![]() As I’ve become less dangerous to myself and others, I’ve begun to enjoy the beauty of nature in winter. I’m the only person I know who has broken a cross‑country ski pole - twice - through sheer clumsiness. ![]() I still measure the success of any such outing by only one metric, which is whether I fall or not. We started making trips to Jasper and Hinton just to cross-country ski. Then my wife began to encourage me to cross-country ski more often. Some nights it’s simply magical, being able to look up at the stars as you lie flat on your back after being hacked to the ice by a friend you’ll be spearing in the ribs five minutes hence. At some point, I began to despise March for the way it threw us a wintry curveball just as we were desperate for spring.īut then about seven or eight years ago I started playing hockey with some friends at the local outdoor rink. Then it was the feeling of being trapped in February, the shortest month, which has always felt the longest. Then it became the post-Christmas “three more months of this?” blues. First it was irritation with the end of golf season and November being a blah month. It was more a slow escalation than a sudden dislike. It’s fair to say that I went through a phase - a four-decade phase - where I didn’t really like winter. High time, because there are only two seasons in Edmonton: winter and waiting for winter. I realized, almost with horror, that I kind of like winter. It was like I was being inhabited by a presence while remaining totally conscious of it, the way alien abductees talk about their experiences. We got back inside the house and as I began to unlayer, a strange sensation overtook me. We trundled around the neighbourhood and returned after only 15 minutes because the poor dog began to hop from foot to foot to avoid contact with the frozen turf. It felt good only because every other part of my body was cosy and warm. The icy air needled its way to the tips of my lungs. Only then I realized I had to take off one of my gloves to get his leash secured and lock the door behind us, a process that took another couple of minutes. I waddled towards him and he gave me a confused look, unsure whether I was about to take him outside or smother him in pillowy hugs. The dog was sitting by the front door staring at this strange creature who had taken 15 minutes to get ready for a walk. My arms jutted out at my sides at 60-degree angles. I glanced in the mirror and saw what resembled a cross between a moon walker and a deep-sea diver. Finally, I pulled on my down-filled mittens and tightened their straps over my forearms. After that, I drew a balaclava over my head and added another tuque on top of that. ![]() Then I donned my Arctic-rated down parka. Then I added a wool sweater to the one I was already wearing. First, I put on long underwear, then jeans. One afternoon last winter during an Edmonton cold snap caused by a polar vortex, I decided to take the dog for a walk. Most winters I feel a bit like little Randy Parker. On his way to school he falls in a snowdrift, can’t get up and has to be righted by Ralphie and his pals. One scene that always makes me laugh is when Ralphie’s mother swaddles his younger brother, Randy, in so many layers of winter clothing that he cannot lower his arms to his sides. It’s a simple and hilarious movie about 1940s family life in the white American suburbs, though many scenes were shot in southern Ontario. ![]() One of my favourite seasonal movies is A Christmas Story, in which nine-year-old Ralphie Parker pines for the gift of a Red Ryder BB gun. ![]()
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