Open Writing

We first saw Liz’s lovely garden in summer. The swimming pool sparkled in the warm sunshine. The view across rolling, wooded hills from the raised wooden deck was smudged by heat haze, the lawn was green and deep, dotted with trees, stretching the eyes to the far fence where the tree farm began, a leafy forest that rustled in a warm breeze.

Now it was winter. The emerald garden was buried under deep snow. It looked like a huge Christmas cake. Spruce and pine trees and the naked branches of the massive maple were etched in white. There was no trace of the glittering swimming pool, and the wooden deck with its Adirondack chairs was a snow-laden lump against the right-hand border of the property. The distant rolling hills were hidden by grey clouds.

We were in Canada, spending a few days with my cousin, Liz, her husband, James, and their family. They live in an area called Kettleby, just north of Toronto. The temperature outside was ‘only’ minus nine degrees centigrade. The snow fell in fascinating flurries that whirled in circles one moment, blustered across the garden from left to right and then from right to left, or actually drifted upwards when the sun came out. Later, we sat in the lounge watching the snowy garden turn luminescent, blue-white in the fading daylight.

After a delicious evening meal which left us feeling lethargic, Liz said, “How about a walk around the block?” The temperature, shown on the thermometer fitted to the outside of the window, was now a ‘mild’ minus sixteen.

Was Liz mad? I wondered sleepily. It’s snowing fit to smother any living thing outside. Liz, however, was serious. “Here, Isabel,” she said, “You can wear these snow boots. Your own jacket won’t be warm enough, use this down-filled one and these mittens, and here’s a ‘gator’ to cover your neck, chin, mouth and nose if you want to pull it up that high!” The ‘gator’ was an elasticised tube of material, fleece-lined, which replaced the old-fashioned, unwieldy scarf. I pulled it on over my head. As I put on these borrowed items, Liz made sure Leon was dressed similarly, then quickly donned her own outdoor clothes. “The secret of keeping warm outside is to sure you’re warm and fully covered before you go out,” she said, “otherwise the cold will get you and you’ll take a long time to warm up.”

We ventured into the night. The snow on the ground was bright and crisp, shining in the light of the street lamps. It fell around us like tiny stars, melting on our faces. The air was icy and I pulled my gator up over my nose. I soon regretted this, as my breath condensed and the gator became uncomfortably damp. Our feet squeaked as we walked, and the snow rustled on our shoulders. It was delightful. The black-and-white sheep dog, Cato, bounded ahead of us, pausing frequently to nose his way into piles of snow at the side of the road. On arriving home about half an hour later, we were glowing with warmth and needed to strip off not only our coats, but a layer or two underneath them as well!

Next morning, we dressed in ski clothes, also supplied by Liz. After a breakfast of fruit and muffins, we put on jackets and boots, then Liz and James took us out of the back door, where the white and silent garden waited. Four pairs of very narrow skis were neatly laid out there, on the virgin snow. We were shown how to click our toes into the clips and how to loop the ski-poles over our wrists so that we wouldn’t lose them if we stumbled or, heaven forbid, fell. Liz said, “The idea is to not lift your feet, but to glide them forward. That way, each step takes you further than ordinary walking. Keep your arms and poles ahead of your body, and if you feel like you’re falling, lean forward…” It sounded so easy.

It had snowed all night; the snow was soft, dry and deep. James blazed the trail with Leon behind him, me following, and Liz bringing up the rear. There was a tiny downhill slope off the paved area next to the pool onto the white ‘lawn’, not that either the paving or the pool was visible. I saw Leon waver, land on his warmly-clad derrière and slide down. Then I slid downhill, fast and out of control, but at least on my feet. In spite giving strict instructions to my feet to glide, they insisted on lifting; my right foot in particular seemed off-centre and regularly sank deep into the snow. Shaded by light-sensitive spectacles, which seemed to get far darker than normal, my eyes were firmly focussed on the deep grooves in the snow, where my skis seemed to stretch endlessly ahead of me.

Puffing, Liz and I came to the first pausing point, where the men waited. They skied faster than us. We were enjoying the fresh, minus-eight-degree air and the exercise, and marvelling at the twists in our lives which had brought us to this improbably snowy place.

As James took off his gloves to snap the mandatory photographs, the sun peered out from behind fluffy grey clouds. Snow began falling again, soft and sparkling in the sunlight. It was as if glitter was being sprinkled on our upturned faces.

We skied on among trees whose skeletal arms were edged with glittering white, noting the deep tracks of deer, coyote, rabbit and squirrel. Gliding felt like effortless motion. Down-hills were gentle and few; I mastered them with delight, tempered by mild apprehension. As I grew more confident, I became careless. I stopped to admire the scenery and promptly found myself subsiding sideways, deep into the soft, cold snow, skis hopelessly tangled somewhere in the white depths. The snow cushioned me through at least five falls. Luckily, Liz is strong and accustomed to hauling people out of the snow. With a little help from my poles, I was soon back on my feet.

We ended by gliding back through the glorious white garden, pausing for a final photo opportunity outside the house. We unclipped our skis, stamped into the porch where we took off our snow-boots and jackets, then went inside. Amazingly, in spite of outdoor temperatures at well below freezing point, we were dripping with perspiration. We’d been skiing for about an hour and a half across the glorious, glittering white countryside.

Liz was born in South Africa, then married Canadian James. They’ve lived in Canada for much of their married life. “So many people spend their lives moaning about the weather here,” she said while we were sitting in front of the cosy fire one evening. “They sit inside, close the curtains, turn the heat up to unbearable levels during winter, and wait for it to pass. In summer they turn on the air-conditioning so cold you need to wear a sweater inside their homes, and never venture outdoors in case of contact with bugs and dirt. James and I are so lucky. Skiing through the tree farm is such a privilege, much better than the trails people pay to use at resorts. We go out on our own trail as often as we can when there’s snow, and enjoy being outdoors and getting the exercise. When it’s raining, muddy and grey in autumn or spring, I exercise at the gym, enjoy the classes there, and socialise. And in summer, I work in the garden and play tennis. It gets really hot in summer. We keep the windows open all the time and only turn the air on inside when the humidity is high. In winter, we keep the house at about twenty-one degrees, which is not too hot, we’re comfortable. I’ve never felt cold in winter here the way I used to in South Africa. We’re just so much better prepared for the weather. James and I enjoy ourselves no matter what the weather.”

Surely this philosophy is one to which we can all subscribe, no matter where we are, or what the circumstances: live life to the full, every moment, whether because of, or in spite of, where we find ourselves!

Until next week, ‘here comes Treble!’

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