You bring out the New England in me. Stepping out into your biting wind and chilling rain makes my Connecticut blood flow ever strong, determined to not be cold yet. I am hardy, Yankee stock, and I know to put on a real coat for morning walks so that I can nonchalantly lift the hood in a sudden shower of stinging drops. Bring it on, November.
You’re that strange doorway between fall flamboyance and winter drear. One day, red maple leaves litter the sidewalk like rose petals at a wedding; the next day, they’re battered down with rain and mud. Bright leaves flutter to the pavement, exposing the stark skeletons of their parent trees. Silhouettes of branches and twigs are clearly delineated against dense, cloudy skies. How very Wuthering Heights of you, November.
You tempt me to fatten up for the long, hard winter ahead. Howling winds and gray atmospheres prick longings for steaming mugs of tea and mulled cider, preferably with a beef stew or chicken pot pie to go along for the ride. We must not forget that the holiday of food holidays, Thanksgiving, is in your territory. Turkey, gravy, stuffing, and all that is pumpkin and cranberry — plus the requisite food coma, the first step of hibernation — belong to you, November.
You don’t make it easy for me, though. Mornings like the one today make it hard to advocate in your defense that you are not that bad. There was a brief moment when I heard my alarm and thought, “Oh, wait, I can just turn it off because today is Saturday!” Just kidding, I heard you mock, and I remembered that it was only Tuesday. Not that I didn’t want to walk Ted or go to work, but they fell so far below the charm of staying in my cozy bed that you make so attractive, November, darn you.
You smacked me in the face with all you had to offer. Your biting air, icy rain, and blustery wind pelted Ted and me. Most would shy away from aggressive tactics, but not me. I am a warm-coat-wearing, thick-blooded, Puritan-minded New Englander and I can take it. Your cold slap only snaps me into alertness and spurs me on to whatever I have in front of me, so I don’t mind at all. You’re a challenge that I relish standing up to face because I can see you for what you are: merely an awkward transition stage, full of gawky adolescence and angst. I don’t love you, November, but I don’t hate you, either. You, too, shall pass.
2 comments
November is not my favorite, but March is so much worse. March is like, “You sick of winter? You want spring! No! No spring! More winter! Winter forever!”
Oh, my goodness. I laughed out loud at my desk at this one. So, in your head, is March some type of harsh, Mr. Miyagi-type drill sergeant?
As bad as November and March can both be, at least they offer a small glimmer of hope for warm days. January, however, is a cold, stark, asshat of a month with no redeeming qualities whatsoever.
(I am very worried that the above includes far too many commas. I apologize in advance if that is the case.)
Yeah, January and February are nearly indistinguishable to me. Unfortunately, Martin Luther King Day and Presidents’ Day do not make up for the stretch of winter cold, as much as my teacher-husband-with-days-off might beg to differ. Hmph. Also, your comma placement was right (right, Audrey?)! Sometimes, they just take over and there is nothing you can do.
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