A Vancouver Island Winter

- Linda McLean

A large branch from my butterfly maple tree broke off during the night. It’s top now touches the ground, like someone bowed in prayer. My camellia, which was starting to form buds, joins it in a downward dog pose, as does the Scabrida bamboo at the side of the house. The laurel bushes look like ice cream cones, and, under the drifts against the living room window, is my little fish pond with its six inch-thick lid of ice; I wonder if the fish are frozen in suspension or have succumbed.

Our small city on Vancouver Island just had yet another foot of soft, heavy snow. I’ve lived here for 35 years and I don’t remember it ever snowing so heavily and so often. The rest of Canada makes fun of us when we happen to get snow here, calling us wimps, wusses and whiners. I can’t blame them, really—we are wimps, wusses and whiners while sporadically experiencing something the rest of Canada deals with for months at a time. It’s embarrassing.