What goes around

We woke to the season's first snowfall: about five centimetres, wet and heavy. I dropped my shoes in a plastic shopping bag, snugged my feet into my winter boots, and walked to work through large, scattered snowflakes. Pausing on the footbridge, I looked down the canal toward the Chateau Laurier and Parliament Hill. The snow obscured the Peace Tower like a mist. The trees bore crowns of white. The few remaining ducks skirted the fringe of ice along the canal and clustered close to the warmer water trickling from a stormwater outfall. I should feel thrilled by the first snowfall; but, really, I just feel oppressed. Perhaps I'll feel more excitement when I can pull my skis from the basement. In the meantime, I can't help thinking of the long winter before spring comes around.

All things come around again. I thought of the past on Saturday night, sitting in the Raw Sugar Cafe with a group of friends and new acquaintances, listening to Jen, Patricia and Carmel (3/4 of the Elizabeth Riley Band), drinking coffee and savouring a very good lemon tart. It reminded me of Sam's Coffee House (known as Sam's Deli during the day) on Government Street in Victoria, on a summer evening in 1980, where I first heard Ferron play. The Cafe was filled beyond capacity, and I had to sit on the floor partly under a table -- but just a few feet away from the small riser that served as a stage.

I had returned to Victoria for a summer job at the Forestry Lab after my first year of university. Although the city was full of friends, I'd found myself a housekeeping room removed from my usual haunts. When not working, I kept to myself, as if to become familiar with my own company. I grew my hair long (or, in my case, out) and took to wearing a headband to keep it out of my eyes. I walked a lot, particularly on weekends, when a day's exploration might take me across the City and back. On one of those walks, I'd struck up a conversation with someone who'd mentioned Ferron and the upcoming performance. I hadn't heard of her, but the description intrigued me.

I feel an odd connection with Ferron, that dates from that first night. I've seen her several times since, over the years -- but with long stretches when she seemed to drop out of sight. Those stretches, coincidentally, seemed to occur during the periods when my own life took odd detours. Then she and I would reappear, and I'd find myself sitting in the audience at a folk festival listening to an older, but familar woman growing into a microphone. I've never spoken with her, never been introduced. But I've always imagined that there would be a nod of recognition if we met in passing, an unspoken acknowlegement that we've both found our way and made our peace.

The difference between that night, long ago, and last Saturday night, is my appreciation for friendship. I'm still a somewhat negligent friend; it comes of an uprooted childhood (but that's not a complaint). However, I've reached a point in my life where the best times are spent with old and new companions.