November, and the Feeling of Coming Home

There comes a point in a November afternoon when home begins to sound like a very good idea.

Perhaps we were playing football, tag, kickball, hopscotch, or Red Rover. Or chasing Frisbees in a field with others on a late Autumn afternoon. Walking thru the woods collecting fallen leaves for crafts. Or maybe raking leaves in the yard or for a neighbor. Splitting firewood. Taking the dog for a longer walk than the heat of Summer allowed.

A little earlier, we were perfectly content to keep going. Keep playing. One more play. One more quick game. Just a few more hickory pieces left to split. Or there was another bend in the path, something rustling beneath the leaves and another track to follow, a stretch of sunlight worth walking into.

Then the sun slips behind the trees, doesn’t it?

Our fingers are chilly and the shadows are getting longer. The November breeze has found its way down the back of our collar. And whatever lies around that next bend suddenly seems likely to keep until another day. And it is suddenly time to head home.

There is something satisfying about that part of an outing.

There is a particular pleasure in turning toward a familiar place after spending a few hours outdoors. Your feet know the way. The day has given you something to remember, even if it was only a funny encounter with a Squirrel who seemed to believe you were standing on property he managed.

Behind you as you walk, dry leaves scrape along the path. A few still cling to the branches overhead, catching the last of the light.

The dog stops to check out something that apparently requires yet another examination from his nose. He was ready to go home with you a moment ago but a curious smell takes precedence always.

But now there is this. November afternoons leave little room for such delays. The light thins between the trees, and familiar shapes begin to soften. You pull your jacket collar a little closer and walk on as the temperature drops another degree.

Then you see a light in a window.

Perhaps a porch lamp has come on. Perhaps someone is moving about in the kitchen, passing through that small square of brightness. Perhaps supper is on the stove. Is that woodsmoke or the aroma of bread baking in the oven?

Your pace picks up without even thinking about it.

As children, many of us became quite skilled at fitting one more adventure into the space between being called and actually arriving.

“One more minute!”

That was a hopeful estimate. It was always more like ten.

There might be a stick to retrieve, another beautiful red leaf to collect just ahead, a companion to part ways with, one more play to determine the winner, or an important discovery that could hardly be abandoned merely because somebody had mentioned supper. Most of the time it was never really serious until the louder third call using our full name. There was no more delaying after that one without the risk of jeopardizing dessert.

But once you started back in earnest, you knew what you were looking forward to. Cold hands would quickly warm. Shoes would come off. You could tell someone where you had been, what you had seen, and why the mud on your trousers was largely unavoidable. A mug of hot chocolate, perhaps. A plump marshmallow on top?

Perhaps home is a different place now than the one we hurried toward as children. Even so, a chilly November evening can bring back that familiar pleasure of arriving.

The key turns. The door opens.

For a moment, you carry the outdoors in with you — cool air in your sleeves, a leaf caught against your shoe, the faint smell of woodsmoke lingering on your coat.

Inside are the little things you know without looking. The place where your keys go. The lamp switch within reach. A chair that has been accommodating your particular way of sitting for years.

You put the kettle on.

If there is a dog waiting inside, your arrival may bring about a celebration wholly out of proportion to the length of your absence. You could have crossed three counties or merely gone out for the mail. Either way, you are back, and this is excellent, tail-wagging news.

It is a lovely thing, being welcomed so thoroughly.

And on an evening when the house is quiet, there can still be pleasure in tending to your own arrival. Turn on the lamp you like. Make something warm to drink. Put a little music on, or enjoy the quiet after the wind.

You can take a few minutes before deciding what needs doing next.

The afternoon can follow you to your chair. You may remember the colors of the Autumn sky as the sun set behind bare branches, or the bird you heard but never managed to see. There was that patch of sunlight, too, just where the path turned.

Tomorrow, you might go that way again.

For now, the cup warms your hands. Outside, the remaining leaves stir against the window, and the yard gradually disappears into dusk and evening.

You have been out in the world. You have seen and experienced a little of what the day had to offer. And now you can settle in and enjoy being home.

Unless, of course, the dog is standing by the door again.

There may be something he forgot to sniff.

Till next time then —

Jim (and Red!)

A Little Red Bear P.S. —

Jim says there is something special about coming home before dark. I agree, although sometimes he stops to admire so many trees along the way that we get to admire them again by moonlight.

I have found that mentioning dessert usually helps him pick up the pace.

You can appreciate an Autumn sunset and still get home in time for apple crisp. But it does help to know when to start walking.

— Red 🐾