My “Reading Woman” wall calendar for November shows a woman sitting at her table, hunched over a book, a cup of tea at her elbow. There appears to be no instant music device plugged into her ears. Nor is there a laptop or cell phone nearby.

This is definitely one old-fashioned November woman. But she’s a good model for what some believe nature intended us to do in the darker time of the year. Go quiet, hibernate. Be grateful when the weather turns wet and cold for an excuse to stay inside and read big books.

This is often hard to do with a painful recession and ongoing wars and 24-hour news hysteria making the worst of both. But sometimes you have to declare a recess and turn off your own internal hard drive.

I discovered another way to celebrate the change from light to dark by going on a full moon hike in a nearby state park. I joined a group of dedicated moon hikers. They don’t just walk into a cornfield and gaze up at a harvest moon. They climb a mountain in search of la Luna.

They warned that the hike is a challenging one although this day they wouldn’t be charging up and back at their usual fast pace. A steep trail on dirt and pavement lead us through forest and grassland, heavily scented by bay laurel. It was hot and dry, but the sun’s late afternoon shimmer turned everything golden. And even thought it was a definite cardio workout, my heart held and my lower back didn’t yelp and the others were encouraging as we approached the top of the world.

The summit produced views of the Pacific Ocean, San Francisco Bay and assorted famous Bay Area peaks. But best of all was the show performed by the sun and the moon. A blood orange sun hovered above Bodega Bay just as a silver moon bobbed up over the Napa Valley. A pink cloud layer, like a little girl’s pillow, held up the moon.

For a while there was a solar-lunar standoff. And then the sun bowed out, melting into lava-like streaks that poured into the ocean, leaving the sky to the proud plump moon. The whole thing was so well choreographed you had to applaud. People laughed and took photos of each other because how often do you get to pose with a full moon sitting on your shoulder?

The superstition is that during a full moon dogs bite and people get a little nutty, sometimes murderous, and women are wildly fertile. We know it pulls on the tides and some say it can cause earthquakes. Face to face I can attest that it makes you giddy and grateful for mountains and moonlight and all the dazzling beauty we get for free.

The descent was like walking down Nob Hill in San Francisco in high heels, hoping you don’t trip and go into a freefall. We were escorted to the bottom by the light of the moon, night animal noises and a flyover by bats. Many in the hardy group went off to dinner and a movie. I went home to a hot bath and was sore for days. But I’d made it to the moon and back and am now ready for the long nights, a cup of tea and a book.

Susan Swartz is an author and journalist in Sebastopol, California You can also read her at www.juicytomatoes.com and hear her Another Voice commentary on KRCB-FM radio on Fridays. Email is susan@juicytomatoes.com

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A whopper storm was forecast. A real soaker would be an exciting kick-off for the rainy season. At the same time we were looking forward to a new baby in the family. While there had been a flurry of tiny cousins produced by the other side, our immediate tribe had not had an infant join us since the last great arrival of our granddaughter three years ago.

With an eye on the heavens and an ear to the phone, we began a baby and storm watch, hurrying to finish a yard project. Once the rain or the baby came, there would be no time to spend dragging around flagstones.

On that weekend clouds skittered around and the sky looked like it wanted to do something meaningful. And the expectant parents reported things could happen any time. There was rumbling on both fronts but no action. Mother Nature would decide when to deliver.

The farmer’s market was piled high with red, yellow and purple beauties, the late harvest jewels more glittering than usual under a gray, brooding sky. People naturally talked about the weather. Even if you live in a place where the seasons are subtle each one brings some adjustment. Some looked forward to the rain. A decent storm might ease drought worries, wash off the dust, rinse the air and lure back the green. A significant start to the wet season would mean we could move inside, make tea, read books. Others grumbled that they weren’t ready to give up the warm golden days.

I talked about weather and babies to the woman who sold me a squash and a fistful of beets. Her family has a baby coming in January. We agreed it’s a good time to be looking forward to new life. I imagine we’re about the same age, grandmothers now who had our children back when people spoke of Zero Population Growth and the irresponsibility of bringing babies into a crowded, hungry world. Things haven’t improved much since. But people still grin when you tell them there’s a baby coming. Maybe because it’s another chance to do things right.

As my friend Marylu says, babies and the hokey pokey really are what it’s all about.

The get-ready phone call came at 6 in the morning and we lurched into baby mode, scrambling to fulfill our assigned roles. Ours was to go to our daughter’s house and be with the three-year-old while her parents went to the hospital. It was a false alarm. We returned to the garden project, planting tiny pieces of elfin thyme for the rain to encourage. The three-year-old came over in her yellow rain boots, ready for there to be puddles.

But first there would be a baby. The next morning we got the real-thing phone call. We headed for the hospital, with cards for the baby and banana muffins for the exhausted parents. The new big sister brought a bouquet of orange dahlias.

That night Mother Nature began to bluster and whistle and stomp. Trees bent over and some broke. Power lines went down. Roads flooded. The wet season officially arrived and it rained frogs and snails and puppy dogs’ tails, because that’s what little boys are made of.

The California ex-pats have settled into the Pacific Northwest just fine. They have a cozy house, interesting friends and a new life in Port Townsend, Wash. They had been living with the rest of us in Sonoma County, the chosen spot on earth, as far as nature is concerned, as stated by no less than Luther Burbank. But was it enough for them? No, they had to go and choose a new paradise.

It’s bittersweet when old friends move away. You get everyone in their places, establish your A-friends list and then somebody breaks up the old gang - goes off on vacation, discovers a dream spot in a charming village, comes back, sells the house and too bad about you.

It’s more disturbing than a colleague suddenly emptying his cubby. How come he’s moving on and you’re not? It makes you question your own contented state.

But you do the going-away parties and wave goodbye with a touch of envy, admiration and crossed fingers that they’ve made the right leap. (If it’s a flop they can always come back.)

The good thing about friends of long-standing is that even when the location changes the people don’t. I’d know their home anywhere. There would be at least two cats hanging around. Family photos of three boys on the wall. There’d be her funky old living room lamp with the thick fringe that looks like a giant Vietnamese sunhat. He’d have his truck and now a tractor. There would be home-made trail mix, Bon Appetit dinners, antique roses and sweet peas which stay lush into the fall without the frying California heat.

It is reassuring to know that people in late middle age can fearlessly pack up and move on to a new adventure.

They have thrived in their corner of the Olympic Peninsula. They have become sailors. She did her first triathlon, urged on by new friends she met at the gym. He became a crabber. She plays her cello in a community orchestra. They did not become survivalists.

Their new home is a Victorian seaport town but it is not a strange, exotic land. The political and art community and strong hippie heritage make it almost a match for what my friends left behind. The Saturday morning Port Townsend farmer’s market feels and looks like the Sunday market in Sebastopol with everything from lavender to tamales and people talking up the joys of slow food.

They didn’t even have to adapt to a new dress code, except to add sturdier rain gear. Casual outdoors trumps high fashion, just like in West Sonoma County. Fleece and jeans are de rigueur. It is said the only person to regularly wear a suit in Port Townsend is her honor, the mayor.

Our former Californians say that every so often they’ll see a familiar scene of the old surroundings and feel a twinge of homesickness. They love their Doug firs and Cedars but miss the redwoods. A movie shot of the Golden Gate Bridge can send a pang.

We brought them two loaves of sourdough. In exchange they provided sightings of bald eagles, a hot tub that looks into a forest, a film festival, a side trip to glaciers, crab cakes and an introduction to Working Girl White, the local wine.

It’s regrettable when good friends move away. But the pain is lessened when they choose well and add on a guest cabin.