A
time for … any purpose?
Bill Meredith
To every Thing there is a Season, and a Time
for every Purpose under the Heavens…
Ecclesiastes
The 20th of the month is the deadline for
submitting articles to the Dispatch, and I
waited as long as I could in hopes that
something worth writing about would happen, but
nothing did. November is like that… an orphan
among the seasons, a time when the leaves are
practically all gone, so it isn’t really fall,
but it’s not really cold enough to be winter
either. It’s a nondescript month. Even the
name, November, is simply a number; it came from
the Latin word, novum, which referred to its
position as the ninth month in the Roman
calendar.
Ecologically, this is always a quiet time,
and this year the drought has made it more so.
The last time it rained enough to register on my
rain gauge was October 15, and there hadn’t
been much rain for several weeks before that.
The summer birds left earlier than usual this
year, because of the dryness, I suppose. The
winter birds arrived on schedule in October, but
they haven’t started congregating around
feeders as much as usual; most of them are
hanging out around the creek instead of in town.
Local ponds are low or completely dry, and
migratory waterfowl are sticking close to the
coastline; aside from the resident mallards and
Canada geese, I’ve seen only one duck (a
bufflehead) and a few snow geese in this area.
Audubon Society sources on the internet are
saying this will be a good year for northern
birds; according to them, boreal chickadees,
evening grosbeaks, crossbills and redpolls are
headed our way. But they seem determined not to
reach Emmitsburg until November is past.
Most plants have hunkered down for the
winter. The only exceptions I’ve noticed are a
few dandelions who apparently got their
photoperiods mixed up and thought the shortness
of the days meant it was March, and started
blooming. This always happens, though; my
college botany professor actually believed the
fall dandelions were a different species from
the spring ones, but that was in the days before
we knew how plants tell time. Life was simpler
then.
In my childhood memories, November was a much
more exciting time. Early in the month was
leaf-burning time. Everyone raked the remains of
the gardens and all the leaves in the yard into
piles and set them on fire, and they smoldered
for days; the whole countryside reeked of leaf
smoke. That isn’t done any more, and it’s a
shame; that smell was a common experience that
everyone shared, a lost bit of our culture. I
understand the reasons we now have for banning
fires, but I sometimes think it would be a good
idea for the town to collect a few truckloads of
leaves, pile them in the middle of the ballfield,
and burn them. Fire trucks could be on hand to
make sure everything stayed under control.
School could be canceled one afternoon for the
occasion, and buses could bring the kids in to
stand around and smell the smoke. It would
expose them to part of their cultural heritage,
and it would be as educational as a lot of the
field trips they take.
The end of the month was also exciting,
because butchering day always was around
Thanksgiving time. We always had two or three
hogs to butcher, and family tradition decreed
that by the time Thanksgiving came, it was cold
enough to hang the meat up for curing. Those
were the days before deep freezers were
available, and also before global warming; it
seems to me that winters were colder then. We
would get up at 4:00 in the morning and build a
huge bonfire to heat the water that the hogs
were to be dipped in so the hair could be
scraped off the carcasses. Some of our more
well-to-do neighbors had steel oil drums for
that purpose, and they could be filled with
water and set directly in the fire; but we had
only a wooden barrel, so obviously we couldn’t
heat the water that way. We had to put rocks in
the fire until they were as hot as possible, and
then drop them into the barrel. It seemed to
take forever to get the water hot enough.
Lifting the hogs into the barrel was a job for
at least two men, so neighbors typically got
together to do their butchering; it was a social
occasion, and it took all day to get two or
three hogs hung and cut up. Then the next few
days were spent rendering lard and grinding
sausage.
Ah, yes, the good old days. I don’t think I
ever got colder, or more tired, or smelled worse…
but wouldn’t it be nice to do it again just
once? I wonder how many permits I would have to
get to build a fire in the back yard and kill a
pig when the grandchildren are all here for
Thanksgiving…? On second thought, maybe I’ll
just tell them about it.