snowfall that was out of the ordinary. Well, it seemed like there was always a lot of snow, and I was shorter then. Ah well, good times, anyway.

Illness forces a timeout from the busy flow of life; sets you aside for a time, and imposes solitude and quietude. It is not comfortable emotionally or physically because it serves as a reminder of the fragility of life, and how it can change completely in a moment. It leaves you vulnerable, especially on those days when you think you may never, ever recover. So it occurs, that while taking medicine for the body, a little medicine for the spirit might also be in order, and just as important.

Emerging from the Dark Time

Chances are I am not the only one that was glad to rip off the January calendar page. For the month that ushers in the shiny new year, January is generally a huge disappointment; dismal, dark and cold. Here in Southern Ontario, the temperatures resembled the spiky reading on the heart monitor of someone really sick. I found that I wanted to hibernate emotionally as well as physically.

As one bumps along in life, the happy occasions that one marks, are joined by anniversaries less joyful that are also part of your personal calendar. Time does sand down some of the sharpest edges of grief, but it will always remain close by. January now begins for me with several especially poignant of those anniversaries, so I struggle with melancholy and weariness and rejoice when the daylight hours begin to increase once more. 

The year began cold and snowy but I did pull myself away from cozier pursuits to venture out by the river. I became fascinated with how quickly it could change from day to day.

Upriver, from the dam to past the pedestrian bridge, the river was smooth, snow-coated ice, with occasional tracks marking a little furry someone's journey along the shoreline.

At the dam there was a small section of open water, and the tree trunk that had been caught there earlier in the year was now frozen in place as well.

Deer became confident enough to venture out onto the river upstream.

Downstream a muskrat had poked a hole in the snow near the riverbank and tunneled up the hillside a ways.

A mackerel sky one morning suggested a coming weather change. 

A rise in temperature opened the water below the dam and geese and ducks flocked to the river. The geese honked and flapped their wings at each other, while a solitary gull enjoyed a fish entree.

A bald eagle sat high in a tree near its nest supervising proceedings.

 A break in the gloom brought a Cooper's hawk out on a limb to bask in the sunshine.

At the dam, water pressure from upstream had forced the ice downstream so that the dam was covered completely; above the dam was now open water, and downstream between the raised walking path and the river, it was flooded inland. It was really disorienting.

Within 2 days it had switched back again, and downstream, the ice and snow was pushed against the trunks of trees inland. Chunks of thick ice were on the riverbanks and the depth of the snow in the river was three feet above the water.  

 The break in the temperature had brought deer out onto exposed grass to feed right beside the path. Several days of rain followed.

  I noticed script lichen on this smooth-barked tree, 

wintergreen in the moss, 

lemon drops on a stump.

At the dam the water was roiling; there was virtually no difference between the water level on either side of the dam. The noise was astonishing.  

I caught sight of a Red-bellied woodpecker and a White-breasted Nuthatch together in a treetop, peering down at me.

A raccoon was catching a nap outside on a tree limb in the sunshine.

I fed a few tiny chickadees. Thees birds winter in groups and follow prospective seed carriers along the path. Such sweet company. As are the red squirrels but they are a little more vocal in their opinions.

A male Downy woodpecker and a Red-bellied woodpecker feed at the same stump.   

 The path is once again snow-covered and the canal to the left completely frozen.

High up in a tree beside the river it is time for a little grooming. 

At last the month comes to a close and with a lovely full moon.

I may not climb out of my den completely yet; it is comforting there. But, the eagles are nesting by the river, and the skunk cabbage has poked its leaves out of the mud, the sparrows are cleaning out nesting boxes and the squirrels are pixilated, so spring is slowly approaching; also comforting.