November is a month of mixed metaphors for me.

It is the time of the "dying of the light" in nature. I look into the English garden that my Katherine created and see the falling leaves, the fading color and the scurrying squirrels.

The days have been getting shorter since June, but November makes you know it. I go for a walk at 3:30 in the light and get home at 4:30 in darkness. I know that winter approaches.

November is the month of Veterans Day. This is always a difficult day for me. I attend a program to honor those who have served, but I also listen to recordings of "The Green Fields of France" and "The Band Played Waltzing Matilda." The program honors courage and love of country; the songs remind us of the vanity and stupidity of the politicians and generals whose decisions wipe out lives unnecessarily.

From my religious perspective, the month starts with reminders that we are but dust, but ends with anticipation of the joyous holy days and holidays of December with their family gatherings and the enchantment of little ones.

November brought me to the depths of despair regarding the future of democracy in America when John Kennedy was assassinated in 1963. This son of a once-despised minority had brought so much promise that anyone could rise to the top in America. Then he was gone.

But on a Tuesday in November 46 years later, the election of a son of the most mistreated minority in American history told me that Jack's promise had not died with him and that the American dream lived on.

November also brings Thanksgiving Day. It is a truly American holiday with fewer arguments about appropriate greetings and little or no commercialization. It is also the day on which I most miss those who are no longer physically present.

This November started with sadness. My friend Ray Labrecque died. He was diagnosed with mesothelioma in August and passed, appropriately, on All Saints Day. His dying cast a huge pall, but the reaction to Ray's passing brought warmth and appreciation of his goodness.

When his cancer had reached its end stages, Ray was moved to the Kaplan Family Hospice House. What a great decision on the part of Mona and their children! Hospice gave us all a chance to say a living goodbye to our noble friend, and it gave Ray's family time to reach acceptance.

Ray was not a famous man. But the line at the Berube funeral home was seemingly endless. People were there simply to say goodbye to a kind and generous man.

I was honored to be asked to do a reading from Ecclesiastes at Ray's funeral. It reminds us that there is "a time to be born, a time to die."

But one line bothered me: In Ray Labrecque's life, there was no "time for hate."

As we left the church, I had a cause for joy in the midst of the sorrow. Our dear friend Paul Higgins was there. Paul has not been well, and we embraced as though we'd won the Super Bowl. Paul loved Ray, too. His presence said it in spades.

So, yes, November's gloomy days remind us that we all approach the dying of the light, at least physically. When asked about the light of human life being extinguished, a sage responded that the light went out not because night had descended, but because morning was breaking and a new light had been lit.

¢¢¢

Brendan Walsh, a longtime educator in Salem, has written previously for the Opinion pages.