O How I Love November

 

 

O how I love November

Our Independence month!

It speaks of hardship and struggle

But also, of triumph.

 

The songs of folklore

And sweet, sweet calypso,

The National Festival of Creative Arts

And the talent on show.

 

School choirs and bands

Drama and steel pan,

The old, the young and in between;

‘Tis something grand.

 

 

 

From Errol to Mia:

Independence to the Republic

And all that had the opportunity

To run the state ship.

 

 

 

Two months of celebration

Beginning in November,

Looking back with pride and industry

On the good we remember.

 

Recalling the bad too

And the lessons learnt

But moreover, the drive to improve

That in us burnt.

 

Everyone a neighbour

And one big community,

Lacking many of today’s amenities

But one family.

 

Progress was sought

And progress was gained

As back-in-time Barbadians fought

In sunshine and rain.

 

They gained for us

The present that we have

Though not living to see us having

What they never had.

 

November is the month

When we reminisce

On the beauty of a time long past

And the things we miss.

 

 

 

Lending and borrowing

Yes, and paying back,

Exchanging yams for potatoes:

Battering like that.

 

Living in community then

Scarcely a homicide

And when eight o’clock struck,

Every child inside.

 

Children had to stay out

Of big people’s business

For back then such was considered

Being fresh.

 

Sunday school and church

Was a definite must

Which was a clear indication back then

In whom we trust.

 

Overseas trips

Was a drive in the country

Or spending vacation at some family

In St Andrew or St Lucy.

 

There were cane-fields for so

With tracks for roads

Evidence of the many cane-trucks

Carrying sugary loads.

 

Not to mention fruit trees

Varied and abundant

With fat-pork, cashews and grapes

Also in attendant.

 

Country boy never starved

With these fruits around,

No wonder that back in those days

They rarely saw town.

 

 

 

Those drives were great

On the Rocklyn bus

With bus-drivers that could handle

Even when in a rush.

 

I enjoyed the winding hills

As I traversed St. Andrew

And those open-all-around busses

Allowed a great view.

 

Of course, as I might add,

Until it began to rain

For then the canvas sides came down

Musty and stained.

 

That’s when I became sorry

Having sat at an end

For the scent emitted therefrom

Did seriously offend.

 

O how I love November

And all that pertains

Especially when I hear our anthem

With its melodious strains.

 

 

The clash of the cymbal

And the rolling of the drum

And when not knowing the words

I could only hum.

 

Standing like a soldier

And repeating our pledge

Knowing that these actual words

Our fore parents never said.

 

Gazing on our flag

Pointing out a wind stream

And fully understanding for a while

What it really means.

 

 

 

Free from Great Britain

And its colonial ties

Although a few may still believe

This was not wise. 

 

O how I love November

Today being day #8

And a good time to remind us we are

Craftsmen of our fate.

 

Stewart Russell © November 8, 2025