Spring­time in par­adise

The Compass - - EDITORIAL -

“Is it al­ways this windy here?” the suited gen­tle­man asks, and you feel your mouth curl into a sheep­ish grin. Why should weather be em­bar­rass­ing? It’s not like he said your cur­tains don’t match or your shoes are scuffed. It’s not a re­flec­tion on you, other than the fact you choose to live here of your own free will.

It’s not as if you can con­trol the weather. You can’t com­mand the clouds to part or the Labrador Cur­rent’s icy blast to change di­rec­tion.

New­found­lan­ders have a say­ing: “If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes.” They think it’s witty and thor­oughly unique. It’s not unique.

You think about that trop­i­cal par­adise your vis­i­tor is from: Toronto.

There, ev­ery­thing is al­ready in bloom. The trees and neatly trimmed grass are greener than green.

The street ven­dors are ped­dling their sum­mer treats: sausages, french fries and ice cream. The lo­cals are flit­ting about in shorts and san­dals, shop­ping and net­work­ing and gen­er­ally be­ing smart for liv­ing where they do.

Even their rain is en­vi­able - great wa­tery buck­et­fuls that slap off pave­ment and sat­u­rate the ground. And then it’s gone, just like that. Here, on the At­lantic, we shuf­fle about in half­hearted driz­zle that can linger for days.

Ah, but then you think of what those clever Toronto folk will face in a few short weeks: heat like you’ve never felt before. Heat that makes a vis­i­tor from Botswana plead for cool­ing re­lief.

Steamy, un­bear­able heat that sends beads of sweat stream­ing down your brow and into your sting­ing eyes, as the ci­cadas squeal like a hellish Greek cho­rus: “Die, you Bay Street par­a­site, die!” Weather shame can mess with your head. Is it al­ways this windy here? No. Some­times it’s windy here. Some­times the breeze shifts and the tem­per­a­ture plum­mets, spoil­ing a per­fectly good day.

Some­times it blows such a gale that trans­port trucks tip over into ditches. Some­times a stray hur­ri­cane creeps up the East­ern Se­aboard and up­roots an­cient trees like tent pegs. But there’s a rea­son for that. It’s be­cause when a bub­ble of warm air fi­nally drifts into town and draws ev­ery­one out of their shells, there is no finer thing.

There is noth­ing like a warm Mar­itime day comb­ing the shore­line or doz­ing in the sweet, wild grass; a day yacht­ing in Ma­hone Bay or sink­ing your feet in the sand at Cavendish Beach; en­joy­ing a leisurely pic­nic at the Fer­ry­land light­house, or mar­vel­ling at the tidal bore in the Bay of Fundy. Is it al­ways this windy here? You bet. But enough about spring. Our glo­ri­ous At­lantic sum­mer is just around the cor­ner.

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