Winter in Montreal

And the view from my flat is holiday themed. This is the racquet club next door, a beautiful old Tudor style building.

This was taken very quickly out of my sunroom window one evening, on my iPad. No enhancements or post processing or filters. This is exactly what it looked like.

Note the bike leaning on the fence. Someone actually rode a bike to the club.

Winter is so not the boss of us, here in Montreal.

Winter Photo Competition Results

The results are in for the Winter Competition at our local camera club. As always when I enter these competitions, my goal is not to win, but simply not to embarrass myself.

I didn't win, but I was closer to the top of the list than the bottom.

If you want to look at all the photos in the competition, go HERE. There are some gorgeous shots, and they almost make one wish for a longer winter season.

Almost.

Easter at the cottage, 2008

How Canadians Spend the Winter

Someone who lives in a temperate region of the great U.S. of A. once asked me how we Canadians spend our time during the long, cold winters. I thought this might help to explain. (I have those chairs, btw. Canadian Tire. Foldable. Just throw 'em in your trunk and haul 'em down to the park for watching fireworks on July 1st. Just sayin', eh.)

Winter Photo Competition

Okay, so my local camera club is having another competition. I never win nor do I even place, so entering is not about that. It's just fun to take part and learn from the critiques, and even examine the photos on a big screen as opposed to a laptop. My only goal is not to humiliate myself and I haven't, with the exception of a really bad slide show that made me look like a total doofus. (The slide show was not exactly my fault although I was warned that the program I used would degrade the slide quality significantly which one couldn't fully appreciate until it was on a giant 20 foot screen. Oh, quelle horreur. I wanted to slide under my chair but I knew I wouldn't fit, rendering further humiliation....) Mostly I just slip by in the middle of the pack, and never has 'average' been so desirable.

Oh, hang on a tick. I just remembered the first time I submitted something in the nature competition which is technically supposed to include all plants and all animals, and all correctly identified, sometimes using the Latin name and showing the animal in its natural environment. I later learned it's heavy on the animals, mostly birds. Rare birds. Snapped by photographers who travel great distances, get up before dawn and wait for hours, nay days in specially constructed blinds, in order to get one perfect shot. I did not know this. I submitted 3 photos.

I was horrified when the slide show began and the first photo was of two warring hippos, water arching above their open mouths, then the second slide was of a graceful leopard on the savannah, the sun artfully lighting its lithe body, then another was of a rare bird (correctly identified in Latin) gently alighting on a branch, each feather exquisitely outlined. Then came my contributions.

I had one photo I called "weed with water drops" and the second was "pine buds" then my piece de resistance, "red squirrel." These were followed by someone's photo of a cheetah mother and three babies that looked like it came out of National Geographic and on and on in that vein. Still, I remain committed.

Mostly I submit photos because my friend Brenda guilts me into it encourages my participation and, I suppose, is a born optimist.

I usually run my short list past her because I value her opinion as a photographer and it's hard to judge one's own photographs and really see what works, but I don't want to keep pestering her. Plus she reads my blog so if she wants to jump in and comment, she will, and if not, she can find someone else to sit with at the meetings.

This is what the website says about the judging:

The first score is awarded for the application of image making skills such as: appropriate exposure, focus, sharpness, depth-of-field, and composition. The second score addresses the actual content or value of the image; some may prefer to think of this simply as impact. For theme competitions the score measures how well the judges think that the image interprets the theme.

So with that in mind, I'm going to post my short list for the next competition.

The theme is WINTER. I need to choose 3 photos. Tell me in the comments section which 3 are your favourites and I'll be eternally grateful. Well, maybe not eternally, but definitely for a few days, maybe even a week.

One:
Two:
Three:
Four:
Five:
Six:
Seven:
Eight:
I know there are two with the red doors, but they're cropped differently.

So, which three would you choose?

A Winter Wonderland

It's amazing how a new day can give one a new perspective. The ice remains, my car wouldn't start this morning, but it's okay. The sun is shining through the ice on the tree branches and it's magical. I'm reminded of the Great Ice Storm which happened here in Quebec ten years ago. Forgive me, those of you who have heard this story before.

January 5th, 1998 began with a steady, gentle drizzle which glazed everything it touched. We hunkered down in a post-holiday torpor, and curled up by the fire in our little stone house. Soon the wind came, the power went out, and we were plunged into darkness overnight. Pine trees drooped like collapsed umbrellas. Tree branches cracked like gunshots as they snapped, unable to sustain the weight of the ice. A maple crashed on our roof, ripping out cable, phone, and hydro lines.

We woke to suffocating silence; no hum of appliances, furnace or television. No cars, or birds. Our world was smothered in thick ice which muffled all sound. The streets in our suburb resembled a tintype photograph, its colours reduced to shades of grey. There was no sign of life, anywhere. And still it rained.



Hours stretched into days. My young children turned to board games and cards. In the evenings, my husband and I recounted stories by candlelight – how we met, our wedding, baby tales.

Fear was replaced by acceptance and surrender. Our phone line was down, the car was blocked by fallen hydro lines, so we had no choice but to hunker down and wait. We chopped wood for heat, hauled out our old camp stove, and raided the freezer.

By day nine, our road was open but we were still without power. I hammered several inches of ice off my car so I could treat the kids to a hot Mc’breakfast. Unable to bathe for over a week, we straggled in smelling of wood-smoke and worse. I began my order when the lanky teen behind the counter said we were too late. By one minute! I explained our situation, he consulted the manager, but he said, “Sorry. Company Policy.”

