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By Daisy Beharry |
Toronto, Canada, March 15, 2005: Having come from the West Indies, I grew up in a cycle of two seasons: dry and wet. But, because my schooling was British-based, I learned about different types of weather of a more temperate nature.
In high school, our English readers contained comprehension passages that described fog, chilling wetness, and a misty, fine rain that fell throughout the day. Novels presented gentlemen who huddled against blustery winds and London as a city canopied by a perpetual yellowish haze. We had to answer questions based on these readings and a good stretch of the imagination it took from us to try to visualize these foreign elements.
Later on, in Form 5, the Canadians decided to send us their books. Now, there was no escaping the weather. From fog and dampness, we were soon learning about snowdrifts, wind-chill factors, details of gusty winds and the wonderful adventures Canadians experienced in these severe conditions. For milder activities, men went ice-fishing, everyone went skiing, and very young children made snowmen and snow tunnels. Everyone was concerned about the snow, and the snow controlled everyone. Even the birds were required to make a major adjustment.
I clearly remember one piece of writing that described Canadian birds flying south in a V-formation during winter. One of the questions based on the reading was: How far south do you think the birds travelled? Well, I had several problems with this passage. For one thing, I could not imagine birds flying very far. From my geography class, I knew that the United States was south of Canada, so very far south must be the southern United States. But, no, it was Mexico. That's what our young Canadian male English teacher told us.
My little area of experience and bookish knowledge could not fathom that these geese could fly as far as Mexico. I wondered if the birds ever stopped to rest. Were they in agreement as to when to stop? Were they like human beings in that they felt strange in new surroundings? How did they find their way back home?
Another question was: Why did the birds travel in a V-formation? None of us had an answer -- for the simple reason, I believe, that Trinidadian birds fly in whatever direction they choose. Again, our Canadian teacher, sponsored by CUSO, came to the rescue. He explained that it was to avert danger. I couldn't understand how, but I didn't say anything. I didn't want my friends to know what a poor imagination I had.
Our teacher told us about winter: the preparations people made for snowfall, the hazards of the season, the shorter days. These were all academic facts for us. We had all seen snow in movies, some of which showed the treacherous nature of winter. Silly boys in our class joked about how we could see snow all year round in our freezers at home.
But it was not until I moved to Canada that I experienced the real thing. It was late November and, as I always do, I looked out my window first thing in the morning. I was enthralled. It was a strange beautiful world. Everything was one sheet of snow with no boundaries. I was amazed at how pure it looked, at how something that seemed so uniform could render such awe. For truly, where was the terror in this thing?
I was to find out the hard way. The initial touch of virgin snow is deceptive; light and fluffy at first, it freezes your fingers in seconds. And hard shoes? Yes, I had those on, but they didn't go past my ankles. Gradually, freezingly and painfully, we learned about the vagaries of winter. Painfully was the worst. When my two-year-old son got pneumonia, we were terrified. It was a Sunday afternoon and we were going out to the circus and dinner. As we would do in Trinidad in preparation for an afternoon outing, we showered lavishly. Maybe I didn't dry him thoroughly, maybe it was the newness to winter, maybe it was just his age -- I don't know. Guilt, hurt, and fear overwhelmed my husband and me as we watched over this child. We survived the trauma and became more circumspect.
My fascination with winter continued. But, at the same time, I noticed how people, especially newcomers, could lose their bearings in this altered landscape. I watched the early darkness descend on the houses and I felt my own metabolism change. It was hard to wake up in the morning, harder yet to walk on ice.
Snow turned into ice, and ice was transformed into works of art. Sculptors carved out beautiful images of human, animal and divine figures. I noticed pinpricks of diamond gleaming on a bright day. The first time I saw icicles, I was travelling in a bus. Sitting high up, I noticed myriad crystal shards hanging from trees, looking like clear bulbs. A closer look and a flash of realization made me shiver to think that it was really ice.
I still marvel at the quiet camaraderie that exists among neighbours at a fresh snowfall. Dressed in the darkest of colours, they look like miniature mechanical figures set on a great white blanket as they get caught up in the rhythm of bending, scraping, shovelling and tossing. An unspoken understanding reassures them that, if a vehicle gets stuck or someone needs a hand, there would be plenty of help.
Despite all of this, I would like to hibernate. Winter is cold; slipping on ice could be bone-breaking; winds gusting at 60 kilometres an hour could send me flying.
But they say when you become a Canadian citizen, you cannot complain about the snow -- so I'm not complaining.
Daisy Beharry lives in Waterloo, Ont.