The boys came home on Friday and immediately entrenched themselves in the bedroom with my computer. For the past nine months, the four of us have lived in a two bedroom townhouse. Sue and I converted the dining room into a third bedroom, where we sleep, so that the boys could each have their own room. The lack of privacy has worn on us, but we prefer it to the certain conflicts arising from two fourteen year-old boys living and sleeping shoulder to shoulder.
With both boys crammed into one small room for the weekend -- sprawled across the bed with their laptops -- the atmosphere did not seem conducive to reflection. Neither figuratively nor literally: the room developed a distinct odor through the weekend. If I could have opened a window, that would have freshened things a bit. However, this year, it seems that spring has come on forever.
I read the phrase, "Spring came on forever" in Shelby Foote's history of the American Civil War, where he uses it in reference to the spring of 1864. I googled the phrase now, and I discovered that Bess Streeter Aldrich used it as the title of her 1935 novel. She, in turn, took it from a line of a poem by Vachel Lindsay. The first line of Bess Aldrich's novel (found on-line with the Gutenberg project) reads:
"Matthias Meier was twenty-one in that year of 1866, tall and stalwart of form, with only a healed red furrow across his upper left arm to show for the last day's fighting of his Illinois regiment."
There's the Civil War connection, I assume.
In my case, I refer to the slow pace of spring. Temperatures have not risen above zero since the middle of last week, and the early flood of songbirds has slowed to a trickle. I saw the ravens, yesterday, soaring around the smokestack at the university, and I watched a pidgeon collecting twigs on Saturday. Otherwise, everyone and everything has paused awaiting some warmer weather. The forecast promises temperatures in the low teens by mid-week. I can't wait to bring some air into this place.
Monday 28 March 2011
Thursday 24 March 2011
Snowdrops and crocuses
Sue and I had an early supper in the market this evening and walked home up Cumberland Avenue. Despite the blue sky, a cold wind crept under our jackets. Spring, it seemed, had retreated down south for a few days. But then the sidewalk took us past St. Joe's, and there, in the small strip of garden immediately below the whitewashed west wall of the church, a army of short, green shoots emerged from the damp earth. Further along, a chorus of snowdrops and crocuses stood above last year's grass. There, in the reflected sunlight from the wall, the warmth of spring had found a place to stay and hold.
We hurried on. But in other times and places, I've found a dryish place to sit and enjoy the early spring sunshine. The sheltered corner of a building. A nook at the base of a boulder. A bench beside a ski hut. Somewhere out of the wind, we lean back, with eyes closed against the long rays of the morning or evening sun. The warmth spreads in and through us, bringing a sense of supreme well-being. We glow and luxuriate, and become our own spring flowers.
We hurried on. But in other times and places, I've found a dryish place to sit and enjoy the early spring sunshine. The sheltered corner of a building. A nook at the base of a boulder. A bench beside a ski hut. Somewhere out of the wind, we lean back, with eyes closed against the long rays of the morning or evening sun. The warmth spreads in and through us, bringing a sense of supreme well-being. We glow and luxuriate, and become our own spring flowers.
Wednesday 23 March 2011
Bicycles and canoes
I rode the bus today, from Constellation Place to Sandy Hill. Along the way, I noticed that the snow had largely melted from the recreational trails along the transitway. A few patches of crusty snow and ice lingered back in the trees. But otherwise the paths looked clear and dry.
In some years, I've ridden through the winter. In 2009, though, I traded my ancient, first generation mountain bike for a lighter, more agile hybrid -- something more suitable for longer rides in the company of my athletic wife. No more powering a mass of indestructible, rusting steel along in the wake of Sue's light, swift road bike. But also no more powering through the snow and ice on fat, nobbly tires, even if I was willing to expose my new toy to the salt and spray. My winter riding came to end. It's now been four months since I pedaled anything but a stationary bike at the gym.
As I watched the trails rolling along beside the bus, I began to count the days until I could pull my bike out of the storage room. Could I go this week, or would I need to wait until after our move? Would the snow be gone from under the trees by April? Could I bundle myself adequately against the cold, or would the spring chill find its way to the line of perspiration down my spine? I won't really know until I try it. But the speculation brought me good cheer, and the blue sky looked a little bluer.
