November Has Given Notice

Rodger Morrow

Editor & Publisher, Beaver County Almanac

“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship.”

That is Ishmael, explaining himself at the start of Moby-Dick. November had soured him so badly that he signed aboard a whaler without first meeting the captain. The captain turned out to be Ahab. Anyone who has spent November in western Pennsylvania will understand the oversight.

I am neither falling on a sword nor going to sea. Outside my window in Bridgewater it is sunny and seventy degrees. The river seems willing to go on like this indefinitely. So am I.

The almanac says otherwise.

That is the trouble with publishing something called an almanac. You cannot claim afterward that nobody warned you.

November is giving us a few pleasant days while its associates back the truck up to the door. Soon there will be darkness before dinner, a wind with something personal against your ears, and a windshield that needs an instrument last seen in April.

The trees have received their instructions. They are dropping their leaves with the air of employees clearing their desks before an unpleasant announcement.

Around Beaver County we know the sequence. First we admire the leaves. Then we rake them. Then the neighbor’s tree makes a second delivery. Nature likes to keep its customers busy.

We still have Thanksgiving, civilization’s sensible answer to all this. Before the cold settles in, we sit down together and eat everything that might otherwise need storing. There are worse ways to admit the limits of human control. Ishmael’s way began with sharing a bed with a harpooner.

I like that November permits gratitude without demanding optimism. We need not believe the weather will improve to be glad of the people passing the potatoes. We need only notice that they are here, the food is hot, and somebody remembered the pie.

Winter will have the floor soon enough. Today the sun is on the river, and I can sit by the window without negotiating with the thermostat.

I intend to enjoy it. November has served notice, but I see no reason to help it move in.