Force(s) of Nature
The relationship between weather, and our sense of how things are in the world
I remember book titles. It’s one of those things, those strange little things we each have - where we have above-average recall for certain things.
I have friends whose capacity to remember song lyrics is quite impressive.
People whose recall for facts, stats and numbers is savant-like.
And having worked with and around politicians for decades now, I’ve met my fair share of folks with a filing cabinet-like mind for names, facts, linking anecdotes and remembered varia that variously makes me smile and astounds me.
Anyway — back to the book titles.
New Brunswick author, turned Canadian Senator, David Adams Richards has a cannon of stories about the Mirimachi region of Northern New Brunswick, and his searing tragedy is always worth the read.
I was thinking last night of one of his older titles - Evening Snow Shall Bring Such Peace - set in Saint John, New Brunswick. I don’t remember the storyline well enough to recap it here, but I know it involved violence, and tragedy.
I’ve always looked past the context to the title, when I find myself in an evening snowfall.
It came back to me last night as I was walking around in - you guessed it - some winter snow, and feeling…peaceful.
This weekend is being spent at a hockey tournament in Nova Scotia’s Annapolis Valley, with my youngest. Hockey parents have a deservedly-challenged reputation for their behaviour and attitudes, and some regions of the province are reputation-ally (deservedly or not) worse. So far, it had been a peaceful tournament and experience.
We got to our motel after a three-game day, and settled in for team pizza.
The team’s-worth of 14 year-olds didn’t really have an indoor place to congregate, so after pizza, they went outside into the snow for a wander.
There always seems to be more snow here than in the City - and the light dusting that had begun earlier was settling like a light blanket over the layer of snow already down.
I wanted to go for a walk in it.
I hadn’t heard the kids’ chatter in awhile, and our hotel was bordered by a secondary highway…so I went out for a stroll to see if I could observe that they weren’t making poor decisions like walking along a darkly-lit secondary highway on a snowy night. I wasn’t sure what I would do if they were, but I’d cross that bridge later.
I wandered out behind the hotel, it overlooked the dykes of the Allains River, emptying into the Annapolis river basin. I heard voices in the distance, and then saw jerky phone flashlight movements. I followed the stampede of shoe prints in the snow down toward the dykes.
I saw the group in the distance and was within earshot, so I could hear the decision making about whether to turn back or keep exploring. My mind was running through the scenarios - someone dares someone to step on an ice patch, someone rolls down the dyke-bank and discovers water underneath.
All the other parents were tucked in their rooms, and likely trusting the kids would just be fine.
So I turned and followed the tree line away from the kids. I could still hear them, and see the phone-lights bobbing back toward the motel, so I just followed the property in a loop back to my room, and went inside for the night.
I looked out my back window a few times and saw them standing around in a circle.
It reminded me of one of my favourite I-can-picture-that-in-real-life-lyrics, from the Counting Crows song - A Long December.
The lyric goes “I guess the Winter makes you laugh a little slower, makes you talk a little lower, ‘bout the things you could not show her.”
The first time I watched the music video (remember those!), I was struck by the scene when this lyric played. There was a group standing around outside in the snow, and someone was laughing — and it looked like slow-motion laughter. And I thought - yes - outside on a winter’s eve, it does look like you’re doing things in slow motion sometimes.
As I looked down and saw the kids there - standing around in a circle, snow falling down around them, I thought it was a scene where the evening snow was bringing such peace.
I slept (mostly) tight.
This morning as we loaded up the car to head back to the rink, my son asked if I’d been out in the snow last night.
I looked over at him, and explained I wandered out to check on them, and decided to let them be when I was convinced no one was making bad choices…that I could observe.
He told me then that a few of them spotted me off in the distance, in my black parka, black toque and dark pants, but when they looked back I’d gone. As they came back off the dykes, they saw footprints leading off along the edge of the woods.
That’s when the ghost stories started. They had this whole set of theories and mysteries going about a human, animals, or other-worldly figures out in the snow with them.
They had been standing around in that circle I’d later observed reading theories and speculating on possibilities.
And here I thought the evening snow was bringing such peace!
Happy Sunday, friends. May whatever weather you’re experiencing be bringing you peace, joy, gratitude, or whatever you wish.
—-
A recommendation, tangentially-related to this anecdote.
Pádraig O’Tuama’s Poetry Unbound #substack today related a poem that made him chuckle, as he puzzled over what poetry is, and can be. The poem cleverly plays on the hold rhyme to help us remember how many days are in each month, and then delivers a whack upon the longish-ness that January often holds.
It made me think maybe the Counting Crows should have called the song, A Long January.
—
Finally — a question — I’m curious: What are some of the favourite - or most memorable - book titles, or books you’ve read, and why?