Yesterday, November decided to quit kidding around. Apparently she got tired of playing nice, of being mistaken for October or some other light-hearted, mild-mannered month.   The exuberant blue sky and bright white clouds were banished.  A dull gray dome descended, poised threateningly just above the treetops, blocking any appearance of sunlight.  A fierce wind whipped up, blasting most of the last leaves from the trees, and whirling them round and round in impressive spirals.  I could almost hear the eleventh month shrieking angrily,  “Have you forgotten who I am?  You won’t forget me now!”

I had forgotten. Walking with Kiko, I was ill-prepared, like a student who had neglected to study for a test I’d known about for weeks.

But in the bitter cold, it was time to face the real November, the one that requires determination, a wool scarf and better gloves.  And, I think, some warmer jacket.   What was it, and where did I put it?