"Sometimes you eat the b'ar and sometimes... well, he eats you."
– The Stranger
"Sometimes you're the windshield; sometimes you're the bug."
– Mark Knopfler
"Stuff happens."
– Donald Rumsfeld
Yeah, and sometimes it doesn't. But the b'ar still eats you after you've hit the windshield. Kinda feels like that right now.
One of the truisms of life, if you slide on snowy slopes, is sooner or later, you're going to have a year when those slopes aren't quite as snowy as you wish they were. So it goes.
This year, 2013 is one the weather prognosticators call a neutral year. The kids, El niño and la niña, haven't come out to play with us. We're on our own with an overdose of el sol, and not nearly enough nieve. And while he hails from a different culture, Ullr's a no show as well, and there isn't a virgin to be found for miles around... not that we'd actually sacrifice someone just to make it snow. Would we?
With any luck, nothing in the preceding paragraphs makes any sense. I'm willing to run that risk and hope it's the case. Such is the chance I take when Christmas falls on Wednesday, the paper I write for comes out on Thursday and I have to file this Boxing Day column a whole week ahead... when the sun's shining so brightly through the window I can hardly see the computer screen.
There were a number of things we didn't need this year. We didn't need more mayhem on the highway. Didn't need a world turkey shortage, an elf strike at the North Pole, or a Conservative industry minister going all Scrooge on us about how feeding poor children wasn't the government's job.
Snow, we needed; visitors having the time of their lives, we needed; high spirits and a festive glow, we needed; a buoyant holiday, we needed.
But so far, this seems destined to be the season that tests the stuff we're made of. The snow is coming late and largely out of snowguns. Those of us who look to skinny skiing to fill winter's aerobic void in our lives are, well, still running the trails we'd rather be skiing. Depending on which experts(sic) you listen to, we're either hopelessly in debt and heading for financial Armageddon or doing OK, just OK unless we're in that fortunate "one per cent" who seem still to be able to rig the game.
The saving grace so far has been cold weather. That sounds ironic coming from someone who lives in a ski resort but Whistler isn't like other ski resorts. Cold weather cannot be taken for granted. And make no mistake, we've had some cold weather and it's been our salvation. Although, I've admittedly been having Cuban dreams, fantasizing about burying my cold toes in warm sand, a fantasy so real I can virtually taste the sugary sweet kiss of rum and Coke on my parched lips. As an accommodation, I'm reworking that fantasy to fit my reality — burying my toes in a hot tub and sipping mulled Jackson-Triggs... sublimation to be sure but it works well in a seasonally-appropriate, chestnuts-roasting-on-an-open fire way.
This is shaping up to be a very Dickensian holiday. Not the bah humbug Scrooge variety, more of the Tale of Two Cities "it was the best of times, it was the worst of times" kind. OK, best of times might be pushing things a bit, although I haven't entirely given up hope for the best of times to show up fashionably late to the party with a darn good excuse for what made them so tardy.
Perhaps the best of times will be the very good time those of us who call this fools' paradise home can show the nice folks who've come to visit. Whistler is full of people who have never been here before but have wanted to come for quite some time. It's full of people who have been here and come back every year to spend Christmas in the best place they can imagine. It's full of people who call this place their home away from home and return each December to recapture the warm glow of hope, to recharge their batteries and recapture the unfettered, soul-restoring freedom of sliding down a big snowy mountain almost lost in a landscape of other giant peaks.
The best thing we can do for them is yin their yang, show 'em we're as happy to see them as we are to be here ourselves. We are happy to be here, aren't we? Of course we are. There are more things to do here other than skiing and boarding than ever before. Lots of snow, not much snow, doesn't matter; I'd rather be here than anywhere else. This town has a resilience, a strength of will and a tightly-knit sense of community that's almost impossible to match anywhere else. Sure, we bitch and moan about things, but we check that navel-gazing at the door when we have to dig deep and pull together, as we've had to often this year to help friends who needed help so badly.
It's time to transcend our individual woes and rise above the petty. A good start would be to follow ignorance toward bliss. Turn off the TV news, leave the newspaper — not this one, silly — on the rack. Fight gloom with serenity. Start talking about what a great run you had earlier today, the walk in the woods you took with your dog, the game of shinny you played on the lake, your hope for the future.
Smile at someone you don't know. Offer to show some tourists where whatever it is they're looking for is hidden. Chat 'em up as you walk them to it; you might discover they've got a fascinating story of their own. Revel in the wish-they-were-you glow when they discover you actually live here, you lucky devil. Pop your head in a couple of retail stores and wish the people in there a Merry Christmas or, if that feels too fraught with political incorrectness for you, Happy Holidays. Make a donation to the food bank or, if you can't afford a donation and may even have to make a withdrawal, volunteer a couple of hours to help out. Get out of your house and attend a couple of the many, many events happening this week. Bask in the warm glow of this community.
These are the times that show us what we are. If what you see is as good as I imagine it is, proudly show it to everyone else you come across. There is salvation in sharing.
