The end of all good things

My friends, it’s November, a time of year too bleak and dismal to be adequately described without the use of graveyard moss, moldering bones and various dead things as visual props. The early darkness, the moribund trees and the cold winds that seem to bite right into your frigid bones; these are the hallmarks of a period so grim and dreadful, I’m tempted to follow the bears right into their hidey-holes for a long, seasonal sleep. Don’t try to talk me out of it, neither. As soon as I find some hairy, ursine forest creature looking for a roommate, I’m gone! I’m checking Uncle Henry’s as we speak.

And one to grow on

Every time I get to grousing about the intractable gloom of November, some indignant soul rises up out of that gray hell to remind me that they were born in this God-awful month. Well, happy birthday to you, I say. Don’t invite me to your party, though, because I plan to spend all of my free time sulking.

Requiescat in pace, Farmers’ Almanac

I’m seriously bummed out (in case you haven’t noticed) by the unexpected demise of this beloved publication. How will I ever look at an earwig (which the almanac taught me how to vanquish,) walk across a creaky floor (which the almanac taught me how to fix) or cut my own hair (which the almanac taught me would go OK if I did it on the third full moon of the year) without getting all wistful and nostalgic? It’s fitting that they announced this news in November. Fits right in with my seasonal pathos.

It’s also cold…

But I’m not turning the heat on at home, do you hear? I won’t do it! Once again, I’m engaged in the perennial game of furnace chicken. I vow that if I succumb to the frigid November cold and turn on the heat before December, I’ll do something really crazy, like cut my hair during the half moon. The Farmers’ Almanac has firmly advised that this would not go well for me.

Some like it hot

Many years ago, a reader brought me an L.L.Bean thermos after I’d complained about never having hot coffee on the road. I’m here to tell you that thermos is still a beast. Even at the top of ice-covered mountains, my coffee is still hot enough to burn my lips, which is the way I like it. I really hope the lady who gifted me this beauty wasn’t born in November or she might come and take it back.