Oh What A Beautiful Morning

The plow came through this morning! Finally! I did a little happy dance when the l0ader went by at 8:07. I was beginning to think our road would never be plowed.

It's been an incredible few days, to say the least.

I have never seen so much snow fall in such a short time in my entire life.

Everyone's been saying the same thing.

Tim, who we just met this morning while we were out for a walk, was downright ebullient when he stopped his four-by-four, wound down his window and grinned wider than any country mile. A shit-eating grin, I think they call it.

"I've lived here since 1969," he said, "and I've NEVER seen snow like this!"

We grinned right back at him, because, well, you just can't help yourself. 

We've lived here since September but we hadn't really met many neighbours until the storm. Since then we've met pretty near all of them. Even the guy behind us who I met for the first time in my underwear. Well, I was in my underwear, not him.

I was playing on the computer, sitting around in my underwear and nightshirt because it's like 400 degrees in here with the woodstove roaring. I figured it must be Dave, who was out in the garage doing something, and he had his hands full and wanted me to open the door.

Something told me to grab the blanket on the back of the chair, and I'm glad I did, because there was a stranger at the front door.

I kinda hid and opened the door a crack and blushed furiously.

He had the good graces to blush back.

"Hi!" he says.

"Hi," I reply, thinking, who the heck is this guy? He's not dressed well enough to be a Jehovah's Witness.

"Nice weather, we're having, eh?"

I can't believe we're sharing niceties with me in my gotchies. 

Finally I blurt out, "Are you looking for Dave?"

"Yeah," he says, happy to be given an out. "He in the garage?" 

I would have told him he was out having an audience with the Pope if I thought he'd leave me to my computer and my underwear.

Nice people, though, everyone we've met.

It's been a cosy couple of days, keeping the fire stoked, cleaning out the driveway, measuring the snowfall (we figure at least 4 feet), talking to friends on the phone who are wondering how we're doing.

It's been fun, for sure.

But I can't tell you how nice it is to see the sun.

P.S. If you double-click on the photos, you'll see the high-resolution version. (I'm a Mac user so I double-click everything. If you're on a PC, you might only need one)

Snow Day!

Office was closed. Dave's work closed. Emergency declared by local government. Highway 11 closed between Bracebridge and Huntsville.

SNOW DAY!

It's 4:12 as I write this and whatever daylight we had today is waning. The snow is about up to my armpits outside. Dave is shovelling the roof. I'm taking my coffee outside to watch. 

Who knew snow shovelling was a spectator sport? 

Colorado Low

"Oh, it's an Alberta Clipper coming, honey!"

Dave says this with a southern accent.

Don't ask me why.

Every time we hear the words Alberta Clipper on the news, Dave and I chuckle. 

Don't ask me that either. 

It's just funny.

Well, we've been doing a lot of chuckling today, but not over the Clipper. This time it's a Colorado Low.

"A Col-or-add-oh Lowwww, honey, it's a-coming!"

And coming. And coming.. and still coming.

We've had three feet of snow today. And it's still coming. About two inches every hour.

It was snowing at 7:47 a.m. when I went out to start the car and took the picture of the tree beside the river. 

It was snowing at work, all day long. My boss, also named Dave, shovelled the walk on and off all day long. We all took photos of him. We took photos of each other cleaning off our cars. We took photos of each other taking photos. We laughed a lot. 

And it kept snowing.

My short drive home was a white-knuckle affair. White-outs all the way. Cars in ditches.

Our road wasn't plowed  and my Neon plowed through it, snow blowing up over the hood. It was like a dog rooting through snow with its snout.

When I got to our driveway, I had to gun it so it wouldn't get stuck, but get stuck it did, burying itself up to the hood.

I didn't even try to get it out.

I just pushed open the door and stepped out into snow almost up to my hip. 

Waddled up to the front door, laden with purse and keys and camera. Opened the door to let the dog out. Dog looks at me like I'm a bug. Dog comes out, pees in the footprint closest to the front door, goes back in the house again. Shakes off snow then snorts derisively as if to say, "I am so not going to do that again."

The funniest thing about this Colorado Low, is that it's mostly just hitting Bracebridge.

In Sprucedale? No snow.

In Huntsville? No snow to speak of.

In Haliburton? A little bit.

In Bracebridge? The floodgates of hell opened up and buried local sinners in a kiss that's as cold and white and sloppy as a three-day-old corpse.

P.S. You want to know the most interesting thing about all this?

They're calling for another 30-60 cm of snow tomorrow.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

The first snowstorm of the winter season. Much feared and anticipated, it was a bit of a lunchbag letdown, in spite of the breathless-with-enthusiasm forecast by the suits on the weather channel.

I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of the wind, rattling and moaning in the trees around us, all bluff and bluster, like the wolf to our Red Riding Hood. All its huffing and puffing was to naught. The cats and dog and Dave and I were snug in our beds and the wind would not have its way with us, not on this night.

There is something comfortable about sleeping in an old house. If nothing has knocked it down over decades of thunderstorms, hurricanes, tornadoes and blizzards, there's a pretty good chance nothing will in the next day or so. 

(Knock on wood.)