And if biking is not far off, then can canoing be far behind? Today my canoe lies covered in snow in a corner of the Co-op. Hopefully it hasn't been struck by ice from the eaves, or cracked by the chill of deep winter night. Hopefully, I will find it intact and needing only a quick cleaning and wax to make it ready. Then the best part of my year will really begin: explorations along creeks and marshes, fishing in Constance Bay, camping in Algonquin Park. I can already anticipate the feel of the paddle in my hands and the pleasant strain in my shoulder as I plant and pull the blade in that first, sweet j-stroke. The canoe will glide from the shore. A breeze will begin to take the bow, and I'll compensate with a bit more twist of the paddle. A chuckling ripple will spread from the bow as I take the second stroke. I'll settle more comfortably into position, and find my rhythm. In a few minutes, I may pause to trail a fly behind the canoe. I'll look about me, take a deep breath, and wonder how I made it through the winter.
In some years, I've ridden through the winter. In 2009, though, I traded my ancient, first generation mountain bike for a lighter, more agile hybrid -- something more suitable for longer rides in the company of my athletic wife. No more powering a mass of indestructible, rusting steel along in the wake of Sue's light, swift road bike. But also no more powering through the snow and ice on fat, nobbly tires, even if I was willing to expose my new toy to the salt and spray. My winter riding came to end. It's now been four months since I pedaled anything but a stationary bike at the gym.
As I watched the trails rolling along beside the bus, I began to count the days until I could pull my bike out of the storage room. Could I go this week, or would I need to wait until after our move? Would the snow be gone from under the trees by April? Could I bundle myself adequately against the cold, or would the spring chill find its way to the line of perspiration down my spine? I won't really know until I try it. But the speculation brought me good cheer, and the blue sky looked a little bluer.
And if biking is not far off, then can canoing be far behind? Today my canoe lies covered in snow in a corner of the Co-op. Hopefully it hasn't been struck by ice from the eaves, or cracked by the chill of deep winter night. Hopefully, I will find it intact and needing only a quick cleaning and wax to make it ready. Then the best part of my year will really begin: explorations along creeks and marshes, fishing in Constance Bay, camping in Algonquin Park. I can already anticipate the feel of the paddle in my hands and the pleasant strain in my shoulder as I plant and pull the blade in that first, sweet j-stroke. The canoe will glide from the shore. A breeze will begin to take the bow, and I'll compensate with a bit more twist of the paddle. A chuckling ripple will spread from the bow as I take the second stroke. I'll settle more comfortably into position, and find my rhythm. In a few minutes, I may pause to trail a fly behind the canoe. I'll look about me, take a deep breath, and wonder how I made it through the winter.
Tuesday 22 March 2011
Melting
When I was fourteen, we lived for a year in North York, just off Bathurst Street, a little south of Steeles Avenue. In those days, Steeles Avenue marked the northern edge of Toronto. I could ride my bike north a few blocks to Steeles and cross from the city into farm fields over the distance of an intersection. But it wasn't the farmland north of the city that most drew my attention; it was the river valley just a hundred yards to the west.
I didn't know, in those days, that it was the Don River. To me, it was just a winding, unnamed creek, bordered by tall grass, in a broad empty valley. We arrived in late summer from Rhode Island, where my father had been posted on exchange with the US Navy. My brother and I almost immediately identified the river valley as a place where we could ride our bikes. A network of packed dirt trails crisscrossed the valley, with one steep hill to tempt us. The grassy slopes hummed with life, and it was there that I first came across a praying mantis, as I lay back one day in the thatch, hidden from the world.
In the autumn, the grass died back, school began and our attention turned to other places. Through the winter, we visited the valley only occasionally with our sleds. And then, one Saturday in March, the sun felt warmer, the air smelled moist and rich, and I could hear the sound of running water everywhere: melting on the roofs and dripping from the eaves. Running in rivulets along the pavement, and trickling into storm sewers.
I walked down to the river valley, along the stub of road where our homes ended and someone else's homes were to be built, across a field and down the muddy trail into the valley. These days, I suppose, we would tell our children to avoid the creek in the Spring, when the water runs high and fast. But I found it wondrous. The winter's snow and ice had pressed the thick grass into dense, reedy waves, like a bad toupee or a old man's comb-over. Ice and snow still clung to the banks of the creek, where the high, rushing water had carved it into glistening sculptures. The sound of spring, and the smell of the fecund earth rising from dormancy filled my head.
I visited the valley again on my last trip to Toronto. I remembered the way -- or thought that I did -- but passed the old trail several times without recognizing it, until I realized that it bore no resemblance to the place that I'd known. The surrounding neighborhood and homes came as no surprise. They were under construction when I left. But the valley itself had been transformed. Where the dirt track had run through long grass across the open valley to the creek, an asphalt bike trail now ran down into a forest, which hid the creek entirely from view. I felt as though I'd found a favourite childhood toy lying discarded in the mud.
I shouldn't have been surprised. As part of my work, I encourage and facilitate the restoration of valleyland and riparian forests. But I can't believe that spring brings to the new forest the same magic, the same obvious release from winter encasement, displayed by that open landscape under a warm spring sky.
