Mon pays, ce n�est pas un pays�

It is colder than the proverbial sorceress� nipple, thank you. It is so cold that the house is banging. When I took my daughter�s girlfriend home, it was -21�C. With the wind chill factored in, it is more like -40�. There must be a very good reason why we live in this Pan-forsaken climate, but my brain is so numb with the cold that I can�t think what it might possibly be. Many years ago a Quebec songwriter, Gilles Vigneaux, wrote a song that became the unofficial anthem of this crazy province: Mon pays, ce n�est pas un pays, c�est l�hiver� You better believe it, ch�ri!

After I posted this morning�s entry I read it aloud to my husband, and when I got to the part about �the cloud-hidden heavens�, the sun suddenly broke through the overcast and a beam of light illuminated the snow, creating a glare that totally belied what I was reading. But I figured that changing it would ruin the moment, so I left it. The sunshine didn�t last, by the way. Why would it? This is winter in Quebec, after all.

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