Spring Snow

As a kid I always thought the song “April Showers” was kind of dumb. Having lived near, or in, the mountains all of my life, I rarely experienced rain showers in April. Our April precipitation came in the form of snow showers or full-on winter storms. This spring has run true to type.

Much of the talk about the weather these days is along the lines of, “Enough of this already! It’s time for spring.” I can understand the desire to be done with winter but, for me, a snowy spring is a kind of pause without the nose-biting cold of winter. It can get pretty cold but it never lasts long at this time of year. In a few days the sun comes out and the weather warms up. There’s that lovely feeling when I stand with the sun on my back, my shoulders relax with the heat and I find myself smiling. With summer come bugs, weeds, and hotter temperatures than I like. If I could choose, I’d spend my year in spring and fall.

These snowy days in spring also hold good memories for me. It’s funny how sometimes an ordinary day will stick in the mind and become one that you return to again and again. Almost every time we have a spring snow I remember a day when I was studying in Banff. We had an assignment to go draw something outside.

It wasn’t snowing when we left the school of fine arts but by the time we got down the hill and into town the snow was drifting down in wet flakes. No matter. We were supposed to draw and that’s what we were going to do. We decided to walk down an alley and there we found an interesting composition of garage doors and garbage cans. We pulled our toques down farther and tried to shield our drawing pads with our bodies as best we could. I think we persisted for about half an hour. Then we decided we’d had enough and headed to Banff Ave for hot drinks.

The others ordered coffee and I ordered tea with milk. We picked a table near the window where we could watch the snow and hung our wet jackets over the backs of our chairs. When the drinks came I let my tea steep for a few minutes, poured it into my cup and added the milk. Immediately the milk curdled. I called the server over and asked for another cup of tea. She apologized profusely and brought it to me along with fresh milk. This time the tea didn’t curdle.

I don’t remember what we talked about that day, what my drawing looked like, or even who the others were. It seems a very ordinary day, yet despite being damp and a bit chilled, despite the curdled milk, I remember being perfectly, quietly, content.