A Walker in the Suburbs

Novemberness is not a word, but I’m making it one with this post. Why shouldn’t we turn a month into a state of being? Melville did it: “Whenever it is a damp, dreary November in my soul…”

My experience with November is not as gloomy. I’ve always liked the month, the coziness of its early darkness, its lamplit afternoons. Thanksgiving brightening it, distracting us, and at its very end, the birthdays of two people I love.

The syllable “ness” turns adjectives into nouns: goodness, sweetness, faithfulness. The “ness” of “Novemberness” turns a proper noun into a quality or condition. Novemberness is the quality of being November, and this year we have more November to enjoy it.

I speak, of course, of the feast day happening in just two days and its placement this year, which is the latest it can possibly happen, given that it happens on the fourth Thursday of the month. Merchants are decrying it — seven fewer days to shop! — and devotees of Hallmark Christmas films are ignoring it and beginning their seasonal rituals anyway.

But I’m savoring it. I’m reveling in the stillness, in the few bright leaves that still cling to branches. I’m enjoying having more of a month that is too often rushed and folded into holiday folderol. I’m celebrating Novemberness.

We come now to the acoustic season. On paths and trails, lawns and clearings, leaves pile and crisp. They gather in corners and culverts, land softly on hedges and hollies. And when I walk through them, they talk back.

They crinkle and crackle. They swish and snap. They carry in their once full-veined selves the memory of green days and insects singing.

You cannot move through them quietly. Even small squirrels make big noises when they play. Autumn leaves amplify our footfalls, reveal our passage. They keep us honest.

Yesterday’s walk was exquisite: bright sun, temperature in the 70s, leaves a perfect mix of green and gold with an occasional orange or russet in the mix. I found myself looking up most of the time.

I also noticed more shade than usual. At first I thought it was further proof of tree maturity, how the oaks and poplars bend toward each other, making a tunnel above the road. But a closer look showed me that tree tunnels weren’t creating this extra shade, it was individual trees casting long shadows.

This might seem a “duh” observation. It’s that time of year, after all. The light is lowering; shadows are lengthening. What struck me yesterday, though, is how nature makes dying beautiful. Because these mellow October afternoons don’t fool me for a minute. I know where they’re taking us. But maybe, just maybe, that isn’t such a bad place after all.

The backyard is taking on an autumnal tone. Yesterday while bouncing on the trampoline, I spied traces of unexpected color in the shiny green hollies. At first I thought the lowering sun was playing tricks on my eyes, lighting up the trees from within.

Then I clambered down and inspected more closely. It was the Virginia creeper, lowly vine, thought a weed by some but looking its spiffiest this time of year.

How the yellows and oranges teased out the grandeur of those prickly bushes, made them shine. One of autumn’s many surprises, and a welcome one.