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| Embracing November with friends. |
Many people of adequate means and time flee their northern
homes during November, heading south to warmer, brighter locales. The rest of
us dig out our extra layers, lament the shortening days, and muddle through
this in-between season.
At least, that’s how I’ve viewed November in the past: an
in-between time to be endured. This year, however, I am determined to embrace November.
Instead of decrying the loss of color from the hillsides and
light from the days, I’ve made a point of noticing the intricate subtleties of
the season, looking more closely at the gifts of nature that exist beyond
summer’s flamboyance and fall’s color explosion, enjoying the downtime that
comes between seasons.
With the mixed bag of weather typical of any time of year in
northern New England, I’ve managed to take advantage of a few of the warmer,
brighter November days outside. The kids and I spent an afternoon tending to
some final gardening, pulling out the remnants of our late planting of sweet
peas and harvesting the last row of cold-stunted carrots.
In our final homage to growing, blooming things for the
year, we dug cylindrical holes into the garden outside our large living room window and dropped the papery bulbs of daffodils and crocuses there. These, we
hope, will evade hungry deer and rodents looking for a cold-weather nibble and
burst forth in happy spring color next year.
The day after our bulb planting, the mountains in view from
that window garden were snow-capped, earning their White Mountains moniker. The
high-elevation blanket of white was a reminder that on the other side of
in-between November comes winter, with its glittering holiday shine and snowy
splendor.
We’ve also visited friends a short drive south this
November, exploring new fields and woods, passing old cellar holes and their
long-forgotten stories: a hike with a different view and good company. We’ve
wandered some familiar trails close to home, too, with other friends – a posse
of kids happy to be out of school on a sunny day and oblivious to the scarcity
of color and the fact that it is dark these days at 5 o’clock. Happy oblivion,
it turns out, is contagious – at least for an afternoon.
Even on the gloomy-sky days, when I need a break from sitting
at the keyboard, I have headed into the woods out the back door with the dog,
who is always willing and good company. With the trees denuded of their leaves,
the landscape, though stark, is more giving. Without a canopy of foliage
blocking the way, woodpecker excavations are revealed, formerly hidden birds’
nests exposed, and various hollows visible high in the trees. I speculate some
of these may house the barred owls we hear calling, “Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoooah,” back
and forth in the dark of night throughout the year.
Amid the austerity of November’s backdrop – that dullish
palate after leaf fall, but before snow fall – the season’s sparing color, if
you look closely, is like a gift before winter. Deep crimson blackberry canes
rise vividly at the edge of the tawny field. The tiny, scarlet tips of “British
soldiers” lichens show bright atop their gray-green base on boulders and logs.
Faded gold beech leaves cling resolutely to their branches to
provide a bit of muted color and an almost cheerful rustling in the late fall
breeze. The black-splashed trunks of white birch pop through the drab backdrop.
Sulfur-shaded tamaracks, whose summer green blends inconspicuously into the
surrounding forest, stand out now in their late-fall yellow.
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| Our spindle tree adds a little bit of lovely to November. |
The brightest bit of color, reminiscent of summer’s endless
and cheerful hues, is from a small tree at the edge of our porch. A European spindle
tree, I think it is, planted long before we arrived at this house. From its
branches, which still hold their red-tinged leaves, hang small, bright pink, vaguely
heart-shaped lobes, each surrounding an impossibly orange orb. These, I’ve
learned recently, are the tree’s seeds: lovely, but poisonous.
I pass these unlikely bits of brilliance each November day
as I come into the house from my various travels. It seems odd to find such warmth
of color when I am shivering in my thick coat. Beyond their splash of pink and
orange lies the field in its pale November shades of worn brown and faded
russet, and beyond the field stand the mountains and their white peaks: summer
color and the winter that will soon envelop us in white, both bordering on
November’s in between.
Original content by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul, posted to her Blog: Writings From a Full Life. This essay also appears as Meghan's Close to Home column in the November 14, 2014 edition of the Littleton Record.
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