I have met people who say they actually like it when the time change brings early day darkness along with cold rain, snow and otherwise nasty weather.
I am a spring person pretty much, but do enjoy the low sun months of October and November, as you know. There is a cozy cottage mystique about this time of year when we cloister in our little nesties and light a fire in the fireplace and sip a little Cabernet as we curl with the new Stephen King thriller.
Yep, there is something to be said for the current pre-holiday time period when thoughts are beginning to turn to turkey dinners laced with sweet potatoes and ambrosia salads, and the big next holiday which Santa is already out there promoting.
There's an electricity of anticipation in the atmosphere. One that quickly dies after Jan. 1 with only dismal weather and long nights ahead and no eggnog or presents in crinkly wrapping paper to light our way.
Such are the seasons of living.
We make memories at Christmas time that stay with us and our children forever. Who doesn't recall Christmas eves when we were kids, and the setting of major tables upon linen only appearing at this time? Gone are those days linking us to past holidays, but blessed be the recollections in which we can all revel. Maybe that special wreath mom made and always hung over the front door has somewhere been lost, and dad's plywood reindeer are rotting beneath the methane aroma of a garbage dump.
Never mind, because this year is another memory for the children in us all. Maybe this one will be the one we will never, ever forget in minute detail.
Memories are funny little dickens. Just the other day I was pecking away on my HP Windows 7 when my wife, Sally – now my bride for nearly 37 years – taps me on the shoulder and asks: "What were you doing 40 years ago?"
Since I have trouble remembering where I was 15 minutes ago, I simply answered that I had no idea, all the while shivering that she had remembered something bad I'd done and still hadn't paid penance enough to be forgiven.
She handed me a fading bundle of pages and simply stood there smirking.
It was a letter of some love I had sent to her before we were man and wife, and it was long and filled with, well, stuff I am glad you, nor my children or grandchildren (maybe great grandchildren, fully grown, would be OK) will never see.
Wow, what sheer poetry!
Memories of writing it flooded back to me. I remember a dwindling bottle of wine before me at a seaside restaurant as I penned away my soul.
By the time the lengthy tome was done, so was the bottle, and I had faded into the realm of dreamland as I wrote the final lines.
Memories like that are perhaps not remembered until they are shocked back, and they then are recollected with vivid accuracy.
Ah, the days of wine and prose, like Christmas memories, keep us in touch with our original selves.