Great White North

I miss Canada. I miss my Canada. I miss the endless forest. I miss the chilled lakes. I miss the sweet smell of snow.

I've met many people, from all over the world and I find, none of them know the place I'm from. They'e heard of Toronto, but everyone thinks I'm from the snowy mountains. I'm not. I’m from Northern Ontario.

We're not particularly famous, unless you're from Ontario itself, then you know it to be Cottage Country. It’s a pretty place.

Right now I miss a good Canadian winter.

Nothing is like that first layer of snow. Thick or thin, you can usually bet there are still a few tufts of grass poking their heads out from underneath. But its white. A long endless white, clinging to empty branches, sagging on fur bows. It flops to the ground if it's too heavy, or an errant set of chickadees decides to make a perch. Someone has taking the dark, dreariness of November and made it sparkle.

There is a river that passes in front of my house, which on rare occasion freezes completely, but is short and feeds the lake beyond it. The current runs along the Lakeshore, creating a place where river otters come out and play with their catches along the edges of the ice. It's always a stopping point, even for the locals.

Snow makes me think of animals as well. Back home there were two dogs for me to play with. Georgia is the mother and Derby the daughter. To watch them frolic through thick patches of snow drift, deeper than their chests as they race about, catching snow balls, catching sticks. Then when all three of us are thoroughly tired, we drag ourselves back in by the cook stove, drink tea, eat lunch and read a fat book.

I think too, of winter on the farm. The pace slows from the rush of warm summer, to the steady, cold crispness of things waiting to happen again. Light is less, so time during the day is a little more precious. Feeding, watering, cleaning is all to be done. We watch the cows stand proudly against the cold, mouths thick with summer hay, ice hanging off, snow shook from the highlander's fringe. She knows she was meant for the cold, and stands proud as the leader amongst the rest.

We let the horses in from their day in the snow. They lift their head's eagerly at the grind of hinges. Large draft horses, white manes rising and falling with their gate, kicking up snow, playing. Excited to be in the warmth. In the heat of the barn, they shake the flaky snow from their bodies in a thunderous shudder, spooking the resident cat.

Cold Snowy winter with fuzzy friends :D