We all, for various reasons, have our favorite months, don’t we?

For many, it’s their birthday month. After all, it’s always nice to receive something, even if it’s only a bit of recognition, for having made it once again.

For others it might be a seasonal sort of thing. April or May when flowers burst into bloom, perhaps July when the water warms and the sun hangs high over your favorite beach, or maybe October when the leaves splash forth with their vibrant colors and the trees seem to glow.

As I’ve gotten older, however, I’ve developed a certain fondness for November, and I’m not exactly sure why. It reminds a little bit of when I was a boy and didn’t know quite what to make of the craggy old neighbor who lived down the street. His face was etched with lines that indicated he may have seen some tough times and he usually wore a plaid red jacket that could best be described as shabby.

His personality did not exude warmth, but as I was later to find out he was actually a kindly old gent, who did not have much family to speak of and only wanted to keep to himself. He was distinct in his solitude and carried with him a certain pride about that distinction.

Robert Frost’s poem November begins like this:

We saw leaves go to glory,

Then almost migratory

Go part way down the lane,

And then to end the story

Get beaten down and pasted

In one wild day of rain.

It’s getting colder now and the trees stand still, unadorned. Thanks, November, I’ve enjoyed your company once again.