I was thinking that the Tea Party could rename itself after the volcano in Iceland, the way it suddenly grew angry and blew hot air, dominating the news because it was such a weird scary phenom and no one knew how far and wide its damage would be.

That would be Eyjafjallajokull, which is kind of a mouthful. We could just call it the Volcano Party. There are a few differences. A volcano has a certain beauty. And it’s a natural function of a volcanic mountain to build up a head and just go off, not caring who gets hurt.

But I don’t get the reason for a bunch of Americans to erupt into just plain nastiness and try to obscure the truth with their gray muck. You know what I mean? The stuff about the country going socialist. Obama favoring black people over white people. And my favorite Tea Party delirium: that big business is a friend of the little people.

I know this tea party is named for the colonial protesters, but calling a violence-inciting mob a tea party is like naming a battleship Darling Nell.

I don’t think of them as a party at all. They’re about as joyful as a tantrum.

When the Tea Party got started a lot of people assumed it was primarily a goon squad for the Republican right. Paid thugs looking for a fight. But a recent New York Times/CBS News poll showed Tea Party types are largely white, older, educated Americans. I know a lot of white older Americans with half a brain and they’re not having tea tantrums, although they too have done their share of protesting in the streets. Mostly for civil rights and against war, for which they were called un-patriotic.

One thing I don’t get is how you get old and consider yourself educated and still not understand paying taxes. Of course, nobody likes taxes. The first time you get a paycheck you wonder where it all went and then someone like your dad explains that this is how the system works. You give money to the government and it provides roads and police and firefighters and schools. If you lose your job it will give you some help while you look for another. And provide a cushion when you want to quit work after 45 years.

The Tea Party says it worries about the economy and people losing jobs. And who doesn’t? But its leaders direct their rants toward the current Congress and the guy in the White House, the poor saps who inherited the mess made by the ones who did us in. And this wise older educated flock believes them.

Early on I expected some clear-thinking fair-minded Republicans to step forward and say you’re embarrassing us. Instead the Tea Party started telling Republican leaders what to do.

I had a chance to ask NPR’s European correspondent Sylvia Poggioli a few questions when she was visiting the public radio station in Santa Rosa (Ca.) I asked what gives her the most hope, considering all the world turmoil and unpleasantness she has covered.

She said she takes her hope from “here.” Here? I asked. You mean this country? And she said yes. Ooh, I groaned, along with others in the room. We are in trouble. She explained that France and Germany are torn up by racism and hostility over immigrants. Italy suffers from basic corruption. She said it was getting pretty ugly.

But how pretty are we? Tea Party people accuse members of Congress of being domestic enemies, paint Hitler mustaches on Obama and rev up the trigger-happy. Now, Arizona wants to run roughshod over illegal immigrants or anyone who might look like one. And what billious hot gas will that unleash?

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.