November

"The season of colds, which ran all the way through to the end of February, started in November, when the magical, golden enchantment of autumn days (the wine of the seasons, when the year held its breath at the approach of frost and fire) turned into the raw damp of the backend of the year, clogging leaves packed underfoot and chilling fog pervading everything. If I had to draw a picture of November, I think I would draw an old man in a grey macintosh, blowing his nose. Even the smoky delights of fireworks and baked potatoes on bonfire night do no more than hold off the depression of those creeping fingers of darkness and cold."

The Hawk and the Dove by Penelope Wilcock

For two people who absolutely LOVE November, this is a strange quote to choose as a favorite. I think it is the "wine of the seasons" comment that charms me. My daughter says that Wilcock is describing November so vividly, and that we love those qualities that she finds depressing. Of course, we live in Northern California, and this book is based in wet, cold England. We spend the broiling months of July and August dreaming of the "creeping fingers of darkness and cold." Every autumn I breathe a sigh of relief and contentment.