When we bought our cabin on the river we were told it was "historic" but we had no clue about its real age. We figured that maybe it was built in the 1930s or 40s. So when we received a statement from the taxman, we were startled to see the date it was built.

1880.

Isn't that incredible?

From what we've heard, Bracebridge wasn't settled until the 1860s. Which means our small cabin was probably among the first in the area. Likely a trapper's shack or a logger's home, but I'm just guessing. When I get a chance, I want to go to the land registry office and find out more.

That bit of detective work will have to wait, however, until I get a day off when the office is actually open. 

In the meantime, I daydream about who has lived in this house in the last 129 years.

Dave and I count ourselves lucky to be among them.

I've decided to try and take a different photo of the neighbourhood every day, as an exercise in both weather-watching and photography. Today's photo was taken by Dave in the morning. He's been home with a back injury, so he was able to take it when I was still at work. The wind and snow were just howling when he wandered out for a look around and photographed the Black Bridge. When we first saw this house last spring we fell for it. Hard. And this bridge was the first thing we fell in love with. I remember we drove around a corner and saw this magnificent old bridge and we both sighed with pure and simple longing. On maps it is called the Black Bridge and, even in the throes of the first snowstorm of this winter season, it stands tall, dark and handsome.

P.S. Thank you, Paula, for your comments. I miss you, too, and I wonder how you're getting your euchre fix. I think of your quick to-the-roots blush, and your no-holds laugh and your sharkiness around the euchre table. And I'm wondering how you're enjoying your Oriental salad and your Coke, and if you and Pamela have somehow skinnivered a game... maybe with Brent and Tamara? I know, skinnivered isn't a word. That's why I put it in here! Happy proofreading, Blondie! Say hi to everyone.

Tippy, The Best Dog Ever

Someone should tell Angus that there isn't any money in being a writer.

Oh, there might be money in it if you're Stephen King, but not if you're me. Not a lot, anyway. My first newspaper job paid $75 a week and I had to have a place to live and a car (that worked). By the time I paid my car loan and the rent I barely had any left over for drinks at the hotel. Truth be told, sometimes I spent all $75 at the bar. (Having a roof over your head when you're 21 is overrated.)

I remember my journalism teacher (Ben Rose was his name) telling me, "There's no money in community journalism. Everybody who thinks they're going to get rich on this had better leave now."

I remember my father asking (as he pulled out his wallet), "when are you going to get a real job?"

There may not be money in writing but, by gosh, there's pride. It's not like being a Wal-mart greeter, although there's nothing wrong with being a Wal-mart greeter – they get paid the same as reporters, they don't have to have a car and they get free uniform. Oh, please tell me it's free. It would be inhumane to make employees pay for that crap.

There's a certain cache to writing. When people at a cocktail party ask what you do for a living, you can say, "I'm a reporter." You know, say it all casual-like. Like you'd say when someone complimented your dress. "Oh, THIS old thing?" And you watch their eyes light up, suitably impressed.

Now that I'm not a reporter anymore, I don't get that same reaction.  I say, "I work in the production department of a newspaper," and they don't have a clue what the hell I'm talking about. They go all blank and nod politely and move on to the next person. They must think it's a factory or something. If I say, "I do ads," they think I'm in sales. If I say, "I'm a graphic designer," it sounds like I have a big head. No matter what I say, it's not half as cool as saying, "I'm a reporter." Or "I'm a writer." Saying the latter is like you're starring in a Nora Ephron movie. Or hanging out with Woody Allen. Which I would never do, even if he asked me, because he married his daughter. 

Weirdo freak. 

He's not even funny.

But I digress. 

What I really want to say is that I have always been proud of my writing background and I have wondered if either of my two sons would take after their mother. I was rewarded richly tonight when Angus announced he had started a blog. A blog! 

His topic is Tippy, his faithul pooch, who is not really an oaf. (OK, so she is a bit of an oaf. I'm sorry, Angus, she just is!!!)

 I read everything he had written and laughed and smiled and beamed with pride! What an amazing son I have! I wanted to be the first to comment and be a follower but, alas, I couldn't figure out how to do it. (I'm sure that's why I have no comments on my blogs... no one could figure it out, right???? Right???? Anybody out there???? Hellllllllllloooooooooooooooo??? This would never happen to Julie & Julia but I guess she was saying something interesting. And I'm... not so much.

Sigh.

Anyway, if you ARE reading this, you must go to my son's website and admire his blog. Here's the website: tippyolliffe.weebly.com

He is a very talented child.

Just like his mother.

The photo features Angus and the inukshuk he made at Inverhuron Provincial Park last summer.

P.S. I have to start taking photos every day. This morning on the way to work the view along the river was so beautiful that I stopped the car in the middle of the road and just stared. The trees were laden with fresh snow, the river steamed and the sun's first light painted the tops of the evergreens with gold. I wish I had my camera. The first blizzard of winter is called for tomorrow. My kids are excited about a snow day. I'm just hoping that Dave and all family and friends get to work without incident. There's an excitement about the first bad storm of winter. Bring it on, I say. Our riverside cabin is warm and cozy and wonderful. Let it snow!