ponderingsat80’s posterous

November was an unpleasant month when I lived alone in the country. The weather strangely enough did not bother me; I, in fact, enjoyed the mood. I liked the shorter days, the darkness and the rain . . .  I liked the smell of dead leaves and water soaked earth – I liked the cosiness I felt when I lit a fire in the fireplace and curled up with music and a book; or baked cookies and made applesauce that added to the settling-in feeling.  And it was exciting when the first snowfall of the season arrived – everything looked bright and fresh as the snow stuck to the trees and covered the ground with a light dusting.  I liked it because I knew it would not stay - the ground was not yet frozen and it would quickly melt.  I also loved that the trees were bare and I could look deep into the woods and see the neighbour’s house up the road. But as much as all this pleased  me, I chose to pack up and leave.  Why?  Because November was also hunting season, and the woods behind my house were tremendously inviting to hunters. I worried I might be easy prey for reckless or inebriated men armed with rifles or bow and arrow.    I felt terribly vulnerable as a woman living alone, so I packed my things, grabbed my little dog and fled to the city.

 I was not alone to feel this way - people around me were wary at that time of year; it was not uncommon to hear of a stray bullet coming through a window or hitting someone's car!  Hunters lurking in the woods made me uneasy about driving on country roads and I avoided that as much as possible.

 Twice!  I got broken into during the fall season.  The first time happened when I left for only a short trip to the city: I came back to find the door kicked in and everything turned upside down; clothing and items from bureau drawers were scattered  everywhere; mattresses were turned over and lay half off the beds, and contents from my kitchen cupboards and drawers were spread all over the place.  But other than a small Dictaphone belonging to my husband, nothing was taken.   There was not much for them to take – the television and radio dated back to the beginning of time, and in the drawers were mainly baby clothes belonging to my little granddaughter who had stayed with me for a few days. It was scary, and I am amazed I was able to live there alone after that.

 The second time I was broken-into was much worse:  The house had just been renovated:  New doors and windows, new bathroom . . .  fresh paint throughout the house.  It was November and hunters again were on the roads and I once again made my escape to the city.  A few days later I received a phone call from the neighbour to whom I entrusted a key and who checked my house while I was away. “You’ve been broken into!” He yelled into the phone, as though he needed somehow to impress me.  He was terribly agitated and although I was upset, I kept my calm and asked if he would go back to the house and call me on my cordless phone so that I could walk him through the house and he could tell me what was missing.  It was a much bigger haul this time – they took all of my electronic equipment (except the old television that had been passed on to us from an elderly uncle).  In fact, the caretaker had to use my regular phone – the cordless one was gone!    

 I cannot believe I had the courage to drive out and sleep there that night.  But I did.  And the next day – before calling my insurance agent – I placed a call to an alarm company, and within a week, an alarm system complete with panic button next to my bed, was installed.

 An alarm system in the country! where living near nature should have meant peace and quiet and joy . . . An alarm system that scared me more than it helped – I kept worrying I might set it off by accident which happened on more than one occasion and the police came for nothing.   I knew that if there were too many false alarms I could be fined – or worse – they would not come at all!

 The robbers had taken more than my meagre possessions - they had ruined my quiet life and taken away my peace and feeling of security.   Shortly after the second break-in I put my house up for sale.

 It is  now the month of November, and I write in the security of my city condo; there is an alarm system to alert in case of fire or a break-in, and a panic button to summon help in an emergency.  This system is not only necessary, it is reassuring -  especially for older people living alone.  I gaze out my kitchen window and see bushes and trees nearly bare of their leaves and I see an empty swimming pool that belongs to the Sporting Club next door; yet, in spite of the comfort and security offered to me here, I still miss the melancholy feeling I experienced when living in the country, and the cosiness of an open fire . . . the smell of applesauce now simmering on the stove, permeates my kitchen and fills me with nostalgia for that part of Novembers that I loved and remember so well.