All of which leads me to say that (despite yesterday's snowfall), I've been hearing the same sounds of melting around me the past few days. I can imagine Bearbrook overflowing its bare, grassy banks east of the City, with the geese gathering in their thousands, and flocks of snow buntings gathering for the migration back north. I believe that the time has come for a short excursion, if I can find the time this weekend (amidst the packing for our move on the 1st).
I didn't know, in those days, that it was the Don River. To me, it was just a winding, unnamed creek, bordered by tall grass, in a broad empty valley. We arrived in late summer from Rhode Island, where my father had been posted on exchange with the US Navy. My brother and I almost immediately identified the river valley as a place where we could ride our bikes. A network of packed dirt trails crisscrossed the valley, with one steep hill to tempt us. The grassy slopes hummed with life, and it was there that I first came across a praying mantis, as I lay back one day in the thatch, hidden from the world.
In the autumn, the grass died back, school began and our attention turned to other places. Through the winter, we visited the valley only occasionally with our sleds. And then, one Saturday in March, the sun felt warmer, the air smelled moist and rich, and I could hear the sound of running water everywhere: melting on the roofs and dripping from the eaves. Running in rivulets along the pavement, and trickling into storm sewers.
I walked down to the river valley, along the stub of road where our homes ended and someone else's homes were to be built, across a field and down the muddy trail into the valley. These days, I suppose, we would tell our children to avoid the creek in the Spring, when the water runs high and fast. But I found it wondrous. The winter's snow and ice had pressed the thick grass into dense, reedy waves, like a bad toupee or a old man's comb-over. Ice and snow still clung to the banks of the creek, where the high, rushing water had carved it into glistening sculptures. The sound of spring, and the smell of the fecund earth rising from dormancy filled my head.
I visited the valley again on my last trip to Toronto. I remembered the way -- or thought that I did -- but passed the old trail several times without recognizing it, until I realized that it bore no resemblance to the place that I'd known. The surrounding neighborhood and homes came as no surprise. They were under construction when I left. But the valley itself had been transformed. Where the dirt track had run through long grass across the open valley to the creek, an asphalt bike trail now ran down into a forest, which hid the creek entirely from view. I felt as though I'd found a favourite childhood toy lying discarded in the mud.
I shouldn't have been surprised. As part of my work, I encourage and facilitate the restoration of valleyland and riparian forests. But I can't believe that spring brings to the new forest the same magic, the same obvious release from winter encasement, displayed by that open landscape under a warm spring sky.
All of which leads me to say that (despite yesterday's snowfall), I've been hearing the same sounds of melting around me the past few days. I can imagine Bearbrook overflowing its bare, grassy banks east of the City, with the geese gathering in their thousands, and flocks of snow buntings gathering for the migration back north. I believe that the time has come for a short excursion, if I can find the time this weekend (amidst the packing for our move on the 1st).
Monday 21 March 2011
For Everything there is a Season -- March 21, 2011
Ottawa woke this morning to a spring snow storm. I looked out the balcony window to the courtyard of my Co-op, where the snow gathered on the thickening red buds of the silver maple. The snow fell straight down in a steady, deliberate sifting of fine flakes, to lie on grey branches, porch railings and telephone wires in tidy lines. It settled on hats and shoulders. It quickly hid the salt-stained, dirty streets of spring with one last immaculate white cloth.
Only two days ago, on Saturday, I heard my first red-winged blackbird of the year. It sang from a planted spruce beside the Corkstown footbridge, where I cross the Rideau Canal at least twice a day. For me, the first trill of a red-winged blackbird marks the real first day of spring. Other birds start singing sooner: the cardinals, the chickadees. But they are unreliable heralds. I've heard optimistic cardinals whistling in the depth of winter, and chickadees singing, "hey cutie" on days in January. But when the red-winged blackbirds begin to stake out their territories, I know that winter has nearly released us -- even if the blackbirds are singing from last year's snow-covered cattails.
I follow the seasons in part because of my job. I provide guidance on environmental planning to City staff, developers and other members of the public. I review and comment on environmental reports. I manage environmental studies. I need to know how the landscape, the watersheds, the flora and fauna change through the seasons, so that I can advise how, where and when to look at them and for them. But I follow the seasons mainly because it brings me closer to the threads of life as they weave through the year. The patterns. The connections. Some buddhists compare a single life to a single thread in a tapestry. It doesn't really begin or end; it just rises sometimes to the surface, where it can be seen. I like that thought. It rings true for me, and I feel it most when I'm outside, reflecting on the cycles and connectedness of things.
