Colder chests

As I continue to build my Spotify account, I stumble across moments. A few days ago, I mentioned here a song I'd almost forgotten about that reminds me of my young motherhood days. Yesterday, I suddenly remembered a song from my earlier days in Ottawa.

I used to volunteer at the library at the elementary school where my daughters attended. When elder daughter was there, the librarian was a twenty-something who actually introduced me to Launchcast.

This song, recommended to my Launchcast account about fifteen years ago, reaches into me like a hook, and I can clearly see the study in our house on Springfield Road, feeling the aloneness and the grey cold outside.

Older chests reveal themselves
Like a crack in a wall
Starting small, and grow in time
And we always seem to need the help
Of someone else
To mend that shelf
Too many books
Read me your favourite line
Papa went to other lands
And he found someone who understands
The ticking, and the western man's need to cry
He came back the other day, you know
Some things in life may change
And some things
They stay the same
Like time, there's always time
On my mind
So pass me by, I'll be fine
Just give me time
Older gents sit on the fence
With their cap in hand
Looking grand
They watch their city change
Children scream, or so it seems,
Louder than before
Out of doors, and into stores with bigger names
Mama tried to wash their faces
But these kids they lost their graces
And daddy lost at the races too many times
She broke down the other day, yeah you know
Some things in life may change
But some things they stay the same

Doily double

Sometimes, when it's really cold and the snow hasn't come yet, the streets look grey and white with strain.  I hadn't noticed this particular effect before -- the web of cracks spreading out from a man-hole cover like a doily dropped in the middle of the suffering road.

I stopped and fumbled my mittens off my hands to take the picture. It was -16 Celsius with a -24 windchill, chilly enough to give me that toothpick sensation in my nostrils, but not nearly as bitter as Ottawa can get.

If I'm not careful, my hands will look something like this road by February, and chunks of skin will peel away.

You think I'm exaggerating, don't you?

Another one bites the snow-drift

Today is quite possibly the coldest day of the year in Hades. This morning Environment Canada informed us that it was -28 Celsius with a -40 wind chill. That was when younger daughter headed off to school. She had a lift, thank heaven.

This was also the day that the developer who wants to build a three-unit condo next door decided to demolish the house that has stood on the corner for I-don't-know how many years -- probably about 80 or 90, as that's how old our semi-detached is. They put up the signs and fences first thing and ripped out the shrubbery and trees before using the earth-mover to scrape about four feet of snow off the roof. We live in the far side of the semi-detached, so I only knew the big-time demolition had begun by the muffled booms and crunches. The other clue was when a man who lives in an apartment block across the street brought out his well-bundled preschooler of indeterminate sex to sit on the stoop and watch. It was warmer then, about -25 and a wind chill of -37. Hey, Ottawa kids are tough.

By the time I took the Accent Snob out for his midday yank around the block -- he hates the cold and men with trucks and implements of destruction even more so -- the house next door was about a third gone. It looked like it had been gobbled by Hansel and Gretel, provided of course they had scary appetites and a taste for nails and drywall.

When I returned home from escorting younger daughter from her school to her music lesson, only a pile of rubble remained. All I remembered of the people that lived there were their pleasant smiles when passing me on the sidewalk, and the sound of piano music on warmer afternoons. Warmer than this one, for sure -- I had an ice cream headache with no ice cream.

Construction in Hades, as far as we've been able to figure, lasts about two years. This should be fun.

Where is on down the line, how far away?

In the evening, it's -20 degrees Celsius with a wind chill of -32. Columns of steam are rising from the grates in the gutters, and by the time I reach the library, one kilometre from my house, my thumbs are getting numb in my mittens. I make my way carefully back down the hill, stopping by the Village Green Park to see the moon cupping away from Jupiter. (The proper conjunction was last night, but it was overcast then.) Then I hurry home, try to avoid the ice patches under the film of snow. I still feel my foot glide forward from time to time, but keep my balance.

This is the song playing on my iPod, a collaboration between The Roches (sisters Maggie, Terre, and Suzzy - very American spellings, right?) and guitarist Robert Fripp who produced the record.

It's a song which makes daughters laugh, and mothers smile sadly.

Deep Freeze

Image: Ottawa Citizen's web site today
When I was seven or eight, I lived less than a block from my elementary school in Edmonton, Alberta. The rule at that time was if you lived more than six blocks from school, you could stay for lunch which lasted an hour and a half. (The school day ended at 4 pm.) One winter's afternoon, I set off for school with double mittens on, for the walk that took me five minutes tops. By the time I reached the locker hall, I couldn't feel my hands. Then I could. They felt heavy, like red-hot iron. I burst into tears. The next thing I could remember was being in the principal's office. He was normally a terrifying man and one was never there unless there was trouble. He knelt in front of me, and in a gentle voice I'd never heard from him before, said: "Pretend my hands are a warm oven..." and I wept and wept as the feelings returned to my frost-bitten fingers. There'd been a wind-chill that day that had driven the temperature to well below -40. When it's that low, it doesn't much matter whether it's Celsius or Fahrenheit.

This morning, we had been warned, but I check the Environment Canada website to be sure. Clear skies, temperature -25 Celsius, windchill factor of -39. And this isn't particularly unusual for this time of year in Hades. As younger daughter and I set out, it takes a matter of seconds for me to feel the toothpicky sensation in my nostrils. That's the snot freezing. You bury your nose into your hood, scarf, or balaclava and your nose runs; out to breathe, the mucus freezes again. Two white dots appear in my lower field of vision where the tears accumulating from my watery eyes have also frozen into minute snowballs. Those of us intrepid enough to venture out on foot look ready to rob banks, but as we cut across the school field, I see few tracks in the fresh snow. On days such as these, children are admitted into school before the bell, and most students have been driven. Younger daughter, clad in Mountain Equipment Co-op gear, Kamik boots, and with a white patch where her well-balmed mouth meets the balaclava, heads in cheerfully. As I walk home, the breeze picks up and my thighs, despite two pairs of pants and a regrettably ample coating of fat, begin to sting.

Oh, and the bus strike has just entered its 36th day....