And then it became enough. I flew from Winter to The South, to Sohoe where it is as gentle and mild as is possible to find in this True North Strong and Free country. Spring and Autumn here claim more of the calendar, and Winter is too mellow to possess claws. Snow may visit us, but seldom with great drama, and rarely lingers for long. To be sure, this is still Canada... we are not overrun with Spanish Moss and orange groves. You tender-skinned of the South would think it bitter cold here, while we who live here delight to read the weather reports of our kin in more northerly locales.
Months ago we learned that our Dutch Family would like to visit for Christmas as they wanted to experience a Truly Canadian Christmas. To them that meant cold and snow and hockey. We hoped and prayed to satisfy their expectations, though every forecast and prediction hinted at disappointment. And indeed, the forecasts and predictions were right. There was now and then a snowfall in the weeks leading up to the Great Feast, but nothing lingered. When the Dutch Family arrived the grass was green and the air so warm they could sit wrapped in nothing more seasonal than sweaters on the back patio. So much for tobogganing. So long skating on the neighbourhood rink. Farewell the snowball fight.
Home they went, disappointed. Surely the perception abroad of Canada being a vast land of snow-covered forests and unending tundra was naught but lore, a rumour to lure naïve travelers.
But what do you suppose happened on their return home?
Lead to this:
But which, before long, gave way to once more:
As it happens, the Dutch Family would have had a White Christmas if they had remained at home.
Today again in Sohoe... it snows.