And the 'Vembie' goes to... Vemb! - The Chaff with Scott Stephenson
Remember: November does not knock politely. It barges in damp, dreary and unapologetic, leaving wet footprints and existential confusion in its wake. Now, as if that were not enough, it has its own awards: the Vembies. This uninspiring spectacle celebrates the most Novembery phenomena. The hall hosting the event exists somewhere indistinct with dim lights struggling behind frosted covers and heaters huffing and hissing like horrible prophets of doom. Chairs tilt with suspicion, umbrellas droop in defeat and coats carry faint traces of regret, mildew and the wet whisper of someone who had once tried to be warm and welcoming.
The first category, “Best Persistent Drizzle,” condenses into victory with a stubborn, low-lying mist. The acceptance speech is simply a single droplet forming on the podium, interpreted by Vembians as eloquence, the perfect blend of menace and politeness.
“Most Unruly Leaf Pile Collapse” follows, with the nomination of three enormous piles that dreamed bigger than physics allowed. The wayward winner whips and whooshes wildly, swallowing a neglected rake, a rogue glove and half a squirrel while still maintaining a faintly artistic grace.
The “Miracle Mist of the Month” takes the stage next, defined simply. This mystical moist airmass must dampen deeply without ever fully committing to rain and also inspire quiet, lingering existential reflection in anyone foolish enough to step outside their comfortable dry zone. The winner lingers for so long it starts to feel sentient, callously assessing footwear choices across the region and silently judging the courage or lack thereof of each pedestrian. Rainclouds bow in respect. Umbrellas quiver. Galloshes grin while summertime shoes shudder and sigh.
Next up is the “Best Indoor Activity” award, and Vembertos and Vemberitas have been doing what they do best. They’ve been staring at walls, windows and increasingly dingy corners with impressive and dreary dedication. Glaring silently at the wind takes the top prize by unanimous acclaim. Reorganizing blankets according to an elaborate, entirely unnecessary geometric code earns an honourable mention. Lukewarm tea, forgotten and quietly gathering character on the side table, achieves ritual status and receives a special commendation because any tea left long enough in November becomes a philosopher.
The designation of “Most Unexpected Sunlight” goes unclaimed. In November, sunlight is aspirational at best, a cruel teaser from a distant planet. Reb Mevon appears, semi-existent as always, and acknowledges the empty podium with a nod that brings a chill and the faint sense that anyone daring to hope for sustained sunlight might be slightly deluded but also quietly admired for their audacity.
The “Lifetime Achievement in General Bleh” is, predictably, claimed by November itself. Its record of omnipresent wetness and subtle, morale-eroding genius remains unsurpassed. Reb Mevon accepts the award, leaving condensation trails and whispering admonishments about socks, gloves and life choices. The audience, soggy and humbled, understands the depth of November’s accomplishment. Relentless persistence has no equal.
A surprise category, “The Quietest Wind That Still Somehow Moves Everything,” crowns a local gust that had rearranged a record number of loose leaf piles, toppled several unattended hats and made three people reconsider their existence all without a sound. Its acceptance speech is a barely audible rustle, interpreted variously as applause, critique or passive aggression. The audience nods knowingly. Hats are retrieved.
The Vembies conclude with the Changing of the Porch Bulbs. Flicked on and off in solemn unison, the bulbs reflect dimly in puddles forming in awkward pockets and hopeless, pitiful places. Reb Mevon drifts among the crowd one last time, appearing briefly at the edge of vision, leaving a subtle chill and an air of mildly judgmental inevitability.
Trudging attendees depart thoughtfully and slightly unnerved. Some glimpse the absurd poetry of Vemb’s unrelenting Vembing and Vembness. Others step in puddles, watch leaf piles go akimbo or contemplate the sentience of clouds and condensation. Everyone carries a quiet reminder. November is calm, committed, clever and capable of embarrassing you in small, persistent ways during each of its dogged, dwindling days. It will return. Reb Mevon will return. The fog, frost and slimy piles will return. This is what it means to be Vemb. It does not care for comfort, convenience or cheer. It simply exists and it has the Vembies so it will never be forgotten.
“Vember gonna Vemb, Vemb, Vemb, Vemb, Vemb, Vemb.” - Vemblor Swift
“Vemb… I am your Vember.” - Darth Vember (Vemb Wars)