Who Wants A Cold One?

It's early August, and there is a message in the air that summer is about to fall. It seemed to happen overnight, but everything seems to happen overnight.

Part of our birthright in this part of Canada is to bemoan the coming cold. We will throw all of our powers of engineering and poetry and denial at the fact that winter is a tough sled. It changes who and how we are. There is alchemy available. Water on the lawn can make a rink. But there is no denying that it's death, and death is not the best companion.

How best to approach the looming verdict? I want to think about this this time around, because there may be some surprises.

It certainly was surprising to hear myself singing along, even singing proudly, maybe, as Blue Rodeo's Greg Keelor sang, and we sang with him, Hasn't Hit Me Yet. It was 25 degrees, it was July, and there we all were belting it out into the mosquito-laced sky:

I stand transfixed before this street light
Watching the snow fall on this
Cold, December night.
I am not making this up: Just now, as I write this, the TV takes a break from the Summer Olympics and asks a timely question:


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