Its winter

This past morning, at first light, when I looked out my second-floor bed and sitting room window, which overlooks the greater part of the farm where I now reside, I could see nothing but white. The ground was covered with about four inches of snow and the trees, not yet disturbed by the usual winds, were decorated as though patiently waiting for Christmas.

Having lived centre town urban, in the valley of the Grand River, for the past 20 or more years, with windows that looked out on neighbouring houses, I never fully realized just what I was missing. What a grand spread of awe-inspiring beauty, spread by Mother Nature, across the countryside before me. When the sun peeked up over the far tree-lined horizon, the whole landscape sparkled like diamonds.

As the weather station predicted possible rain later in the day, I decided to jump the gun and take my usual later-day walk up over the hill to take a look at the newly cleaned up farm pond. It was of interest to me as I watched it daily filling up. With the melting snow and the coming rain, I thought possibly quite a large rise in the water level would follow.

This is a fun walk for me since I am usually not in a hurry, and though there and back, up over the hill, is probably contrary to the best interest of my heart doctor, I find the possibly half mile there and back not a problem, as I have learned to pace myself. In addition, I have placed one of my original tree slab benches, christened by my son as a “Flintstone bench,” perched on the crest of the hill where I can stop and rest my weary bones if I so feel the need. From up there, looking down and around me, I feel the problems of the world could be solved.

On this particular morning, I could see the tracks of the area resident coyote pack, I believe five in number, which had circled the bench sometime during the evening before.

And as I sat watching, three deer, a buck, doe and yearling fawn trotted across the valley that leads to the bush. They had been munching the apples from one of the wild trees that grow in the hedgerow. I don’t believe any one of them sported a red nose. Could that be because they are white-tailed deer, not reindeer?

On the way back, as the sun rose the snow moistened, making it possible to pack, but heck, somehow I felt that I was about 60 years and 22 minutes too old to make a snowman.

On checking my e-mails on returning to my computer in its nook at the head of the stairs, here is one sent from my niece who resides in a high-rise in Guelph.

It contains the following little poem titled Winter.

It’s winter time in Canada, and the gentle breezes blow, seventy miles an hour, at thirty-five below.

Oh how I love Canada, when the snow’s up to your butt. You take a breath of winter and your nose gets frozen shut.

Yes, the weather here is wonderful, so I guess I’ll stick around. I could never ever leave Canada, ’cause I’m frozen to the ground.

Take care, ‘cause we care.



Barrie Hopkins