I absolutely love Winter, for the first few months at any rate. Like everyone else, as it reaches for spring, winter becomes unbearable in a sense. This inevitable disdain does not impede me from relishing early winter frost, and Christmas snow, and the January thaw. I find a snowstorm peaceful and shovelling, at times, can be quite rewarding. I am enchanted as I watch children build forts of ice and toss snowballs like they were weapons. Growing up, my favourite part of winter was tobogganing. I’m not talking about some kiddie ride, some safe plateau. I’m talking about a thrill ride, a steep slope and ice to boot. I have to admit it’s been many years since I indulged in this kind of rally. I have to go back to the mid-1990s to garner an example. It’s not that I gave up the joy, it’s just that with age comes the challenge of effort, effort and access. Almost every place one could luge has transformed into subdivision after subdivision. All the hills have found an alternate purpose. Some remain. The high school in Strathroy, Ontariomay be long gone but the enormous hill out back carries on like it always did. There is something nostalgic about the place. So many experiences sliding down the slope, spinning out at the bottom and ending up face first in the white stuff. The last time I was gratified by this exhilaration, my nephew was still a young boy and the high school still existed. I remember the rush, the sting of chill and the laughter. It can seem silly to find so much joy in such a simple act. Resting my nephew on my lap and attacking the incline, made for a great photo op. I can still feel winter all around me. I still walk in the falling snow. I still smile watching birds dance in the blanket of white. I can feel myself gliding down one hill after another. I remember it all so well. It makes each winter a wonderland, an heirloom that comes back every year. I love winter, at least until New Year’s.

            Spring can be raw and damp and wet, oh so wet. As the winter thaws into a process of renewal and rebirth, so too do we mere mortals embrace the coming of this conversion. It’s a major changeover. What was once solid and cold and bitter now mushes with the warmer ways of this season. Soggy becomes a part of living, at least for a few weeks, sometimes more. Early spring brings the melt and later spring brings resurrection, both literally and figuratively. As Jesus heads off into heaven, heaven on earth returns again and again. All the flowers, all the green, such beauty slowly rupturing the season before. What once was covered in white now rises from the frost. Cometh the swampland. It can be a challenge to not get stuck in it. For me, my most daunting memory of spring comes at a cemetery. It had only been a month since he had been buried. With the thaw, it was time to remove all the flowers, the crosses, the terms of endearment from the grave. There were so many that the ground beneath seemed to not unfreeze. I cleared them all in random order. With my rake in hand, I stepped onto the mound, thinking it was still solid. I could not have been more wrong. I sank in, one foot after another, and headed for the box below. I used the rake to halt my descent. It reached to harder ground on either side and acted like a stopper. I dangled in the earth and stones. The entire experience was maddening. I cried out in good measure. For a moment, I felt like he was calling me, bidding me to join him in the mire and slush. I do not hold a good place for this memory. It has tainted the entire experience come warmer weather. Spring is a lovely time of year, once it gets going. Soon, the Lily of the Valley bloom and the black-eyed Susan’s smile at me. Life begins again, although not necessarily for all of us. Most times, we don’t get to come back and try all over again. Our rejuvenation is not guaranteed. Unlike with the dandelions, all the weeds, and the English Ivy in the front yard, there are no second chances. Spring is a time for launching new life while old life still keeps trying. It is fresh, and glorious and a miracle in itself. At the same time, it is decay and destruction. The constant yin and yang, the push and pull of nature, can often be more than one has bargained for. I try to shut it out. There is something to be said for denial and dismissal. I try not to dwell on that sinking feeling.

