My Toronto is not the mayor - part three

Gloomy graffiti proclaims the obvious: Toronto is a winter city. Not even the surprisingly optimistic builder of this Twenties apartment building could ward off the horrors to come.

There are those who revel in skiing, skating and snowshoeing; I am not one. Skiing I got a pole's sharp end through my calf, skating a concussion and snowshoeing made my thighs feel as though they'd been on the Chisholm Trail cattle drive. I have felt better after full marathons. Canadians are supposed to love the winter. I am a bad Canadian. The picture below is from my well-heated home.  

The rest of Canada laughs at Toronto. To the north, even to the southwest, they have serious winters. Toronto's winters are, by comparison, mild. Not that it's pleasant operating a hotdog stand - a city tradition - as winter goes on and on.

By the lake, permanent beach umbrellas, resembling happy hour cocktail sticks,  emerge from the snow. 

In the financial district, two 1950s businessmen - a sculpture called 'The Encounter' - are likely bemoaning the vile conditions.

Or perhaps they're discussing hockey. As early as September, Canada prepares for hockey lasting into the late spring. This is the art deco exterior of Toronto's Maple Leaf Gardens, former home to one of the country's major teams. 

The Toronto Maple Leafs long ago moved to a more modern home. Their record for the past half century is abysmal, but that doesn't stop them from being professional hockey's most valuable franchise.

The Gardens is now a university sports complex and students play where the national game's megastars once did. For a country with such a tolerant image, our sport has a well-deserved reputation for violence, but, at its best, speed, grace and skill make hockey extraordinary to watch.

From my aerie I contemplate an ice storm's aftermath. Click on pictures and note the coating on the cables. Hundreds of thousands lost power.

Will winter never end?

Yes! Brave crocuses appear, in this case, in mid-March.

Following an April of dashed climatic expectations, in early May, cherry blossoms, artists and photographers sprout in High Park. 

Can dandelions be far behind?

Confirmation warmer weather's here comes when water's at last turned on at a nearby fountain.  The maintenance people, who have a pipeline (heh! heh!) to the weather gods, presumably know there will be no more frosts. Carrying supplies home from the supermarket, I share the seals' bliss.

O joy! O glorious, glorious summer. Only northern people can truly understand. Months of struggling into layer after layer of clothes are past. I can even wear sandals. 

Water that isn't ice is a pleasure to watch.

Under my window, carefree skateboarders where once the miserable pedestrian (see third picture above) endured early winter snow and wind.

Cyclists, an embattled species in Toronto's unforgiving traffic, manage to look cheerful in a minimum of clothing.

Old ferries carry picnicking trippers back from the Toronto Islands ...

... where perhaps they had a ride on the swans.

A musician sings in summer exultation.

Summer's short, so precious plants are coddled. In fact, they should be allowed to sleep undisturbed.

At 0630 on a mid-summer's weekend morning, I walk to the shoreline and have it entirely to myself.

There's now actually sand, not snow, beneath those umbrellas ($12,000 each out of the public purse. Google 'Toronto Sugar Beach umbrellas'). 

All too soon, the Canadian National Exhibition, the last two weeks before September's Labour Day, signals summer's unofficial end.

Autumn mists appear in my neighbourhood, I pull a duvet out ...

... and, not long after, colours change in the Victorian cemetery up the street.

A monstrous Hallowe'en cat unnerves me with its reminder that November is a day or two away.

I'm outta here! Yes, I know the plane is landing, but I'm in the departure lounge and like the picture.