Today, I unearthed (un-snowed?) my Globe and Mail newspaper from February 7. I wasn’t completely sure what had happened to it at the time, but suspected it had been plowed under the windrow at the side of the driveway, and indeed that is what had happened. And that got me thinking. Where did the word “windrow” come from? So I looked it up. So you don’t have to.
By definition, a windrow is “a row of mown hay or other small grain crop.” Wikipedia does allow that, by analogy, the word windrow “can be applied to a row of any other material such as a snow windrow or earth windrow.” But I will continue to just call it a windrow. Because it’s just hockey, not ice hockey.
During the early days of spring – at least according to when the calendar thinks the seasons change –we’re eating mostly root vegetables. Just like in the olden days when that’s all we had until the early crops of summer. That’s because the broccoli – product of Mexico and U.S. – rarely seems to be from Mexico, or at least is not easily distinguished from the other potential source when it’s displayed in the produce section. But there’s also some very delightful, pristinely seedless, oranges from Morocco and Spain, and Ontario leafy greens and sprouts (vertically grown, apparently).
The red robins are bobbing along. The glacier on the front walk has retreated. A soggy mound of last year’s leaves molders under the magnolia, a hopeful tree that bore the buds for this year’s flowers all winter long.
Since their lair is now exposed, the bunnies have apparently moved to better quarters, leaving behind the evidence of their prodigious outhouse habits. I just hope the grass enjoys the fertilizer. But on second thought, I hope it doesn’t. The house is going on the market soon and hopefully the grass won’t need cutting by us, ever again.
As many of you may know, selling your house is a full-time job. It starts with the Marie Kondo apprenticeship phase, where you learn that your idea of decluttering is woefully inadequate. Then you move through the “ghost in the machine” phase, where you pretend no human occupies the house. No evidence of tooth brushing, toast making, or tea kettle usage must be in evidence, even if those activities continue to occur at least once a day. We have not yet entered the next stage, where strangers find mortal faults with a dwelling that has performed its duty for us without complaint for seven years, nor the fun part where stuff gets put into boxes that get added to the existing boxes full of stuff that never got unpacked after the previous move. Sigh.
I have a list on my fridge I made last October. It’s titled “Cottage 2025” and says dishwasher detergent, soap, J-clothes, wooden skewers. A mixture of the mundane and the anticipatory. This list is proof that the lake ice will eventually evaporate and there will be a summer. Despite the implosion of the world order. Or maybe in spite of it.