Once Upon a Time in the White

Living in an old city elevates the soul. Yet there appears to be a relationship between how many levels the spirit can climb and the amount of parking spaces available. In Halifax the count for both is three.

This state of affairs was ameliorated somewhat, when our Mayor reached an agreement with his counterpart in Truro, a town barely an hour's drive away, which allows citizens of Halifax to park on that city's streets for a minor hourly fee. Truro residents, in turn, vehemently opposed the idea at first, but now have gotten used to driving to Amherst (one hour northward) each night in order to find a spot for their vehicle.

Having thus solved the parking crisis, Haligonians settled into the routine of taking the train to Truro each morning, driving to work downtown, then repeating the exercise in reverse at sun down . Then the storm popped by.

Storms in Nova Scotia are usually preceded by tthe indefinite article 'a'. The 'a' storm is a relatively frequent occurrence in the winter months, and is usually good for an extended breakfast, followed by a slow drive into the heart of the city to begin the day's work promptly at 12 pm . A definite articled 'the' storm, on the other hand, is like winning the jackpot: one morning of strenuous shovelling, at the very least, buys you two to three days off. If one has not forgotten to stock up on beer and cigarettes, the mood following 'the' storm is similar to that experienced by fellow North Americans at the start of a long weekend in July, but just a bit colder. Happiness spreads itself from one corner of the frozen mouth to the other, until one realises that, by virtue of having been too lazy to drive to Truro the night before, ones car is still sitting in the pub's parking lot across the street.

Now, the attentive reader will naturally presume that in the preceding sentence the author is clumsily alluding to the four tons of snow that will invariably blanket ones car after a massive blizzard. They would be quite mistaken, for, Nova Scotians deal with such minor inconveniences in their usual manner: we curse for two hours, have a coffee, then curse a bit more before commencing the task. Our mood does not change noticeably, even after the snowplough driver decides that four tons is five too few and that doubling the mess for free is an inevitable consequence of not being his brother in law.

No, all this leaves us quite cold. We accept a buried car with the same stoicism and sense of inevitability as that found in a Torontonian hockey fan's soul after another early playoff exit. The problem, you see, is not to actually dig out the vehicle, but to find it a new, albeit temporary home when streets, parking lots and driveways are covered in 12 feet of snow.

Thus, after 'the' storm, parking evolved from an obsession to a matter of life or death. Haligonians of all makes were inching their way through the half -lanes that had been freed from the white filth, circling any space that might look as if it could be cleared within the next day or two. No sooner had one of these wheeled buzzards spotted a snowplough or an old woman with a shovel in her hand, then he would stop, idle and lay in wait. Cleared side walks became fair game as did unguarded sun rooms. Neighbours ran over neighbours to get to their already shovelled driveways, whilst others simply plunged their vehicles into the icy ocean.

Humans, when cornered in this manner will park wildly, brutally and ruthlessly. The author of these lines must admit that the madness he observed in his fellow citizens has shaken him to the core. He will therefore leave this city the moment he can get his car out of his neighbour's living room.