The dying of another year

This is the last day of November. November rolls in on a cool breeze, with colored leaves and the last days of football season. November leaves us with rain and cold winds and the end of expectations. The old year is slowly dying. The days are interminably darker, shorter. Still, I am riding the tide of coming birthdays and Christmas around the corner. In another thirty days, the last great season of darkness and artificial lights will end with New Year's.

When I was a teenager, I loved New Years. My parents stayed out late and came home after midnight. We went to sleep in a new year, with new possibilities and the chances of a new year. The next day was football followed by football followed by football until we ended with the Orange Bowl which was always played in Miami under the lights. I could have allegiances which bore no relation to any school I had attended. Nothing was personal. Everything was family. We cheered for schools our parents attended, or in states in which we had lived.

We ate blackeyed peas and greens and feasted on pork. Corn bread with butter. There were traditions to live by. Rules. How many of those rules are around now? Everything is tenuous, temporal and temporary.

Alas.