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

 

Neighbourliness

 

 

At four different locations

I have been privileged to live

And I thank God for the neighbours

In every instant He gives.

 

First it was St Andrew

In my formative years

And back in those early times

Neighbours showed they cared.

 

Battering was a thing then

As they exchanged their produce

Your yams for my potatoes

Or anything else you choose.

 

No need to lock doors

And there was no fancy fence,

Country yards were not enclosed;

No need for pretense.

 

 

Next it was Government Hill:

More precise, Brankers Gap

And our neighbours were just as good,

This is a fact.

 

There was a shop next door

And this lady was so nice,

She would help wherever she could

And give us good advice.

 

She was a great peacemaker

And not given to rumour

With a bright twinkle in her eyes,

Able to appreciate humour.

 

I could give you some names

But that I wouldn’t do,

It really won’t make any sense

At least to most of you.

 

Eventually I married

And we moved to Christ Church,

Exceptional neighbours we had

Never once were we hurt.

 

 

 

We looked out for one another

And held each other’s hand,

There in that Wotton community

Was super grand.

 

We chatted about life

And the politics of that time,

We discussed religion and cricket

And whatever came to mind.

 

One thing we did not do

Was frequent each other’s home,

There was a mutual understanding

This was our private zone.

 

We felt a sense of security

As vital information was shared,

We were all community watchmen

Demonstrating we cared.

 

We sold the house at Wotton

And we moved where we now are,

They call it the Gardens,

To be more precise, Callenders.

 

 

  

Callenders Gardens, Christ Church

Is a God-given gift,

All good things come from Him

If you catch my drift.

 

Great neighbours all around

Especially next door,

In all honesty I can only say

We couldn’t ask for more.

 

Even as I was sharing with you

I heard the telephone ring,

My neighbor was checking on me,

Isn’t that something?

 

And not my next door neigbour;

They are currently overseas

But my neighbor who is ninety-eight,

Wouldn’t you be pleased!

 

The thing about these neighbours

Is that they are all very old;

In their late eighties and nineties-

Yes, you have been told.

 

Except for a husband and wife

Residing at the end of the gap:

They are in their early eighties-

Did you get that?

 

Makes me a youngster

If you can see where I am going

For having only just turned seventy,

There’s much I am not knowing.

 

God has abundantly blessed me

With extraordinary neighbours,

How can I help by thank Him

For his continual favour!

 

Nothing like good neighbours

That make you a part of their plan,

I sincerely pray and trust today

You are as fortunate as I am.

 

Stewart Russell © June 29, 2023