Early November has always been a dark time for me, literally and figuratively.

The culprit is Daylight Savings Time — something that’s never made a lick of sense. So now it gets light an hour earlier, bringing joy unbounded to people who love to get up at dawn, damn their big bright eyes. But I’m not one of them.

I believe we’re all meant for some purpose, and mine is sleeping late. Yeah sure, I did that get-up-early gig my whole working life and I did it uncomplainingly … more or less. But once I was no longer driving a tow truck in the breakdown lane of academe, fergit it.

So now I snooze and laze my mornings away, as God intended. And then what? Then I go out and face the day, or more exactly, what’s left of it, for it seems right after it gets light, it gets dark. This is great for early morning peeps, and no doubt for Peeping Toms too, but it’s not great for me. And thus I’m not down with the change — I’m just down.

As you might expect, being bummed out by decreased daylight has become an official syndrome, with of course a catchy acronym — SAD, for Seasonal Affective Disorder. It’s characterized by fatigue, depression, hopelessness and social withdrawal — perfect pseudo-scientific descriptors for what we locals always called Cabin Fever.

For most folks, I think Cabin Fever is worst in March and April, but not for me. My psycho-spiritual nadir runs from the beginning of November till mid-January.

Once winter’s in full swing, so am I. If winter cooperates, we get sunlight, bright blue skies, and snow galore, which makes me feel like I’m in a living Currier and Ives print, or better yet, my very own snow globe.

Yeah, sure, winter is cold. But it’s supposed to be. And if you don’t wanna be cold, the solution is simple: Dress for it. Or as those madcap masters of lightheartedness, the Scandinavians say, “There’s no bad weather, only bad clothes.” And if you don’t wanna wear the right clothes? Suffer. It’s a free country and all that, ya know.

Another beauty of winter — and to me, the beauty — is Winter Carnival. Aside from the 10 days of Carnival itself, I’m all alive and abuzz for the entire month leading up to it, and am warmed by all its memories for the month follows. And then, before I know it, spring has sprung … and so have I.

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Partyin’ with the Pagans

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As I said, my darkness downer starts in early November, and that’s because one of my Year’s biggest highlights is Halloween.

Halloween’s origins are Celtic, celebrating their holiday of Samhain (which for any of you Druid wannabes is pronounced Sah-wen), and is thought to be over 2000 years old. It signified the change from summer to winter, when the border between our world and the spirit world was at its thinnest, thus the spirits could slip in and haul us away to The Great Beyond. According to legend, in order to prevent such astral abductions, the Celts donned costumes and disguises of various kinds, so the spirits would be fooled into thinking we were one of their own. They also had rituals, bonfires and singalongs.

While that bit about dressing up to fool the spirits is the legend behind Samhain, I think they did it for the same reason we do — for a bunch of freaky fun.

For as long as I can remember, I loved Halloween. In grade school, it was the highlight of my school year (except for the last day of school). I was a kid who never liked school, till college, not the least because of how early I got ripped out of my cozy warm bed and force-marched off the the front lines. In fact, the only time I liked to go to school was Halloween.

For days before the holiday itself, we worked on our props. We made cards for our parents and each other; we drew, cut out and pasted together the standard icons — pumpkins, ghosts, tombstones, witches — to decorate the classroom walls (and to get the dee-lish bonus of munching bunches of glue). We also read some kinds of spooky stories (The Headless Horseman was de rigeur). And then, on the blessed day itself, we got to wear our costumes to school. It was Gothic Drag at its best.

In the later grades, like fifth and sixth, I don’t recall us doing any of that schmeer, or wearing costumes in school — we were supposed to be more grown-up by then. But it didn’t matter, because I was old enough to go out and trick-or-treat on my own. This was a huge deal for two reasons. One, of course, I got to stuff my gaping maw with every manner of candy known to humankind, which, sugar freak that I was (and am), was as close to heaven on Earth as it gets. And two, it was the only night I was allowed to stay out late on a school night.

I don’t know exactly how late I was out till — it probably wasn’t much past eight. But schlepping the whole neighborhood, combined with being afloat on a three hour sugar high, left both me and my Islets of Langerhans completely exhausted, and ready for a very welcome night’s sleep.

Contrary to The Night Before Christmas, I didn’t dream of sugarplums (which aren’t plums at all), but of real lowbrow confections like Tootsie Rolls, root beer barrels, Sugar Daddies, Atomic Fireballs, red licorice twists, and so on.

And then, in the morning, in spite of the assault on my insulin stores and tooth enamel, I woke up refreshed, renewed and able to walk in the jute mill with a heart full of song. And even better, with all my pockets full of sweets.