November. In like a lion, out like a lamb. No, sorry, I think that might be March, but really, November always seems to be either a lion or a lamb, doesn’t it?
If you were drawing a picture of November, anthropomorphizing a month, it would be this thing with a big head of a lion, a body that’s part fur and part fuzz, with a little lamb’s tail wagging away at the back end.
A weird beast, November.
And you never know what kind of animal November is going to be any given day of the month. One day you’ll be digging out the lawn chair that you put away for winter, having coffee out in the crisp sun-drenched afternoon, and the next day you’ll be searching for the long underwear and plugging in the car.
As kids, we always thought of November as a three-month stretch between the fun and excitement of October Halloween and the fun and excitement of Christmas December. November takes forever.
When the trees are sticks, and the days are shorter and you never know whether the air is going to feel fresh and happy, or harsh and mean.
I can clearly remember November at Coronation Park at the bottom of Michener Hill, playing weekend football with my friends. Pretending we were in the Grey Cup. Tackle football, no equipment, no brains. November, and not even wearing jackets.
The big tree at the northwest end was one goal post, the bushes at the Ross Street end, the other goal line.
We’d play all Sunday afternoon, forming a huddle, calling ridiculously elaborate plays and then just hike the ball and run for our lives, before Brian or Fred, who even then were the size of actual CFL tacklers, could flatten you. It was the equivalent of being hit by a fully loaded city bus.
But those were good Novembers, when your cheeks were red with cold fresh air, your hair soaked with sweat, your bruises big and purple.
Other Novembers, Rick and John and I used to skulk the bush in what is now Barrett Park, east of Parkvale. It was a place full of adventure, especially if you had a slightly overactive imagination, and didn’t mind if you were roasting one minute and a shivering frozen lump the next.
One November afternoon, we snuck through the intricate paths in the dense willows and the thick bush and the towering trees because we could hear sounds coming from somewhere in the middle of the labyrinth. Human sounds. Just like our heroes in the Paramount Theatre matinees, we were stealthy bushmen, sneaking up on a mysterious tribe in the middle of the exotic untamed jungle.
And then suddenly, before we knew it, we pulled back the branches and walked right smack into the enemy camp! And quite a camp it was.
In the clearing, about the size of a living room, was an old couch, some half-broken lawn chairs, some blankets and even an old table. In the middle was a small campfire.
A half-dozen tribespeople sprawled on the couch and blankets jumped up, startled, and we immediately realized we had stumbled into one of the most dangerous tribes in all the land. Teenagers.
The teenager girls let out a little yelp like November lambs, the teenage guys roared. November lions.
We elementary school losers had made the cardinal error of walking straight into a major teenager secret makeout den!
It’s amazing how fast you can run through the tangled bush when you are being chased by angry teenagers who have not only had their secret hangout discovered, but were also interrupted in the midst of getting up close and personal with other teenagers of the opposite gender.
And not that long after we narrowly escaped the clutches of the Teenager Makeout Tribe, November morphed again. Instant winter, and back we were at the bush. Only this time, we headed through the snowy trails in our winter boots, mitts and tuques, circling a long way around the enemy camp, to Waskasoo Creek at the bottom of the east hill.
Because in those days, long before anyone officially invented waterslides, there actually was one on that hill. Well, that’s what we Saturday Matinee Adventurers called it.
What it was, actually, was a cement chute, a long open trough from the top of the hill up in Grandview all the way down to the creek. It was an above-ground storm water drain I guess, that directed overflow rainwater from the street into the creek, but to us it was the longest playground slide in town.
So when November froze a thin layer of ice on that cement trench like a dead straight and steep bobsled track, we misguided maniacs were the first ones there.
We’d scramble and scrabble our way up the hill beside the drain — I don’t think any of us had the guts or the stupidity to go all the way from the very top — and then one by one, we’d climb over the waist-high cement wall into the drain, hanging onto both sides for dear life, slippery boots pointing straight down, crouching…. And then letting go, screaming bloody murder all the way down.
Luckily for our chances of survival, the end of the slide didn’t launch straight off into the air over the shallow Waskasoo Creek. It ended in long snow-covered grass on the bank, so at least when we shot out of that chute like a human cannonball, there was a snowbank cushion of sorts there to keep the physical damage to a minimum.
“Sweet November” I’ve heard it called. And snow or sun, lion or lamb, I like to remember the Novembers when we were running and tackling and sliding and crashing and it didn’t matter if it was summer or fall or winter. We just embraced what every day brought with it.
I wish I could still do that. Except for the bobsled storm drain part. I think I used up my November luck a long time ago.
Harley Hay is a local freelance writer, author, musician and filmmaker. His column appears on Saturdays.