Barometer
A chance of flowers
Earlier this winter, a famous CBC personality was reporting the morning weather, and there was plenty of it across the north. He might have meant to say there was a chance of flurries, or he might have meant to say a chance of showers, but what came out was “a chance of flowers.”
I was very happy to hear that, first thing on a cold morning, and my good mood lasted all day, knowing that wherever I might go or whatever I might do, there was a 30 percent chance of flowers out there.
Perhaps the flowers would come in the form of one of those e-mail chain letters that I usually delete before reading. But because of the possibility of flowers, I would open it and it would be one of those rare times when such an e-mail is actually touching or beautiful in some way. The kind of thing that gives you a fleeting glimpse into the vast kindness that exists in this scary world, an appreciation for someone taking the time, if only for a Forward To moment, of spreading a little joy. And decorated with a floral motif instead of a stupid kitten with oversized eyes.
Or a fresh scent reminiscent of spring would waft warmly when I was opening the door to the bakery, the vanilla and cherry somehow combining to conjure up a luscious red rose with hot sun evaporating its dew-kissed petals, misting the air with rich honey. A nosegay of aroma; a bakery bouquet.
And there’s the off chance that the letter-carrier would, that day, bring a lei of love-letters and cheques, with not a thorny bill in sight.
Even a boutonniere or corsage of small quotidian kindness might happen: “I couldn’t remember what you took, so I left it black. Here’s the cream and some sugar.”
A fancy winter-season supper with a centrepiece you just might win. And the sparkly evening gowns with pumps dyed to match, marching briskly in the snow.
Maybe it will be someone else’s birthday or anniversary at the office, and there will be the delivery of the familiar wrapped bouquet, and the delighted recipient opening the parcel as we all gather round and exclaim.
The possibility of flowers becomes a probability for all of us in the north as we move from late winter to early spring. As sure as day follows night, Snow Crocuses will bloom in sunny spots, and the spring dandelions will appear en masse. Long, strong, soon-to-be-gone butter-yellow flowers, not to show their faces again ’til fall; then spring, then fall again.
And the blue-eyed grass will pop up well before the lawn is green. Then the cherry blossoms, then the cherry leaves, then the apple leaves, then the apple blossoms, in that order.
One of the best things about the variety of weather available in the north is the moveable spring. If you missed the first cherry blossoms in Terrace, you can travel upriver and see them shortly afterwards. You can have the first day of spring again and again, if you drive further inland each time.
Or you can have an earlier spring, moving from east to west. While they are still spring skiing in Smithers, you can motor to Rupert for the rhododendrons. Then drive back home in possible showers, or possibly flurries.
Fireweed—that tall, spiky pink-blossomed greenery—especially enjoys the open sunlit plains and the crunchy-granola compost of a cutblock or burned forest. Berries will follow…then bears, as well as wolves and voles. That’s more than a 30 percent chance, and better-than-even odds. It’s a promise.
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