The Scarborough Mirror

Well, sign me up.

Record or not, this passing winter has been just fine with me. Snow or no snow, stuck or sliding in the car rates high with my values. There is little to compare with the sheer bliss of entering a warm, cheery home, especially if it is sub-zero degrees outside and your extremities are freezing.

Take the weather of the past few weeks. Peculiar is a nice word for describing the extremes experienced. From above zero temperatures down to minus numbers at night. Then, wham, we were lambasted with two storms, one on top of the other and the snow they delivered.

It is not that the amount of accumulation made too much difference. We had lots already. Most of our rural roads were down to just passable lanes anyway. Prior to amalgamation, Scarborough's road crews did a much better job of clearing whatever the snowfall. Now we are one big city. Progress has a price, I guess.

In most city areas the snow made us slow down, take a moment to either shovel or speak. Neighbours actually chatted, amiable and with genuine friendship. Strangers greeted strangers, had nice thoughts to exchange.

This camaraderie does not normally exist in warm weather.

You know this is true. Folks are too busy dashing to events, the cottage, gatherings and festivities only possible when the sun shines and light clothing is appropriate. Neighbourliness is ignored.

The snows of recent days brought back memories of the Guildwood area during my youth.

In those days it was not uncommon for folks to own an acre or two of land around their home. Vacant fields, resplendent in crop in warm months, lay dormant and mantled in crisp snow.

In that my parents worked, it was common for me to roam far and wide unfettered. Nothing restricted my imagination. Long, arduous treks across vacant fields and along the hedgerows of long forgotten farms were the norm. I revelled in the freedom and the challenge, like a tomcat on the prowl.

In those days the Guild was a vast woods with a few intermittent houses along Galloway Road. Between that and Poplar Road was vast undeveloped and wild land. No roads, only rough, unkempt laneways were the norm. It was a perfect place for a kid with a desire to tackle boredom and spend time exploring.

It was during a snowstorm similar to what we experienced earlier this month that I decided to run a trap line. The idea came from a book I was reading, a tale of a kid who fed his family doing such things. No one was home, so off I went.

Garbed in parka and scarf, earmuffs, mitts and rubber boots, I stepped out into the blowing, whirling and dense storm. Snow beat against my face, filled the edges of my clothing. It was thigh high and growing deeper. I trudged on, began the long trek into the dark and deadly still woods. No one knew where I was, or cared it seemed.

Here and there was the unmistakable track of a rabbit run. A snare was set on the most heavily used. Then the long, exhausting march home took hours and my worried parents greeted me at the door. I fell in, accompanied by a whirl of blowing snow.

The next day the storm was over. I made my way to the snare and an ensnared long dead rabbit. Anguish and pride filled me. Shame robbed me of pleasure.

I wandered many a time after that in all seasons. But never again did I lay a trap, intentionally cause death.

Even in the worst of weather it is possible to learn a life lesson.