White

Finally, snow.

We were awake in the early morning, talking as we lay entwined, our heads on the pillows in the half-light, and then fell back to sleep, waking again at nearly nine. J. got up and drew aside the curtain, and came back to bed with his announcement: It's snowing hard.

How much do we have?

Maybe six inches already.

Really! They said snow flurries.

Well, this is a snowstorm.

We were ready, had been ready. Last week J. had gotten the snow tires put on the car, and the Tempo -- a sturdy winter tent erected over driveways and garage entrances that was a final and ubiquitous harbinger of Montreal winters -- had greeted us one day when we returned home on our bikes. And last night had smelled like snow.

A few days before, a Saturday, I had walked to the studio in the early afternoon. It was the first really cold day, so odd for that late in November; like everyone, I had reveled in the extended autumn, knowing that each day was one more subtracted form the long account of winter. But it had gone on too long and become disturbing; I imagined hungry polar bears further north, waiting vainly for the ice to freeze so they could cross it to hunt, and the slow drip of water from glaciers that should by now be locked solid.

My fingers, inside a well-worn pair of red suede gloves, were chilled after just two blocks. I thrust them into my jacket pockets and kept walking, looking for sun. But there was none on the sidewalks of the long narrow northern blocks, even this close to midday; the sun's angle was so low that the shadows had already climbed halfway up the west-facing buildings.

I passed Le Boucanier, the shop of a man recently moved here from the Gaspesie who made artisan smoked fish; the city had already set up a Christmas tree in a large wooden tub outside his shop and others further down the street, awaiting strings of lights. Through the window I saw a new display of handmade breads, stacked in crossways layers like split, drying wood that showed charred patches from a wood-fired oven, and beyond the bread, the small filets of smoked fish lying in a refrigerated case: white, beige, terracotta, rose.

There was, however, plenty of sunlight on Mont-Royal. At the corner of Papineau music blared from an idling car at the intersection, drowning out the first strains of Christmas music piped onto the street by the merchants' association. The Beach Boys. The light changed and I crossed, the car passing me, its window rolled down in spite of the cold.

I walked quickly, my pace slowing once, in front of the florist's window  to look at a calamondin in a lovely yellow-glazed pot, hung with perfect orange ornaments, and then again as I turned north on rue Cabot, wondering if the pretty tabby kitten I'd spotted last week would be in the window of a former shop now converted to an apartment. Probably not, I thought, there's no sun -- but it was there, just the same, and yawned and stretched, looking at me with wide eyes when I touched the glass with a red finger. I didn't mind November, though many people seemed to hate it. I liked its suspended quality, the softness of waiting, the re-acquaintance with the bones of the trees.

I was all the way to Laurier before I realized I had been walking at the same pace as the song, ironic and unnoticed, playing over and over in my head: "Do you love me, do you Surfer Girl? Surfer girl, surfer girl..."

--

This morning, we drove to work in a world that had become white overnight. We were behind a huge truck without snowtires, its wheels sliding from side to side, when I heard the song in my head again. The strange idea of lying nearly naked on a beach in California, something I'd never done in my life. On the sidewalk, a woman pulled a blue plastic sled. The light changed, the truck, trying to move forward, slid. Surfer girl.

We pulled into the parking lot and got out. My feet felt the familiar crunch of snow and at this very first touch and sound I knew its wetness, its heaviness, its consistency. I ran my gloved hand along the side of the next car, gathering snow between my palms and squeezing it into a  rough, crumbly ball. Then I  took a bite and felt the crystals melt rapidly on my tongue; not water: nothing else tastes like snow.

Comments

[Loretta]

Just wonderfully evocative of all things that spell early winter. Not quite ready for it, myself, but it is just a week or two away. I am clutching at the last golden leaves and orange squash of autumn, at least until Friday.

[Mouse]

oh how beautiful
Last night I found myself full of nostalgia for snow and this morning I woke to it, even if it's only second-hand snow it's lovely!

And yes, nothing tastes quite as good as snow!

[Fire Bird]

wonderfully sensual - we're still in the strangely mild prelude here

[Mary]

Taking a walk with you is so much fun!

[Pablo]

Thanks for the images. I love first snows of the season, always have and probably always will. Here in Boston were having our second October of 2011, Indian summer at the end of November. Of course we did have snow on Halloween weekend. Best regards, Pablo

[Jan]

Love the images, Beth. I can't say my heart was really ready for our first snow, but it arrived so beautifully, coating all the branches, turning the brown and dried landscape into white perfection,that I had to open my heart to it. Hope the remaining snows of winter go easy on you, that you get the snowfall needed while streets remain clear and drive-able. How is that for a holiday wish.

[Cheap UGGs for Sale]

dear friends merry christmas