Growing up in St. John's, Newfoundland, I would love it when a hefty snowstorm would shut down the city. For days, the strong northeasterlies blew in off the North Atlantic. The seemingly relentless snow-ladened howls whistled the wires, whitened the landscape and scurried through every drafty nook and cranny in our house.
If we were lucky, we would lose power. Somewhere down the line, in the back hinterland, some section of the towering hydro lines would succumb to the burden of snow, rime ice, and wind. Down it would bend, honouring the power of the winds.
The impending darkness and cold brought forth our candles and huddled our family together in the living room. I delighted in those times. The laughter and coziness amidst the flickering flames still warms my memory.
Out would come Dad's Coleman Stove, that trusty companion on many a trip into the woods – and now our savior in the chilled house. At night, Mom would tuck us in extra tight under the heavy, coloured quilts, leaving only our noses to welcome a pinch of cold.
Our morning eyes opened to a bedroom icy still. We dared not move our warm toes too far afield. Our gaze rested on the frost-gilded bedroom window. Tracing my warm finger over the icy fans and feathers, I etched translucent trails upon the wintered pane.
After the storm had passed, with abandonment and excitement, we burst from our frosty hovels to find a city hushed beyond belief.
The normal confines of the city had been obliterated by snow and wind. Where once roads provided passage, snow dunes now signaled new routes for all of us energetic young children. Tops of telephone poles had grown closer. Cars had disappeared.
What wonders those northeasterlies had created, piling up snow in shape and form never imagined. The wind-hardened curves and crests created a dream world to our young eyes. New lands to explore, snowcaves and tunnels to create, mountains to ascend and claim.
And the silence. Oh, what blessed silence had befallen the city of enterprise. Hushed, no planes in the sky, cars frozen silent, bent humans here and there, shovel in hand, carving a way through the mounds of snow.
I currently live in balmy Vancouver. I am fine with the rain and mist because I have neighbouring mountains covered in snow. The best of both worlds, one could say. At least you don't have to shovel the rain, many a Vancouverite will profess. At the same time, I sometimes hanker for a hell of a good snow – the kind that shuts down a city, huddles people together, and unleashes a child's imagination.