A Winter Day
Yes, I know, the calendar insists we've passed the Spring Equinox, which makes it nominally, a spring day. But believe me, in Ottawa, the capital of Canada, it is still a winter day. An exquisitely beautiful winter day, but winter nonetheless.
The temperature unable to nudge close enough to the freezing mark to real comfort, but the clear sky and the resurgent warmth of an early spring sun helps immeasurably. Slightly offset by a persistent wind.
Our 6' and 8'-ft-high banks of snow are undiminished. The rooftops are still loftily crusted with snow; how can any of it melt when night-time temperatures descend to an average of minus-15, before edging up again at mid-day toward freezing?
The days not yet sufficiently warm to encourage sap running in the trees. So it'll be a late, later-than-normal run for maple sugar. The orchards are still waist-deep in snow; the depth of the snow, and its early initiation, we're informed, have combined to ensure that the ground hasn't frozen this winter, as would normally be the case.
When milder temperatures do arise, as they most surely will, the melt will be fast, feeding the roots of the trees, and making a good year for maple sugar production.
Just after seven this morning, wandering downstairs to let our miniature poodle out for the first pee of the day, my husband peered through the glass of the front door and there espied a pair of robins. Poor things, they're precipitate. Must be the same pair that has returned three years in a row of springs, perched beside the Sargentii crabs, settling for sparse sustenance.
Later, meandering through the ravine we heard the loud rough caw of a raven, annoyed crows after the larger bird. Too cold, it appears, for any of the resident squirrels, black, grey or red, to be out of their nests, running about. The trails are narrowly defined, icy and awkward to negotiate.
Although the creek in the ravine is now running freely, when we drive, a few hours afterward, on the Eastern Parkway alongside the Ottawa River, it became clear milder temperatures would be required to melt the thick ice encasing the river, although winter fishers have removed their ice huts in expectation of an earlier melt.
On our way, we pass all those landmarks: the property of the Governor General at Rideau Hall, the French Embassy, the British High Commission official residence, the residence of the Prime Minister, the Japanese, the Kuwaiti embassies, the Peace Memorial, the National Gallery. Close by Byward Market we park the car, load up our two little dogs into their shoulder bags and prepare to embark on our shopping expedition.
Directly beside the car sit two homeless men. They are hunkered down on a low-level window sill. Just down from where we've parked is the Mission, whose grounds are full of homeless men, standing about, sitting, talking together listlessly. These two are grim looking as unsheltered people look; unkempt, bearded, unhappy. Spare change? they ask.
My husband puts the requisite coins in the parking meter, then walks over to the men and places a $5 bill in the overturned wool cap. They thank him effusively. One offers to shake his hand. That courtesy done with, the other smiles up at my husband, pacifically. Have a Happy Easter, they tell us. We're Jews, we say, not yet moving on.
At which the younger one, about 40ish, to the other's 60ish, brightens and asks if we'd like to hear a joke. Sure, we say, laughter is good, everyone should be prepared to laugh, even at themselves. So, he leads, how was copper wire invented? Beats me, I say, how? Use your imagination, he says: think of two Jews pulling at a copper coin.
We laugh. Who wouldn't?
Or, I offer, two Scots. The older one beams, and adds helpfully: or two Irish. He's Irish, he tells us. We all laugh together. Have a happy holiday, the younger one calls after us, whatever your god is.
The temperature unable to nudge close enough to the freezing mark to real comfort, but the clear sky and the resurgent warmth of an early spring sun helps immeasurably. Slightly offset by a persistent wind.
Our 6' and 8'-ft-high banks of snow are undiminished. The rooftops are still loftily crusted with snow; how can any of it melt when night-time temperatures descend to an average of minus-15, before edging up again at mid-day toward freezing?
The days not yet sufficiently warm to encourage sap running in the trees. So it'll be a late, later-than-normal run for maple sugar. The orchards are still waist-deep in snow; the depth of the snow, and its early initiation, we're informed, have combined to ensure that the ground hasn't frozen this winter, as would normally be the case.
When milder temperatures do arise, as they most surely will, the melt will be fast, feeding the roots of the trees, and making a good year for maple sugar production.
Just after seven this morning, wandering downstairs to let our miniature poodle out for the first pee of the day, my husband peered through the glass of the front door and there espied a pair of robins. Poor things, they're precipitate. Must be the same pair that has returned three years in a row of springs, perched beside the Sargentii crabs, settling for sparse sustenance.
Later, meandering through the ravine we heard the loud rough caw of a raven, annoyed crows after the larger bird. Too cold, it appears, for any of the resident squirrels, black, grey or red, to be out of their nests, running about. The trails are narrowly defined, icy and awkward to negotiate.
Although the creek in the ravine is now running freely, when we drive, a few hours afterward, on the Eastern Parkway alongside the Ottawa River, it became clear milder temperatures would be required to melt the thick ice encasing the river, although winter fishers have removed their ice huts in expectation of an earlier melt.
On our way, we pass all those landmarks: the property of the Governor General at Rideau Hall, the French Embassy, the British High Commission official residence, the residence of the Prime Minister, the Japanese, the Kuwaiti embassies, the Peace Memorial, the National Gallery. Close by Byward Market we park the car, load up our two little dogs into their shoulder bags and prepare to embark on our shopping expedition.
Directly beside the car sit two homeless men. They are hunkered down on a low-level window sill. Just down from where we've parked is the Mission, whose grounds are full of homeless men, standing about, sitting, talking together listlessly. These two are grim looking as unsheltered people look; unkempt, bearded, unhappy. Spare change? they ask.
My husband puts the requisite coins in the parking meter, then walks over to the men and places a $5 bill in the overturned wool cap. They thank him effusively. One offers to shake his hand. That courtesy done with, the other smiles up at my husband, pacifically. Have a Happy Easter, they tell us. We're Jews, we say, not yet moving on.
At which the younger one, about 40ish, to the other's 60ish, brightens and asks if we'd like to hear a joke. Sure, we say, laughter is good, everyone should be prepared to laugh, even at themselves. So, he leads, how was copper wire invented? Beats me, I say, how? Use your imagination, he says: think of two Jews pulling at a copper coin.
We laugh. Who wouldn't?
Or, I offer, two Scots. The older one beams, and adds helpfully: or two Irish. He's Irish, he tells us. We all laugh together. Have a happy holiday, the younger one calls after us, whatever your god is.
Labels: Peculiarities, Perambulations
posted by Pieface @ 5:08 PM
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