I woke up this morning because my bed was shaking. It took my ears a few minutes to deliver the message: Noise! Loud, loud noise, as it turns out. I thought to myself, why do my neighbours always mow their lawns so early in the morning? It's a travesty. Ungodly. Unneighbourly. And the old people are so anal about their lawns, it's never just a mow, there's the trimming and the clipping and the whipper-snippering, and the raking, and the watering. Ugh. What a long summer!
Clearly they can't be mowing, this is December. Without even opening my eyes, I surmise that the snow has come. Welcome to Canada.
And snow it did. Lots of snow, the lethal kind. The kind that makes you say a prayer under your breath that your loved ones are all driving safely. The kind that kids rejoice in because they provide snow days-no school! (and yes, my sister did indeed have the day off of school). The kind that old people wait all fall for because it gives them a project, something to do with their days that they haven't had since they last mowed their lawns! Everyone on the block has the latest snow-blower, and it's a competition to see not only who can get out there the fastest in the morning, but who can have the cleanest driveway. They don't just clear the snow. After plowing, they get out the shovel and the pick so they can chip off every last piece of ice from the cement. They salt, and they admire their good work. And they do it all before 8 am , if at all possible. Which is crazy, because it's not like most of them have anywhere to go. But should they want to go out, oh boy, could they ever!It may be winter everywhere else, but in their driveways, it may as well be June.
A little after noon, I ventured out for a walk. Snow had definitely blanketed the neighbourhood. It looks beautiful all covered in white, before cars and dogs come dirty it up. And it was so so quiet. So quiet it was eerie, and I could feel all these old pairs of eyes on my back, watching me pick my way in the snow. It felt like a cross between Winter Wonderland and Village of the Damned. I would not have been surprised if all the old people zombied their way out of their houses and chased me home.
I was telling this to my sister T and she was concerned for me because Jason and I could only count on the little boy who lives right beside us for help should such a situation arise. And as I pointed out, he's quite small and doesn't throw much of a punch. But T told me to look on the bright side: his height would have his punches landing right on old-people kryptonite: their hips! It would take the gentlest of nudges in the hip-region, and the geisers would be down for the count. I'm not sure exactly what it sounds like to hear that many hips breaking at the same time (tinkling glass maybe?) but the mere thought was enough to send shivers down my spine.
Anyhoo, nothing like that has happened, YET. But when/if it does, I'll be aiming for the hips, baby.