Winter memories, particularly this time of year, begin with snow. 
   Growing up on Canada’s prairies, I remember winter weather would arrive as early as late October and hang on until late March or longer. Many years, ice would still be on the lake when May long weekend rolled around and we were beginning to dream of summer. 
   Spring, most years, seemed a long while coming. 
   I grew up knowing, and appreciating, four distinct seasons. 
   Toronto, my home of almost a decade, is not as accurate. Spring, summer, and autumn all seem to take time, often blurring one into the next with few noticeable differences. Winter seems only to find its place when you least expect it. 
   One of the things I miss most about the prairies is the true, definite seasons. You know when fall turns to winter, and tend to know it immediately. Seasons are too wishy-washy in Toronto. Nobody here seems to realize you must experience, even respect, a cold, harsh winter to truly recognize a gorgeous summer. 
   Last night’s slight snow startled me on my morning walk, the nightly dip in temperature allowing precipitation to show its true character. 
   Snow: it probably won’t last long (it rarely does) but is enough, this morning, to bring forth some winter memories. 
   That itself will warm me up throughout the day. 
 
12/07/2023                                                                                            j.g.l.