Several springs ago I was walking with a close friend in a city park. We were circling a large open space dotted with clusters of people wincing as their dogs galloped and slid joyfully through the mud. Answering her “how are you”, I shared that I had been feeling lethargic and flat. You always are this time of year; you hate spring. She was a friend who knew me better than I knew myself and was unafraid to utter the truth.
It’s April again. The ground is so soggy from the snow melt and rain that each footfall sinks, each paw finds mud, and creeks and rivers have no edges. Over the past few days we have had sideways rain, lightning and thunder, snow squalls, small round globes of hail, winds that pulled the shingles off our roof and moments of sunshine as cruel teasers. I should feel brightened by the brave crocuses poking through the dead leaves in our garden, and the expansive maple buds as the sap runs. The fog that greys my valley matches my mood.
The wind-down of winter makes me sad. Our ski community is the pulse and force that carries me through the bitter cold, snowstorms and ice, and the effort necessary to dress, equip and ski on a small Ontario ridge. On a winter morning, there are texts crisscrossing the valley advising of meet-up times, gatherings of friends at the top of popular runs, and tables jammed with extra chairs so that we can sit together for lunch.
On a weekend when we are blessed to have grandchildren visiting, the routine shifts. The morning advisory informs who is on the beginner hill, who is in the chalet with the babies, and who has been granted a pass to take a few runs unencumbered. The camp out in the cafeteria, with highchairs, enormous padded bags filled with snacks, bottles, toys and diapers, and almost mobile toddlers, is a series of smiles and tears, treats for bribery, and chaos.
The calendar flip to April signifies those days are over, at least until next season. On the final afternoon, our children and grandchildren have all headed home. We are back to our core group, squeezed around picnic tables on the deck in the sunshine. Mother Nature has gifted us fabulous spring skiing, the corn snow forgiving, and the hills to ourselves. Over the years on the chairlift and around these tables, we have shared the roller coaster ride of raising our children, grieving illness and loss, wedding plans, newborns, and holiday experiences and plans.
Today, we are nostalgic. As the years and turns are showing up in our creaky knees and hips, and we pack up our boots and skis, we know we are fortunate to have had a long and full winter. Our safe and beautiful cocoon of normalcy in the midst of a scary and deeply troubled world is shutting down for many months. The spontaneous connections that happen during the lunchtime buzz are over until next year. I will miss the intimacy of conversations that spring from sitting side by side with flattened hair, frozen fingers, red noses and goggle lines on our cheeks. We are stripped down, tired and exhilarated as we chat and reach across the table for a French fry.
I have an elder friend who reminds me that enduring another April is better above ground than below. Being resilient and nimble as spring plays hide and seek with us, as I freeze in cotton sweaters and bake in down jackets, is my intention. Without the ready-made connections of a day on the slopes, I will need to reach out to establish coffee, lunch, hiking and golf dates. As friends drift to travel, cottages, and summer sports, different groupings and gatherings emerge.
It will be different and yet the same. The summer gang will nurture friendships through hiking, cycling, swimming, and sharing meals. On hot, sunny afternoons, we will congregate at the beach with our coolers and snacks, and occasionally strollers and swimmies as we introduce our grandchildren to the magic of Georgian Bay.