weather

That Day

by  • March 16, 2008

Torontonians are like hibernating groundhogs. All winter, we stay holed up in our burrows, occasionally sticking our noses out for a sniff. Then, on the first nice day, that one day where it’s possible to believe that yes, spring will indeed come, we emerge en masse to frolic.

Queen Street West was packed solid yesterday – like the business district at 5pm when the office workers emerge and flow to Union Station to get their trains back to the ‘burbs. We walked home from Queen and Bathurst, and on the sunny north side of the street, the sidewalk was at a crawl, so packed with people still bound by dirty snowbanks that passing the slowpokes was all but impossible.

Hipsters, dog walking, stroller pushing, cellphone talking,  adult coffee-sippy-cup drinking, trendy rubber boots and cute scarf-wearing… they were all represented. The frantic energy of a glorious day and the sight of the sun was palpable. I almost expected everyone to stop, face south and throw open their coats to warm their bellies like meercats.

As we trekked through the puddles, the dry rotting snowbanks turning into piles of dirt and cigarette butts, it felt good to share the collective brain; to get out and soak up some sun after a long arduous winter, to celebrate “that day” with a promenade along the sidewalk.

The Sweet Spot

by  • February 28, 2008

Unlike most of Toronto, I’ve not been overly bothered by our cold, snowy winter. Also unlike most of Toronto, I’m out in the cold four or five times a day at least, which is what happens when you replace children in your life with two large drooling, fur-covered beasts. The huge gritty snowbanks can sometimes be an obstacle, and I will curse and wave my fist in the air with a zeal unknown to all but the emotionally disturbed upon encountering an uncleared sidewalk (shovel your snow, cocksuckers!), but the fresh cold air is bracing, the exercise imperative (for me and the dogs), and getting out of the house is a nice break in what can sometimes be a monotonous day.

Which is not to say that the experience is pleasant.

I try not to complain too much because I think of the other extreme. When the cold wind whips my cheeks to a scarlet red, and that little area above my eyebrows and just below the edge of my hat starts to go numb, I think of August. I look around me on the streets and remember the parched brown lawns, and the feel of sweat trickling down between my shoulder blades as I gasp for breath in the polluted Toronto air. I replace the shriek of wind in the trees with the eerie drill of cicadas. The energy to push on against the cold takes me back to the days when it felt too hot to put one foot in front of the other.

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Fir Bombs

by  • January 8, 2008

It’s a freakish 12′C in Toronto today. Warmer than San Francisco and Las Vegas, the weatherman says. It’s also about 90% humidity.

All over the neighbourhood, people are throwing out their Christmas trees. They’re tossed onto lawns and sidewalks and driveways awaiting pickup later this week where they’ll be ground into mulch.

The warm humid air is filling the streets with little pockets of Christmas tree smell – pungent pine, sweet spruce, the subtle yet almost minty aroma of fir. Every couple of houses, I’ll get another blast of fragrance, usually smelling the discarded trees before I even see them if they blend into the front yard landscaping. It’s an odd experience; usually at this time of year, everything is frozen.

I can’t decide whether it’s energizing or ever so melancholy.