My husband nudges me awake and I nestle down deeper into the warm blankets.

He startles me awake by saying "happy first day of winter".

Nooooo! I reply and open my eyes wide, not quite believing him. Through the window, the world has been painted solid white. Winter decided to stop by for an early visit.

I make coffee and sit watching the show outside.

Although a bit unwelcome, winter does paint a beautiful picture. Recognizing that I have no say in natures moods, I say "Hello winter. Why so early? Is this just a surprise visit or are you here to stay"? She responds by sending a gust of wind that shakes the house. Hmm.

None of us are quite ready for this. The trees are still going through their autumn transitions and so am I.

For miles around us, everyone is without electricity.

It is almost inevitable with weather like this. Our province is famous for lengthy power outages and outdated infrastructure. With skies heavy and grey, there isn't much sun feeding the solar panels and I've accidentally run the batteries dry. (oops).

This of course happens in the pitch black stormy night. We are quick to gather flashlights, candles and begin investigating. It is a good test of our systems, it's been a while since we had to worry about electricity and I'd rather face this now than when we are in the true cold winter. We've discovered that problems always happen when weather is lousy and it's dark outside.

This all happened yesterday.

Today is much colder.

All of that heavy, wet snow has hardened and the air has a bite that sure feels like 'real winter'. The trees are bowing from the weight of it all. The not yet fallen leaves tinkle and crackle as the wind passes through them. It reminds me of the Robert Frost poem I quoted a few days ago in my post about birch trees.

As we slumbered, some trees have cracked under the weight and broken.

I shiver with my too thin jacket and pop a warm wooly toque on my head.

I dump a pile of acorns out of my winter boots. They've been on the porch all summer and someone's decided to lay claim to them. I guiltily claim them back. Grabbing a broom I make my way down the steep hill to knock the snow off the solar panels. The snow is heavy, sticky and wet. Not the fluffy stuff that I like.

Our neighbours are still without power.

They know they can come here any time but most of them are prepared with wood stoves and generators. Today the sun is out again, that is the blessing of cold days. Cold days usually provide clearer skies, warm days, are usually cloudy and snow filled. The solar panels are doing their job and the batteries are almost full again.

This my friends, is winter in Canada and especially the maritimes. Next week is slated to be well above freezing and rainy mixed with some sunny days. The sun is shining outside and snow avalanches off our tin roof. This snow will soon melt back into the soil and we will get a small reprieve before real winter arrives but we've had a taste and a reminder.

Birches
By Robert Frost
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

---

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