Alison Garwood Jones

Closing up the cottage is a particularly Canadian emotion, unfamiliar to those whose summer months aren’t bookended by snow and cold.

I still have sand in my hallway from a trip to Lake Huron last weekend. I don’t want to sweep it up. When the tan on my feet fades, I’ll get out the broom.

Being Canadian, for most of us, means constantly polishing our sense of gratitude for what we have when we have it. For others, it means moaning through the extremes and timelines our weather imposes on us. Weather has definitely shaped our national character. It’s even held us back. It’s hard to run at life in moon boots, layers of down and hoods that obscure your vision.

For the record, I’m a polisher, not a moaner.

As we head in to another weekend, I’m thinking about Southampton, Ontario this morning. It’s a ghost town now. The cash registers on High Street that had been ringing up ice cream, french fries, sunblock and plastic beach pails one week ago are silent now. The nights are colder and the colour dial on the trees is one shade closer to orange this week.

I’m sad because I’m not going to be there as the sun drops in to the lake. I can see why beauty makes us possessive.

I’ve never seen the sun drop over the edge of the horizon when Lake Huron is a windswept tundra, but being Canadian means embracing it all.