I’m not a pagan, but …
… there is something infinitely satisfying about being a part of a torch-carrying mob on its determined way to burn a false god.
It is just our cute way of saying to this false god, “You are not welcome in our community anymore.
“It was OK at first, but we now have to put our foot down and burn you to ashes.”
No petitions, no community interventions … just open up a portal to hell and let its flame reach up to drag him, screaming, to where he belongs.
Of course I am referring to the Dragon of Spring, a symbol of a long, cold, snowy winter. It is the effigy we will carry from the S.S. Klondike to Robert Service Campground where entire trees will be burned in such a rousing fire that surely spring flowers will spontaneously burst open in a desperate attempt to not offend these bipeds who presently rule the world.
We are a fickle lot.
Oh, sure, we thrilled to those heady days of September when we first spied the snow peeking over Grey Mountain and Golden Horn, watching our little community scurry about getting ready for its annual arrival.
Then, in October, with our lawn mowers safely stowed away and the winter tires on the truck, we saw the first snows as being Mother Nature’s way of tucking us in for our long winter’s nap.
November and December were barely acknowledged as we prepared for Christmas. A gentle snowfall on Christmas Day? … that would be nice.
January was hard to take. The snow piled up, but it was too cold for Mount Sima. We live in the Yukon so, yeah, it is going to be cold and it is going to be snowy. But geez, tomorrow … tomorrow couldn’t it just be nice?
February, if you like winter, is the best month. Not too cold, not too warm and just enough clouds in the sky to keep it interesting. But it would not stop snowing.
After a while, we actually liked it when it snowed because we could brag that we were in the Yukon during its snowiest winter ever. We laughed at the growing piles of snow at the ends of our driveways and we waved good-naturedly to drivers as they slid through the icy intersections.
But now it is March and – we – have – had – enough!
This winter has broken all the rules.
It is not supposed to be this clammy in the winter. We tell visitors, after all, “Oh, but it’s a dry cold”, but it wasn’t this year. The damp cold crept right in over our Sorels, up our Carhartt jeans, into our North Face parkas and burrowed toward our hearts where the heat of our hot tubs and saunas would not reach.
And, when it is so cold, it is not supposed to be windy. And yet, we accepted the “insult to injury” as the -40-degree temperatures (the insult) was whipped into our faces by the wind (the injury).
And when it is cold or windy, it is not supposed to snow. And – heh, heh – we all know what happened. Never before have I been able to stand on the road and look over top of my house.
That’s it. This winter has to go.
And, so, I will be there at the S.S. Klondike to march that hideous symbol of a hideous winter—ironically being crafted by a sweet lady, Emma Barr—to its demise.
It will be at 8:30 p.m. on Saturday, March 21, the day we celebrate the vernal equinox – that wondrous day when Earth tilts its equator toward the sun once again in its annual practice of returning favour to the northern hemisphere with longer days than nights.
For one magical night, we will join with our neighbours in an unspoken bond – that we will be silly … and then not speak of it again.