I love Novembers. And it’s right around the corner. The chill is paving the grond with the golds and reds that only a short while ago clung so stubbornly to their branches. The sky seems bluer. The air is brisker. The smell of pumpkin pie, and the warmth of an oven. I love fall, don’t you?
Novembers are busy. Birthdays, too many of them, such glorious occasions, late night celebrations the evening before another test or paper or a long gruelling day of classes. Perhaps all the more glorious because of the impeeding doom of a teacher’s red pen. And there’s Thanksgiving, tailing the end of a second volley of midterms and papers, a short, sweet four days of forgetful bliss, soaked in the homesome smells and warmth of the season, studiously ignoring the distant threats of school while catching up with relatives, relatives so dearly loved and so rarely seen. And of course, more pumpking pie! and turkey, stuffing, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes. Oh, even the potatoes seem so much more perfect in that happy season. And the table around which loved ones gather. The adults arguing good-naturedly over theology or politics, the children playing tag among the chairs. But the days are as short as they are beautiful, and too soon we return to the cold college dorms and apartments to buckle down for the final volley of exams, sleepless nights, and a diet of hot coffee with cold florescent lights, before the blessed comfort of Christmas break arrives.
Fall is the smell of fresh-baked pumpking pie between frantic attemtps at school work. Perhaps I’ll toss in another shot at NaNoWriMo, that 50,000-word madness, just to stirr things up a bit.