I don't talk about these things. I don't know how to talk about them. But I find that I can often write what I cannot speak. I've kept journals before... and misplaced them, or forgotten them. They seem artificial to me, although I love the feel of a solid pen in my fingers and fine paper under my hand. I can never decide if I'm writing for myself or for an audience. I can never settle on my voice. So, this time, I decided to try a blog. I'll be writing for an audience. And my voice... well, I'm hoping that I settle into it.
I'm following a well-travelled trail. Many authors have used the seasons, or sometime just a single season, to provide structure to their observations and thoughts. Thoreau, of course, although I've never actually got around to reading Walden. But I've read Measure of the Year, by Roderick Haig Brown. And I've savored a little-known masterpiece called the peregrine, by j.a. baker.
The latter book describes a winter in Norfolk England in the mid-1960s, which the author spent following peregrine falcons through the countryside. The notes in my yellowing, paperback, Penguin Books printing says that the peregrine was Baker's first book, which he re-wrote five times before submitting. The care shows through his prose, which still astonishes me after three or four readings. I return to it every couple of years, just to enjoy the simple, elegant writing. The first paragraph gives a hint.
"East of my home, the long ridge lies across the skyline like the low hull of a submarine. Above it, the eastern sky is bright with reflections of distant water, and there is a feeling of sails beyond land. Hill trees mass together in a dark-spired forest, but when I move towards them they slowly fan apart, the sky descends between, and they are solitary oaks and elms, each with its own wide territory of winter shadow. The calmness, the solitude of horizons lures me towards them, through them, and on to others. They layer the memory like strata."
If, at some point in this blog, I can evoke the same ancestral memories that Baker's writing evokes in me, then I'll have accomplished my goal. The first day of spring seems a good time to begin.
Only two days ago, on Saturday, I heard my first red-winged blackbird of the year. It sang from a planted spruce beside the Corkstown footbridge, where I cross the Rideau Canal at least twice a day. For me, the first trill of a red-winged blackbird marks the real first day of spring. Other birds start singing sooner: the cardinals, the chickadees. But they are unreliable heralds. I've heard optimistic cardinals whistling in the depth of winter, and chickadees singing, "hey cutie" on days in January. But when the red-winged blackbirds begin to stake out their territories, I know that winter has nearly released us -- even if the blackbirds are singing from last year's snow-covered cattails.
I follow the seasons in part because of my job. I provide guidance on environmental planning to City staff, developers and other members of the public. I review and comment on environmental reports. I manage environmental studies. I need to know how the landscape, the watersheds, the flora and fauna change through the seasons, so that I can advise how, where and when to look at them and for them. But I follow the seasons mainly because it brings me closer to the threads of life as they weave through the year. The patterns. The connections. Some buddhists compare a single life to a single thread in a tapestry. It doesn't really begin or end; it just rises sometimes to the surface, where it can be seen. I like that thought. It rings true for me, and I feel it most when I'm outside, reflecting on the cycles and connectedness of things.
I don't talk about these things. I don't know how to talk about them. But I find that I can often write what I cannot speak. I've kept journals before... and misplaced them, or forgotten them. They seem artificial to me, although I love the feel of a solid pen in my fingers and fine paper under my hand. I can never decide if I'm writing for myself or for an audience. I can never settle on my voice. So, this time, I decided to try a blog. I'll be writing for an audience. And my voice... well, I'm hoping that I settle into it.
I'm following a well-travelled trail. Many authors have used the seasons, or sometime just a single season, to provide structure to their observations and thoughts. Thoreau, of course, although I've never actually got around to reading Walden. But I've read Measure of the Year, by Roderick Haig Brown. And I've savored a little-known masterpiece called the peregrine, by j.a. baker.
The latter book describes a winter in Norfolk England in the mid-1960s, which the author spent following peregrine falcons through the countryside. The notes in my yellowing, paperback, Penguin Books printing says that the peregrine was Baker's first book, which he re-wrote five times before submitting. The care shows through his prose, which still astonishes me after three or four readings. I return to it every couple of years, just to enjoy the simple, elegant writing. The first paragraph gives a hint.
"East of my home, the long ridge lies across the skyline like the low hull of a submarine. Above it, the eastern sky is bright with reflections of distant water, and there is a feeling of sails beyond land. Hill trees mass together in a dark-spired forest, but when I move towards them they slowly fan apart, the sky descends between, and they are solitary oaks and elms, each with its own wide territory of winter shadow. The calmness, the solitude of horizons lures me towards them, through them, and on to others. They layer the memory like strata."
If, at some point in this blog, I can evoke the same ancestral memories that Baker's writing evokes in me, then I'll have accomplished my goal. The first day of spring seems a good time to begin.
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