            In my teens and early 20s, I was a sun worshipper. I would lay out back for so long that I looked aboriginal. With nothing but a humble pair of shorts to cover me, I stayed in the sun for hours at a time. I was so obsessed with my color that I would raise my hands over my head and hold the position so my armpits got some tan. One Summer in 1983, I fell asleep holding this stance. I slept for over an hour with my pits to the sun. By the time I woke up, the damage had been done. Let me just say that blisters in this location  are one of my least favourite conditions, ever. Summer is a time for outdoor activities. Fairs, festivals and Monster trucks are common here in Southwestern Ontario. Almost every town between Windsor and Kapuskasing welcomes one summer celebration after another. My hometown of Strathroy hosts the annual Turkey Festival come mid-July. Stratford, Ontario hosts art shows in the park running along the ThamesRiver. From Rib fests in Kitchener and London, to the Taste of the Danforth in Toronto, summer food attracts huge crowds. Tiny places calling out for attention offer Street fairs and Tractor pulls, all bringing crowds to bask in the summer sun. I am not so good in all that heat. I now burn like a son of a bitch. In 1990, I attended the Londonair show. It was a clear and very humid day. I sat hatless, watching every plane go by with a sense of nostalgia and fascination. Like with my armpits, the blisters were not my favourite consequence. The top of my head looked more like a fried egg than a noggin. When I got home, I tried a cream to soothe my forehead. It was more like putty than lotion. Getting it all off ripped open each and every fester. I had to soak my head in the bathtub just to settle the sting. I have always been a swimmer. Even as a child, I spent as much of it as possible near the water. I trained as a lifeguard and excelled in lifesaving procedures. My heart was never in it for that glory. I simply loved to swim and I took advantage of anything that promoted me doing so. I have entered every GreatLakeand bathed in both the main North American oceans. Unfortunately, there is something wicked coming this way and I mean in the water. Since 2000, I have not been able to walk into a GreatLake without breaking out in a rash. LakeOntario is the worst offender. It can become rather inconvenient. It sucks no longer being able to swim in the rough. These days, I enjoy some heat and I don’t even mind sweating if the reason is right. I just try not to melt completely. Summer has become more about my garden than my tan lines. I appreciate a little colour here and there but I can’t be bothered to earn it.

            Who would imagine that so much death could be so beautiful? It is ironic that my favourite season of all comes with such decomposition. The world begins to change from deep green to vibrant, if only for the shortest of time. It’s like watching a pretty corpse rot on the spot. Autumn is falling leaves, and Halloween and cold overnights. In Southern Ontario, from late September to early November, it is orange and yellow and red for as far as the eye can see. It is breathtaking, at least if you pay attention. How could you not? Everywhere you go there is a rainbow, a line of colour unending until all those leaves finally drop. The wind brings a chill and finally you can wear your heavier clothes. As the shorts disappear into limbo, sweaters and long pants and my much favoured jacket all call to me for their freedom. Raking leaves is much more than a duty. It can be a joy if you get to watch someone else do it. Fall has always brought with it the most wonderful aroma. There is nothing more reminiscent of Autumn than the smell of burning leaves. It is now illegal to burn them within town limits, but when I was growing up in Strathroy, almost every home, from town end to end, had smouldering piles of dead things ablaze at the curb. Later in the season, the smell of pumpkin lingers on your hands after all the carving is done. Canadian Thanksgiving comes in October but with much less pomp and circumstance than how our American neighbours to the south celebrate. I bask in the season. I find serenity walking in a changing woods and peace driving along the highway, glimpsing tree after tree as they shed their bounty. There is no other season that makes me feel so good about something that really is kind of sad. Melancholy can be a warm thing if taken in good measure. As a boy, piles of rejected foliage built in depth and were pulled into each other. I used to love to run and throw myself into the middle of each. It was not only the little thrill I did it for. For me, there was nothing more compelling than the pissed off look of adults who had to start raking all over again. These days, all I am left with are the pretty pictures in my mind of Autumn days and frosty nights. I am fortunate that at this time of year, they coincide with the real deal. There is still magic however, mingled in with life, there is death but it can be such a lovely thing.

            Every season has something magical about it; whether those falling leaves in Autumn, rebirth in Spring, the warmth of Summer or crisp snow on a Winter’s day. It is so true that you always find what you are looking for. You can enjoy the heat or enjoy the cool inside, because of the heat. You can stomp through puddles or walk in the mud instead. You can make snow angels or simply pile up the white stuff. You can run through the leaves or bag them as you go along. Everything has this duality. It really all comes down to how you see the world. For me, the four seasons each bring great memory and much nostalgia. At times, a wave of sombre visits me as I visit them. Like clockwork, they work me every time. Year after year, each one chases me, always reminding me to breathe in deep and notice, one must notice. I am fortunate to live in the Great Lakes basin. We get the full foursome, every year. Each brings with it an unpredictability that is not always so gentle. Each season is qualified to stand on its own. I don’t dread them coming. I don’t try to wish them away. What I do try to do is embrace them, take from them those things which delight me decade after decade. I don’t need Vivaldi to inspire me. I don’t need anything but I’ll take it.

http://www.osnatfineart.com/painting/2156-every-season-has-its-change

Strathroy Ontario

Port Burwell Ontario