My Wheaton Terrier puppy is clear: winter was glorious. The temperature was just fine. The sun was comfortable. Snow was the best: he could dig in it without being challenged and eat bites whenever he wanted. Summer he defines as a problem: the sun and air are too hot, he is not allowed to drink whatever water he comes across, and I don't let him dig wherever he wants.
The rest of us are not as clear about our likes and dislikes. How many times in the depth of February storms do we speak of longing for summer? And how many times in the heat and humidity do we yearn for the clear air of winter or at least fall?
Night air, even in summer, is (almost always) fresh and breathable. As a day warms, as humidity builds, we start to notice, to complain. Work brings on sweat and an accelerated heart rate. Sweat sticks to our skin because the air is saturated. We know we would breathe easier in the clear air of February.
For people with breathing issues, the humidity is a serious problem. They put on the air conditioner, artificially creating fall-like conditions. As the rest of us complain, do we remember the way our lungs burn when the temperature falls below minus twenty?
February skies can be beautiful, clear. The nights full of stars. Do we forget the beauty of winter night as we long for summer and its hazy skies?
Intense longing for summer comes during the dull grey days of late November. The days are getting so short, and the skies are heavy with cloud. A week will stretch on without a glimmer of the sun breaking through. We languish because of the lack of vitamin D. And yet, on the cloudless days of July, we speak of the sun as burning hot.
We retreat from summer's sun into the shade. We slather on the sun screen. We complain about how hard it is to get work done with burning sun on our neck, when tools that have been sitting out are hot to the touch, when the material we work with has absorbed so much of the sun's heat. Do we remember how hard it is to hold a hammer in minus twenty-degree weather, how our fingers stick to metal?
Winter can feel barren and dead. A walk through the forest gives a clear view for a long way through the empty branches. Snow covers the ground, its plants and the creatures hiding beneath. There is no life that we can see. Summer's forest is alive and changing. The shadows under the green canopy are rich and inviting. The undergrowth shifts daily with different blossoms, new mushrooms. Young creatures venture from their mothers showing us the renewal that comes with a new generation.
But as I watch people take down the trees across the road from their cottage, I see they are not satisfied with a "seasonal water view." Summer's leaves are defined as a problem.
If I forget to put on insect repellant, I may stick to walking on the road to avoid the bugs. Harvesting garlic the other day, biting stable flies drove me from the garden. I was wearing shorts and t-shirt because of the heat leaving lots of skin vulnerable to these nasty creatures. To minimize the use of bug spray, I wear long pants and a long-sleeved shirt in the forest. Have I forgotten the way in winter I dream of getting out of heavy clothes?
Despite my dislike of biting insects, I enjoy watching and listening to the birds that return when insects come to life. The air is alive in summer. The earth is also alive. So is the lake. I love watching young ducklings scurry across the surface. And gardening in summer is nothing like growing plants under lights in March, though I admit there are frustrations with the things that just won't do anything this summer.
The other day, I ate a ripe tomato off the vine. I tasted the rich flavours of a vine-ripened, sun-ripened tomato. Nothing we get in January is anything like it. At that moment, my love of summer was unequivocal.
Cathy Hird lives on the traditional territory of the Saugeen Ojibway
