CHRISTMAS IN GRAVENHURST -

A GENTLE WINTER - IS GOOD FOR SOME, NOT SO MUCH FOR OTHERS - BUT IT IS STILL A WONDERLAND HERE IN MUSKOKA

I WAS UP AT SUNRISE THIS MORNING, AND OUTDOORS SHORTLY AFTER. I'VE GOT A BUSY DAY AHEAD. I HELP WITH MONTHLY AUCTIONS FOR THE SALVATION ARMY THRIFT SHOP, IN GRAVENHURST, AND WE'RE GETTING READY FOR THE JANUARY OFFERING OF ANTIQUES AND COLLECTIBLES. I REALLY ENJOY HELPING THEM OUT, AND OF COURSE THE FOOD BANK, OF WHICH WE CURRIES, ARE PARTICULARLY EAGER TO HELP OUT.

STEPPING OUTSIDE AT DAYBREAK WAS VERY MUCH, A TYPICAL WINTER DAY IN NOTTINGHAM, OR LONDON, BUT NOT QUITE SO USUAL IN MUSKOKA, WHERE WE EXPECT A TRADITIONAL CANADIAN WINTER…..A TRADITIONAL CHRISTMAS WITH ALL THE TRIMMINGS, AND THAT INCLUDES THE SNOWSCAPE, WHEN WE TAKE OUR STEPS DOWN THE LANEWAY…..SLIPPING AND SLIDING ALL THE WAY. SUCH THAT THE LAST THING UTTERED, ON A SUMMERSAULT THROUGH THE AIR….."MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL…..AND THIS IS GOING TO HURT."

What should be, is yet to be but there is an allure despite, that compels me to visit those familiar places outdoors, regardless of the norms of the season. It is a solitude I heartily enjoy, and it is quite remarkable to stand out there, on one of the grass mounds, down in The Bog, today, when typically I would be knee-deep at least, in December snow. It won't be at any compromise of festive goodwill, I can tell you, to be able to walk through this Bog on Christmas day, and enjoy all the trappings of fall and spring on the shoulders of what should be…..winter.

There is no snow to imprint along the path. Just the wet brown leaves of autumn past, in a long trodden-down footpath, winding across the upper landscape, overlooking the matted hollow. The wind wheezes through the needles of the top branches, and the barren, leafless overhead boughs make the sky look imposing and threatening, grey and on the verge of a major rainfall later this morning. It appears November has refused to surrender its hold on the year.

It is cool but not cold. The atmosphere, as I have noted before, seems abundantly more suited to an English moor, than the Canadian hinterland. As you travel on, down the path, you may not even be surprised, to find a ghostly old manor house, from some Emily Bronte novel, rising in storied stature, through the wafting grey mist; which is now subtly shifting everso slowly from the lake, over the hillside, masking the raw details of the leaning Birches, of which poet Robert Frost was fascinated. It appears a surreal place, at times, this urban wetland, where only moments off the beaten path, the voyeur can feel lonely and isolated, and far from the urban environs. Until you hear the distant bellow of a train horn, at some crossing miles from here.

It is now just several days to Christmas Eve. Children will worry there is not enough snow to support reindeer and sleigh. We should be bundled up against a biting wind, and driving snow, and feel the allure of a warm hearth at home. We are supposed to be half-frozen, and pleased by the sensation. We are, almost by obligation, Muskokans if we are up to our knees or beyond, in the snowcape drifting over our homes. We should arrive home with frozen hair and whiskers full of ice…..at least for me, and our toques topped with several inches of snow. But this morning, there are Muskokans looking out their picture windows, onto snowless grounds. Lilacs and raspberry canes looking as if they might break out in bud, at the first insistence of the sun. What will happen on Christmas morning, when the toboggans and assorted other sledding devices can't be used? When will the scarf you get from an aunt, be necessary out here….or the knitted toque and even mitts suited for subzero mornings. There are others staring out at their shiny new snow shovels, leaning up agains the garage. Brand new snowblowers getting rained-on. Snowmobiles ready to roll, but not today. Or tomorrow. New skis. My goodness, look at all the new skis, boots and poles. And then look at all this sand and grass, and open road. They pine, yes they do, for an old fashioned winter, that by Christmas, had already been raging since late November. Trail passes for snowmobilers were being well used and enjoyed over miles and miles of neatly groomed trails. Dreaming of a white Christmas indeed.

The morning air is invigorating, whether there is trace snow dancing about, or not. There is likely to be drizzle shortly, as it was the day before, and the one before that. There is a slight chill to the wind coming off the lake but it's not of the variety that will drift anything white to fall from the sky. It might even be appropriate to pick up a rake, or fix some loose paving stones in the garden, or patch a weak spot in the shingles. Maybe Suzanne would appreciate me clearing out some of the dead plant stocks from the front garden, or re-setting up the border stones around the raspberries. Better still, I'll just continue to enjoy this aimless wander about the snowless neighborhood, on the brink of what many believe, an unnatural circumstance……a green Christmas. I shall muddle about here in thought, about other winters we have been house-bound and cold, facing roof shoveling challenges and driveway clearing expenses, and generally feel resolved, to enjoy this hardship with nary a tear welling in the eye. The smirk probably gives it away, that I'm at peace with it all, snow or not.

As you can judge by this tome in preparation, I have arrived home safely once again, contented, inspired and resolved to celebrate the Christmas season with every mortal capacity to do so! So happy, you see, to live in such a wonderful place as this, that is remarkable with whatever nature decides is appropriate attire. By lake and forest, tall pine and leaning birch, well trodden trail, and old cattails, it is Christmas in Muskoka……and in the embrace of solitude I shall fritter away time, in pleasant company of those memories of winters past…..and all the snow that was then……and not now.

Merry Christmas from Birch Hollow.

"Here hoary rocks that countless ages past, have braved the force of winter's wildest blast, and scorching heat of summer's fiercest ray, those rugged, beetling crags of granite gray, with awful majesty, sublimely grand, in all their native, ancient, moss clad glory stand." Thomas McMurray, 1871, Muskoka and Parry Sound. "A happy home where peace and plenty dwell, and ruddy cheeks of health and comfort toil."