Light

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I can't mention it any more, because John smirks, and that ruins it. I guess my comments on the lengthening of days have become predictable.

Every year around this time, I notice: it's still light out when I drive home from work; at 5:15, then 5:30, now almost 6, it's still light out. I celebrate it, the return of the sun, the light (pardon me) at the end of the tunnel of winter, of endless grey days and long wet nights that are the price we pay for residing in Paradise, the Rain Forest Edition.

"Look how light it is! Look at the light over the city! It's 6 o'clock, and it's still light!" I'm a bit mad for it, I guess.

When I lived at Mudslide, our homestead 20 miles northeast of Prince George, about 500 miles due north of here, winter meant lighting the lamps at three; even kerosene was brighter than the winter afternoon. The good part was that we tended to huddle together, our small community, and there would be all night dart games or poker games, boisterous and boozy. The airtight heaters would rattle with hard-burning birchwood, and we'd cluster around them, turning our various parts to the heat. The whiff of woodsmoke was always in the air, inside the houses from fires being stoked, and outside on the flashlit stumble to the outhouse.

I still get the impulse to hunker in on short winter days, to light a lamp and curl up with a book and a cup of tea. Winter is when I light candles and heat essential oils, hover over the heat register, cover myself in whatever throw the cat hasn't claimed. There is comfort in this, a sense of hibernation - home becomes a nest.

Still, the first hint of spring uplifts me, and I get so excited. The cave is great, but emerging from it is better.



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Summertime up north, when the sky was deep violet at midnight, was the payoff for dark winters. We could work outside till ten at night and later. Evening took up much of the day, as the sun dipped below, just below, the horizon and hovered there, winding its way north and back again to rise in the northeast. Evening meant swallows flitting overhead with their beaks open to catch the bugs, redwing blackbirds calling from the lakeside, nighthawks laughing as they dove toward the earth. We'd light a fire in a pit on the hill above the lake, barbecue chicken on pine coals, drink white wine, play guitars. The nights were rarely warm, but they were light.

By September, however, winter was hinting its arrival. September, if you bundled up, was for star watching, far from the lights of the city. One year in September, there happened to be a night odd for its balmy air, when we could sit outside without jackets and not freeze. The same night, the Aurora Borealis were dancing particularly rambunctiously a hundred and eighty degrees across the sky. The whole community - maybe a dozen of us, including guests - gathered in the field with our lawn chairs, lined up, and watched the show. It was the only time I've seen hints of any colours other than green, and I swear I heard them buzzing. We shouted our appreciation when an especially spectacular flare would streak across the night. We chuckled at our own enthusiasm and thought about the city folk in front of their TVs. I don't imagine our ancestors were ever bored for want of entertainment.



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Today the ophthalmologist put drops in my eyes that spread my pupils like midnight. It was fine till I went outside into what happened to be the only sunny day we've had for what seems like weeks (not true, of course, but the rain has seemed relentless.) The light was like knives thrust into my eyes. Fortunately, there was an optometrist's shop nearby selling sunglasses. It was strange to buy sunglasses in February, but without them I couldn't bear to open my eyes, the light was that painful.

I had to be out, though, because a block away there had been an explosion in the night and I had to walk down to see the remains of shops. Broadway, one of the busiest streets in Vancouver, had been closed to both cars and pedestrians since the blast at 2:30 am. From the doctor's waiting room, we patients watched the police and the cleanup crews clear away truckloads of rubble and glass. The street was opened to traffic just as I was finished with my appointment.

Things like this don't happen in Vancouver, I thought. But I am a bit Pollyanna about these things. This is the first bombing I've heard of in the city, but gang violence and nightclub shootings have lately become unfortunately regular occurrences here. Even on the way to my appointment this morning, the guest on the CBC was the mother of a boy who was attacked randomly at a party a year ago, and is now a quadriplegic. Violence happens here, but this is the first time I've witnessed the results.

The scene looked like a movie set to me, the glass splayed out across the sidewalk, shards embedded in tree trunks, the twisted metal Starbucks sign, three stores looking like black holes, windows blown out on the second storey, furniture tossed into the street. The police are calling this an act of arson, but that sounds so mild, a few flames licking the interiors. No, this was a fierce explosion. Even a hotel window, across the street and half way up the block, was blasted in by flying debris.

I stood with a small crowd and stared for a bit. The press arrived, newscasters and camera crews. People were taking photos with their cellphones and speculating with the strangers beside them. A little community brought together in incredulity.

I didn't stay long, as the scene was attracting more and more gawkers like myself. I made my way, new shades saving me from the sun, back to my car and home to my twilight cave.


Photos of the blast scene



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