Winter Storm

I’m writing in my office, relaxed and warm. Outside my window, a few sparrows dart through the wind and the snow. The seeds in the feeder are attracting those hungry little guys today. The snow started coming down lightly late yesterday afternoon. Shortly after the snowfall began, the wind picked up and started forming snowdrifts over sidewalks, against doorways, and up over steps leading into houses.

When I’m not working away from my home office and don’t have to leave the house, I enjoy a snow day. Good thing, too, because it’s only late November and already we’ve had a few. Snowy weather is good writing weather. It calms me down and improves my focus.

Today I’m feeling nostalgic for good, solid Canadiana. I used to read almost exclusively Canadian fiction. I remember scouring the shelves in the local library, watching for that red maple leaf on the books’ spines indicating that the work had been written by a Canadian author. It’s been a long time since I’ve sought a Canadian author to read — or a paper book. Like Canada, I’ve become globalized and I’m influenced by people and places from all around the world.

The same is true of music. I used to listen to a lot of Canadian artists: Blue Rodeo, Ian Tyson, and Great Big Sea. Bruce Cockburn still admits to being Canadian and bravely did not change the spelling of his last name. I snicker like a fourteen-year-old because I am a bit immature. His name is pronounced Co-burn, of course, which sounds less painful and would not quite work as well in a Limerick.
Canadian music, like Canadian literature, is still awesome, but it is easier now to enjoy the work of more artists from other countries.

Just yesterday I heard one of Bruce Cockburn’s songs from back in the day. I love the chorus’s melody and like the lyrics. Pure Canadiana with a great storyline, set in Ontario, that sounds suspiciously autobiographical. I should look that up and find out for sure…

Anyway, here are the lyrics to The Coldest Night of the Year.

The Coldest Night of the Year by Bruce Cockburn

I was up all night, socializing
Trying to keep the latent depression from crystalizing
Now the sun is lurking just behind the Scarborough horizon

And you’re not even here
On the coldest night of the year.

I took in Yonge Street at a glance
Heard the punkers playing
Watched the bikers dance
Everybody wishing they could go to the south of France

And you’re not even here
On the coldest night of the year.

Hey look at me now
See the shape I’m in
It’s taken me so long to catch on to what’s going on
Inside this skin
When two lovers really love there’s nothing there
But this suddenly compact universe
Of skin and breath and hair

I watched the all-night TV show
In the all-night bar
I drove all the people home
I was the one with the car

Now I’m sitting here alone and sleepless
And wondering where you are
And wishing you were here
On the coldest night of the year

We’ve already hit -30 degrees Celsius here in east-central Alberta in November, so that might’ve been our coldest night of this 2022 winter, but she’ll drop another ten degrees for a few nights at least in the new year. Yay.

Thanks for reading this rambling post. If I’ve inspired you to write a Limerick, that wasn’t the point but you’re welcome. – Lori