Losing That Canadian Edge

By Maryanna Gabriel

When I was travelling I used to marvel at how people shivered and shook for what was for me an absolutely balmy experience. “I’m a Canadian,” I explained as I jumped into a pool that others just stuck their toes in and withdrew shaking their heads. Australians warned me about Tasmania. “It is so cold there,” they said. “I’m from Canada,” was my unconcerned reply finding Tasmania a relief from the steamy sun. Here I am at home, it being not even winter yet, the temperatures are hovering well above zero. I can barely manage. Yes, I know the eastern seaboard is suffering great travail, and  yes, I know most of Canada is blanketed in snow where we have none here in the coastal west, yet still here I am, my robe clutched madly around me, with heaters going in every room and fire roaring.  Yet still my bones whisper their icy message. I am trying to not to whinge and whimper but I can’t help noticing that I have lost my edge and I am wondering at my nonchalance mere weeks ago. “Oh winter. No problem. I have just had a year of summer. I can do it.” I think I am running a fever. Every room has a box of kleenex that I shuffle desperately towards. I am remembering meeting a woman from Kauai who looked at me compassionately. “Your winters, it must be so very hard.” It startled me. She felt genuinely sorry for me. I remember her now as I realize I have become one of them. Those others. A snow bird marooned north of the 49^th.This nipping, biting, stinging of temperature creeping into one’s bones feels so very wrong. How could this happen to me?