I stood, openmouthed. To be turned away - when I was so close I could smell the bacon - flipped me over the edge of sanity. Yes, I’m not proud - I had a total meltdown right there at the counter. Not a few gentle tears rolling down soot-stained cheeks, kind of crying. No, this was out of control, hands to the sides, head thrown back, howling like a lost child, bawling.

The server panicked. Clearly, this situation was not in his training manual. My two daughters maneuvered me outside, while my son urged me to get a grip, but I stood on the sidewalk and wept freely as people elbowed past our ragtag group.

A minute later, I wiped my nose, smoothed my greasy hair, and piled the kids in the car. Even though they reasoned we were too “gross and disgusting” for a local restaurant, I was adamant. An angel, disguised as a waitress, gently guided us to a table. Without a word, she appeared with a newspaper and coffee, then asked, “What else can I bring you?” It was as soothing and soul-satisfying as a mother’s hug. We each ate two breakfasts, and returned home to wait for a miracle in the form of a hydro crew.

But our ordeal continued. We managed a communal shower at the recreation centre, and then the weather turned bitterly cold. We wore coats and hats inside, even to bed. Several times each night, I rose and stoked the fire to keep the pipes from freezing.

Day Thirteen passed.

That evening, I answered the door and there stood my friend Lesley. She handed me a thermal bag, a bottle of wine and fresh flowers, then turned with a cheery “Bon Appetit.” I was hit by a waft of hot turkey. Along with an entire roast, there was carrot soup, stuffing, cranberry sauce, vegetables, and warm apple pie – ready to eat, all prepared by my friend who has a full-time job, and a family of her own to look after. It was a boost to the morale and a salve to our flagging spirits. I arranged the flowers, and we sat down by candlelight with our feast.

Now, everyone has had a least one standout meal in his or her life. I’ve had my share, from simple lobster rolls on an east coast beach to filet mignon in Paris. But this hot turkey dinner on a raw January night shared with the people I love most in the world will always be special. It was prepared with love, and sustained us when we really needed it.

As we polished off the pie, just like movie magic, our home roared back to life as the power was suddenly restored. Though the lights blinded us, we cheered and hugged each other in relief. We had survived one of the worst storms in Canadian history. It gave me the confidence that I could face anything life could throw at me.

Except, maybe, missing the breakfast cutoff at Mc’You-Know-Where.

Fire and Ice

The ice is outside. The fire is inside, or at least it soon will be, as I plan to hunker down by the fireplace with a single malt whisky and wait out yet another storm.

Permit me a small indulgence and let me whinge about the weather for a bit. I'm Canadian. It's what we do, and honestly, it's one of our coping mechanisms to get through winter. I could talk about childbirth, politics, music, dogs, parenting, cats, writing, reading, quilting, wool spinning, stained glass, travel, dentistry, advertising, ancient Rome, intercourse..... (ahem) I mean social discourse i.e. communication or dealings between individuals and groups. Whatever did you think I meant? (And no doubt, putting that word in my blog will contribute to a surfeit of emails not unlike the ones that arrived when I talked about the mushroom shaped like a certain manly bit. But I digress.)

Yesterday afternoon I decided I'd head into our little village to do some errands. We'd had some rain the day before, but it didn't seem that cold so I wasn't expecting the layer of thick ice under a foot of snow which completely enveloped my car. Not only that, but the car had been parked under the shade of a large spruce tree, the branches of which were also coated with ice and snow.

The branches were so heavy, they bent under all that weight and welded themselves to the top of the car.

Which I can't reach.

It's a tall vehicle and I am an undertall woman. (You see how that works? I'm not overweight, I'm undertall!)



Even though I had less than a quarter of a tank of gas and I never normally let my car idle, I threw environmental responsibility to the wind Just This Once (because there was no way to get INTO my car without softening the ice before I started scraping) and let it run with the heaters on high, as I had left it. Then I realized I'd left my scraper in the car.

No worries. I had a spare! Alas, as it turned out, the spare was also in the car.

I managed to find an old one in the garage (another post entirely) and began to scrap away at the car. Forget scraping, soon I was hammering away with brute force just trying to make a dent anywhere and whacking off the branches of the tree where I could reach. I was afraid I'd break one of the windows but the ice held everything together nicely. After a half hour, I managed to clear the windscreen and the first two windows. Oh, did I mention I was wearing a jaunty little beret and silk scarf? I looked terribly chic as those ice chips flew up and assaulted my (now red and sweaty) face. All this to do a little banking and pick up some things at the drugstore.

I finally made enough headway to be able to drive, and as I took off down the road, I heard the last branch I couldn't reach snap off the tree. At least this time of year people are used to seeing cars with Christmas trees on their cars. Of course, when I got to the gas station, I couldn't get the little door thingie to open, so I had to pound it with my boot, then use a loonie to pry it open. Smarter than the lady in the pet food store, who used her car key and bent it enough so that it no longer fit in her ignition.

That was yesterday. This is today:

Ain't nobody happy.
And that old black van on the left? That has to be scraped and cleared of snow, and the paint supplies cleaned out of it, because it's being towed away for scrap on Monday morning at 7 a.m. Seriously. Could my timing be any worse?

Off to find the whisky....