Sunday shorts: Mudding across the park
My part of the world has experienced strange weather the last few weeks. Of course, the climate is wrecked. My generation knows that—you know, the same generation that is going through its fourth recession. We may not know any hymns by heart or delineate the significant differences between all the subsets of Christianity. But we are faithful followers of the proper way of recycling, worshipping at the alters of black, blue, and green bins. Most of us were born around the time scientists found out about the hole in the Ozone (Good news: it’s returning to its pre-1980s self, sometime in the 2060s onward. Bad news: No one knows what the 2060s will look like with the rest of the planet crashing).
Wearing a spring coat in February with unlined joggers was a nice break from the routine of layering the woollen underclothing with puffy insulated jackets and spectacularly unflattering swooshy pants. But I live in an area that’s encircled by working farms. In fact, if you’re driving to my house from the core, you will be greeted by a herd of cows at the dairy farm down the road. The neighbourhoods in Canada’s capital have within them thriving smallholdings, which is rather delightful.
The ground is drying, slightly muddy, with seedlings poking their heads out on the first week of March. That makes me very worried for the livelihood of my neighbours and friends who sell their produce at the farmer’s markets on the weekends. I worry about the inevitable increase in food prices, again, and how proper nutrition is now truly reserved for the upper middle and higher. I worry about the unharmonized food safety guidelines across this continent alone and how our increased reliance on our neighbours with lax standards means paying for and getting used to worsening options.
Winterlude, one of the city’s most important events, traditionally pulling in hundreds of thousands of visitors, was unrecognizable this year. The international ice-sculpting competition was scrapped, and the exhibited ice works expectedly melted before sizeable crowds could visit. Sponsors and businesses pulled out, already foreseeing the abysmal turnout. There were fewer opportunities to enjoy some winter sports nearby. We only received two proper snowfalls that would merit retrieving snow equipment from the basement.
I jokingly say my Mediterranean disposition approves of single-digit winter weather, but in earnest, this is terrifying. We had three seasons in one day last week, going from a daytime high of 16°C to a low of -20°C at night (with the windchill factor). The city has been unrecognizable since December, going without the hibernatory tempo, or the joy of crunching down the snow on daily walks and bonding with strangers by saying “it’s cold out there, eh?”.
We all know the prognosis and the work that was required to prevent it at one point. We have a glimpse of what the future may look like. Some of us adopted new vocabulary to correspond with unusual weather patterns, and words like derecho and gustnado entered the chat. Clever people, some of them children, are working on innovative solutions to help us adapt. But there are not-so-clever people out there who are short-term and individual-wealth-focused, and sometimes they run for office and either take no action or worsen matters for everyone (except the lobbyists).
On your next walk around your neighbourhood, take a few mental pictures of what you’re seeing, how it makes you feel, and what you appreciate about your interaction with the scene. Within a year, the place will still be there, but the connection you have with it may be drastically altered.
In the time I spent thinking and overthinking all this l, I forgot to watch Henry, who had wandered off to a puddly, mushy patch and sat in it. Evening plans now include de-mudding the belly of an equally confused animal and checking for ticks who either arrived early or haven’t left in the first place.
Oh, goody.
The weather is nuts, but I love seeing daffodils.