Moose Country Minute – November 16 2013


According to the poet T. S. Eliot, April is the cruelest month — “breeding lilacs out of dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.”
I think he was nuts.
November is the cruelest month, hands down.
When the clocks went back last week, those of us who spend too many long hours doing the hard slog start finding ourselves going to work in the dark and coming home in the dark.
And that’s cruel.
Eliot’s poem, part of a collection called The Waste Land, is a weird poem anyhow, and weirder in the fact that November doesn’t even get a mention.
Hunters love it, of course, because it marks the beginning of the deer hunt but, to those who only wear orange blaze to prevent getting shot, there is not much to like about November.
Give me snow that will at least reflect whatever light happens to break through the clouds.
The colours of October I love. That, and the crispness in the air that ebbs away in the warmth of the morning sun.
November, though, is just a bad patch of ugly.
The cruelest thing about it — right now at least — is that it is only halfway gone.

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