Jen and I were weaving the other night, and we argued. I said it was going to snow, that the rain would turn to ice, then snow… and Jen said it wouldn’t. I started to try and convince her. I reminded her of some pretty simple laws of physics that say that if it’s 0º and raining- and it’s getting colder as the big burning ball of light slips below the horizon, that pretty soon rain is snow – but Jen didn’t want to hear it. She told me all the reasons that rain was better than snow- and said them like the planet was going to be convinced. "Rain means spring!" she claimed, and I looked at her and tried to figure out why any proper lifelong Ontarian would be under any freakin’ delusions at all that an early March rain might mean spring. Spring is a ways off, I started to tell her, and then I saw that look in her eyes. I see it on almost everyone right now, and I shut my mouth. That look says "I don’t know how much more winter I can take. I’m starting to get a little squirrelly about it, and if you’re going to harsh on my spring-is-coming-and-the-rain-proves-it delusion, then I might wig out. Spring is coming. There will be no more snow. This is rain, not snow – lalalalalala."
I didn’t say much after that. We both knew that the rain was a big nasty-ass faker, and that it would turn to snow and that we’d be freezing and shovelling again… and we just gave up the conversation because no matter how used you are to the winter, it’s just a demoralizing thing in March, and we just had different approaches. Jen liked denial, and I like reality. I find the crushing of hope even more demoralizing than March snow. I prefer to have no hope, besides, if you let March snow get to you, then how on earth are you getting through April snow? Better to dwell happily in the land of doom than rail against it.
This is what I was thinking when I got up Sunday morning and there was a fresh dump of big snow. I saw that, I stomped around for a few minutes just to get the impotent rage out of my system, then I finished a quick pair of socks while I thought about improving my lot.
Spud and Chloe Sweater 55% wool/45% cotton in pink and cream, knit up for a friend’s friend’s daughter who’s recovering from surgery and needs to be cozy. No pattern, just one I keep in my head. There’s a (deliberate) difference in the sizing between the two socks, so I reversed the colours on the second one so she could quickly tell the difference between right and left. Worsted weight socks are speed demons. It felt like it took longer to weave the ends in than it did to knit them – which is not true, but it’s cool that it felt that way.
While I drank my coffee, the answers came to me. I would do two things so that I didn’t feel completely miserable about the snow.
#1. I would cast on my March socks – and I rigged the system to pull the ones I needed.
Giotto, being knit in Dream in Colour Smooshy, in Spring Tickle, because no matter how dim it seems now, this month we will definitely see a sign of spring. It will be green, and it is coming. (The first kit I pulled out had grey socks in it. I observed Denny’s rule. No knitting grey in March. There’s too much grey already.)
#2. I would remember that winter has it’s own charms,
that I love Canada despite this (and despite muttering something about it’s forsaken nature while trying to chip a block of ice the size of Finland out of my damn recycling bin for the 47th time this year)
and think of that fabulous song.
Mon pays, ce n’est pas un pays, c’est l’hiver. – Gilles Vigneault.
It means "My country is not a country. It is winter."