All That is November
The final day of October arrived as brilliant as the colorful pile of pumpkins on our porch. A note had circulated around the neighborhood encouraging households to keep a porch light burning from 5:30 until 8:00 p.m. to let kids in their Halloween costumes know where they might help themselves to a handful of treats. Unable to resist joining in the fun, Kit and I stocked up on mini Snickers bars, Tootsie Rolls, Mars bars M&Ms, and miniature boxes of Dots.
Late that afternoon, I set up a table, a lamp and green candy container with a flashing light at the top of our steep driveway. Finally, I dragged a long park bench over and covered it with cushions and cozy, vintage plaid Scottish blankets. Recalling how chilled we got last year on our first Halloween night since moving to Nevada City, Kit dressed in a warm pumpkin orange parka and wool cap and tucked one of the blankets over his legs. I wrapped up in a full-length sweater coat that I wore while exploring the bazaars in Istanbul the unseasonably warm January that preceded Russia’s invasion of Crimea in 2014. A magic moment experienced just before that ancient part of the world came unglued.
Finally, I put on a Venetian mask made of layers of feathers the same colors as my sweater coat. It was topped with a dramatic plume of white feathers. That glorious October night, only six trick or treaters came up our driveway. But never mind. Neighbors out walking their dogs popped up, stayed for a visit, and left with a few Halloween treats. Before calling it a night, we witnessed a spectacular pink sunset and ascending crescent moonrise. Only the hoot, hoot, hoot of an owl would have made the night more perfect.
November arrived with a serious rain forecast that included the possibility of snow at our Sierra foothill elevation. It was time to put the gardens to bed, cover porch furniture, and bring delicate plants inside to winter over. Tarps came out, the porch awning was rolled back in, and a blanket was tucked under a plastic covered atop the assorted pumpkins to protect them from freezing and turning into mush. A tall potted fig, leafy tropical, blooming Meyer lemon and two delicate begonias were invited into my study to soak up warm winter sun through a sliding glass door. Pots of mint, basil and parsley took their place on a three-tiered plant rack that looks out the garage window on a Ukrainian flag of solidarity and an American flag that reminds me that today is Veteran’s Day.
On November 8 full moon and total lunar eclipse occurred for the first time in history on Election Day. This eleventh month of the year, the moon has many names, among them the Frost or Frosty Moon, and the Snow Moon when a large part of the northern U.S. will have or will soon have seen the first snowflakes fly. In our neck of the Sierra foothills, we woke up to snow that had fallen overnight on our cedars, tall pine, and firs barely two days after Halloween. Out came the snow shovel to push the icy snow from the deck before it could refreeze overnight.
Indigenous people commonly referred to November’s full moon as the Beaver Moon, the time beavers are most active ahead of the approaching cold winter months. They trapped beavers before creeks and streams froze over and used the fur to keep warm. As I watch the antics of our local grey squirrels outside our dining room window, I assure them I will welcome their presence come rain, sleet, or snow when they descend from their aerie nests in our forest to feast alongside assorted winter birds that flock to our feeders.
November has often been the month of negative images. The No! month as it was presented by poet Thomas Hood in 1844
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful eas—
No comfortable feel in any member—
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruit, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
No-vember!
Writers often cast November as a month “bleak and brief, with skies chill and drear.” A time when days grow short, thick and blustery. A time of weariness. In those days of yore, November leaves were described as “red and sear, whirling fast from chilly blasts, images that warn of fog and snow on the near horizon.”
For me, these dreary images are too severe for November that while rainy and cold, arrived with oaks dress in brilliant shades of orange and yellow, and an array of maple reds that dazzled us each time we drove to town. Even after a hard freeze and chill winds begin to denude them, brightly colored leafy skirts ring the base of every tree.
This election week, it behooves us to open our eyes to nature’s beauty and find reasons to be happy—
No joy so raucous as a scurrying of squirrels in the crisp November air—
No end to hope when a lemon tree blooms in my writing studio—
And in these divisive times,
No shortage of blessings to be thankful even after election day comes and goes.