For the first time today, I had to navigate the winding mountain roads between Chattanooga and Nashville during scattered flurries. Gusts of wind rocked my van, and fog crept, thin and grey, over the asphalt. Though these poor conditions demanded most of my attention, I saw bronze pines and skeletal maples dusted white, shivering along the roadside. Where the visibility was good, I could see them littered across the rolling mountain tops. It was breathtaking. I lamented my lack of a camera the entire trip. That wasn’t the only thing I lamented, though. When it comes to the beginning and ending of the seasons, I don’t abide by the calendar, so to me, seeing snow means that fall has come and gone without much showmanship. And suddenly time has flown like that. It’s November.