Normal

It's the end of November: The air is warm and electric with the slightest hint of humidity, the wind roars around you and then behind you and then through your hair, and leaves — two weeks ago saturated with yellows and reds — are now rigid and brittle. They skitter across the street like rats running from invisible predators.

Late November, to me, is the eeriest time of the year. Even the time around Halloween can't top it. Halloween's eeriness is mostly commercially constructed. Like everyone else, I play along because it's fun.

But late November's the real deal.

I'm sitting here with the windows open. The wind flares up and dies down every few seconds. FedEx planes are yawning overhead in steady intervals. Every now and then a chilly clip of air bursts through the screens, tickles my shoulders, recedes. Foreshadowing tonight, when the temperature is going to plunge to the twenties and welcome December with open, heavily sweatered arms.

Seems like for as long as I can remember, the end of November has been marked by the oddest weather of the year. Living in Tennessee is a constant exercise in second-guessing the seasons. We have seasons, unlike in some other states. But our seasons deserve a calendar all their own, because they are beholden to no traditional notions of when they should begin or end. It took me roughly twenty years to figure this out. I always assumed that Tennessee's weather patterns were an aberration of what's normal. Now I don't throw that word "normal" around nearly as much as I used to.