Falling upon the sexiness of frigid Canada

A sudden blizzard had turned our bare roads and blessed browny-green grass into 4 inches of fluff and it was still coming down hard.  In a rush to get to the post office, I drove with a small mountain of snow on the hood of my Standard Mom Vehicle to the full-serve Co-op gas station where the nice ladies, somewhat bewildered at my snow-besotted state, voluntarily swept me clean.  I sat upon my heated seat, giving them a thumbs up and a smile. 

I was happy, despite this attack upon my September soul because a package was wedged in the passenger seat beside me, a package assembled with love and destined for Spain, and I thought about how my expat Spanish friend has probably never had the pleasure of driving in a Canadian blizzard.  Sure, she's visited castles and ancient Roman ruins.  So the Spanish beaches are only an hour's drive away and on a whim she can decide to spend part of her day snapping photos of terribly old Gothic cathedrals.  But has she had to stop her van every ten minutes to manually brush the snow from her side windows so she can back up safely?   Has she experienced the rush of adrenaline that comes from not knowing whether the van will stop in time to not hit that oncoming car that has the right of way, as the van struggles to brake on the packed snow, despite its slow pace well in advance of the stop sign ahead?

I was happy because I imagined the package to her family beside me was really her, and I talked to her in my mind, touring her around my town.  It was exciting, this first big snowfall of the season.  We sat at the bar in Taco Time, looking out the window at the frozen diagonal downpour and waited for little Lulu to finish her "Mexifries".   Looking out on the white expanse only vaguely resembling a parking lot because of some white shapes vaguely resembling some vehicles parked randomly, I mused with pride at how cities in the US would declare a snow day over what is just business as usual for us soldiers.  We trudged through the snow back to the van, some of it getting into our boots, snowflakes pelleting our hair, making a thin crunchy helmet after sticking.  I brushed the windows again.  I scraped some snow that had melted on the previously warm windows that cooled to ice beads while Lulu took her time desecrating potato corks with plum sauce.  I gloated for my guest's nervousness as I twisted about slightly on the roads.   Noticing the flickering TCS light on the dashboard she asked what it meant. "Traction Control System", I answered with cool importance.  Glamorous stuff. 

I kid but as crazy as it sounds, I felt blissful and beautiful in my long, celery green ankle-length down parka and cute Sorel boots, because I felt so... Canadian.  I typically don't give Canada much thought.  This friend once said to me, "You're really proud of being Canadian, aren't you?" I thought for a moment before replying, "I guess.  I think it's not so much that I'm proud to be Canadian as I'm proud to not be American."  Being British cast-offs, firmly stuck in the pimply stage of youth, and saturated with American media, we Canadians tend to define ourselves by what we're not, because it's simpler. 

But today, being Canadian felt proactive to me; it felt special.  I saw Canada through the eyes of my friend who loves me, who would visit and drive around in my Honda Odyssey and love Canada because Canada is me.  This snow is mine.  These near-air-bag driving experiences are mine.  The butt that smacked against the pavement outside the post office, knees twisting, neck snapping, was mine.  Despite the hassle, the cold, the crusty hair, the danger, the pain, I saw the humour in it all.  It was an experience and it was mine to have and mine to offer, with love.

Having returned home, I brushed the snow off my jeans quickly, knowing that if it's removed soon enough the jeans will stay dry.  Lulu tracked snow into the living room.  I may have been audibly annoyed on another day but today I just grabbed my broom and swept it onto the slate-tiled entryway floor.  Snow is sweepable.  I know this because I've been Canadian for 29 years--  I know what to do with snow of all varieties.  I am a connoisseur of snow.  I smiled as I put away only our boots and coats.  No toque or mitts because this wasn't cold weather.  "Cold" is -35˚C, obviously. 

I imagined friends in California and Texas romanticising this Northern experience.  Maybe they yearn for a reason to wear the white angora snowflake knee socks that I was wearing today.  Maybe they want to vacation somewhere more au natural where wild, wavy, damp hair and frosty pink cheeks is considered unbearably sexy, where the heat of a good hard cuddle could mean the difference between life and death from the nipping air.  Maybe they want to bustle in past my snow-dusted wreath-adorned front door and curl up with a sigh on the dog bed in front of my fireplace, stopping to grab the latest David Sedaris from my floor-to-ceiling book cases.  Maybe they crave flannel, and cableknit, and cream soups, and indoor toasted marshmallows, and the unifying struggle between Nature and Man.  Because I could make someone ache for the Canadian experience if given just a couple more paragraphs.  I could see someone wanting to be here.  I could write it so.

I am typically ambivalent toward Canada's weather and land and customs, if not critical.  But today I welcomed her choreography instead of cursing it.  Perhaps it's because I love me more now than I ever have before.  I feel closer to God, closer to my husband, closer to my children, and I have truer friends than I've had in the past.  I see myself through kinder eyes and today I extended that kindness to my land.  Canada is me and I am Canada, I concede.  If you love me, you love my home. 

I think that is why, despite my criticisms, I do love the USA;  I do love so many of them American-type people. 

Every place has its delights to be discovered.  Every place has a soul, quirks of weather, and yummy ways of bending potatoes to their culinary submission.

Why should I complain?  Canada has its own romantic culture.  It has poutine.  It has me.

I can't help but think anyone would like it here.

This is an original Canada Moms Blog post.  Natasha Loewen also writes at BecomingSomething and on Twitter.