Summer had just begun. And with it, the realization that it was time. Time to walk the thought. Time to wrap up my 25 years in Toronto. For the next three months, I scouted for a new home. And on the brink of fall, I moved to the other London. The one between Toronto and Detroit. It was a decision I did not regret. Much.
About one eighth of the size of where I used to live, "Forest City" offers all the urban amenities. Yet its pace reflects the agricultural region that surrounds it. For that reason, some folks say London is nothing more than a town stuck in a cornfield. If so, bring on the corn, I say.
I welcome the peace of mind. And I welcome the more limited congestion and crime. That's why I easily picked up the slower rhythm, alternating between the grasshopper and the ant. Enjoying my new home, I also prepared it for winter. Except my timing was off. By the third week in November, a snow storm hit. Again. Dat dawned gwasshoppew.
"After all, we're in the snow belt," my neighbour explained. He was being kind. Kinder still when we struck up a quid pro quo. He would snowblow my driveway if I supplied the gas for the machine, and any repairs that might arise. An unbeatable win-win. And a lucky break. Somehow, I never considered winter as a major factor when I moved to London.
Now snowbound, I look for compensations, for I won't return to Toronto's milder winters. Not for me, the volume of brown slush clogging city drains after a light snowstorm. Not for me, its aggressive drivers and traffic wearing thin a monk's patience. Let me have gobs of the white stuff, instead. And with it, I'll take the change in scenery. Serene. And accessible. If you have a snowblower.
The snow belt has a peculiar charm. It rewards the prepared. But like all charms, there's an expiry date. Meaning, by February, Mexico may appeal a whole lot more. Until then, I'm looking for my skis — the ones for cross-country. Doing a winter sport is supposed to make the season more bearable. Vamos a ver. We'll see.
