It seems to me that no one, at least no one in our general area, will need to court the thought of dreaming for a white Christmas. As I sit here, looking out my book-lined study room window, while pecking out this week’s column, I can see about six inches of snow that blankets my back garden. It is quite likely to stay for quite some time as my outdoor thermometer has dipped beyond 10 below the zero mark. It will be good if it stays, for it protects the ground from deep frost penetration which is the main cause of winter-kill.
This year I did not get my garden cleaned up as much as I should have, and the sad part of this is the fact that I have no excuse. We did have a dozen or more days of very nice, shirt-sleeve weather for so doing, but I chose to busy myself at other things that seemed at the time more appealing. This is not the first year the snow has come while my longjohns were still tucked in the bottom of the drawer. I recall a winter not long after the Little Lady and I were married.
We lived then in a farmhouse, ill repaired and decrepit with age, at the end of a long L-shaped country lane out in the wilds of Eramosa Township. The snow came, and stayed. From the last week in November, until the second week of April; we parked our car at the road and hoofed it in, dragging our groceries on a toboggan behind us.
A couple of years later the same thing happened, the snow came early and stayed; but we were a little more prepared. We had gained ownership of a pair of Samoyed Huskies, which live for the snow, and that, with the help of their first litter of grown puppies, was accumulation enough for a dog team. That was fun, fun, and more fun. Often we’d take the groceries up the long lane, though not necessary, just one bag at a time.
One other date that sticks out in my mind, though I knew not at the time but was told about later, was an early snow that came and stayed on the ninth day of November, 75 years to the day on the calendar. That date coincides with the date of my birth. And my daddy, I’ve so been told, had to dig through three foot drifts in order to get the nurse in.
That’s right folks; I came into this world squealing and squalling as nurse pealed her winter coat 75 years ago, in the bedroom of a little snow-bound stone cottage, right here in this town we call Fergus. I think Doctor Groves, who later attended, was a little disappointed, being deprived of the pleasure of whacking my butt in order to start me breathing. So y’ see folks, even with doctors, sometimes they win and sometimes they lose.
In the meantime, in between time I have been having a lot of fun. In addition to meeting scads of my readers at more than a dozen book signing opportunities that have accumulated over the past few months, me and a couple of cohorts with interest in the writing field have come up with an amalgamated idea that I think each and every one of you readers will definitely be interested in. It is a chance to have fun while at the same time help out our local food bank. Here it is folks:
Literary Works & Musical Interludes, Sunday, Dec. 7, 9:30am to 4:30pm, at the Fergus Grand Theatre, 224 St Andrew Street West. Cost: A couple of items or a donation for the local food bank will be much appreciated. This event is a celebration of the creative works and visions of local artists (authors and musicians). It is an interactive event, and you are invited to ask questions, explore books and CDs, while tantalizing your taste buds with food offerings, and free refreshments. There will be ongoing performances throughout the day in the theatre.
This is a Sunday Fun-day, that will keep you humming a tune on Monday. There will be CDs and signed books to economically fill your Christmas list. These are not throw-away stocking stuffers; they are historical heritage hand-me-downs that will be cherished by family, relatives and friends; undoubtedly stair stepping generations yet to come.
Please help us, help the food bank. See you all there.
Take care, ’cause we care.
barrie@barriehopkins.ca 519-843-4544