Bow down to the great Vemberia - The Chaff with Scott Stephenson

Finally, after decades of neglect, November has a mascot. A real one. Not a turkey from across the border, not a prematurely installed inflatable Santa, not even those half-hearted “Movember moustaches” that hang like damp pieces of rope above so many men’s upper lips. November has long been the neglected middle child of the calendar: too cold for pumpkins, too early for tinsel, too wet for optimism. It deserves an emblem, someone to represent its essence, to embody the month’s unique mixture of melancholy, precipitation and long-forgotten leaf piles. Enter Vemberia.

 

Vemberia is not a person, exactly. Nor is she a spirit, an animal or a conceptual metaphor, though she does enjoy dabbling in all three. She is November made flesh, or perhaps more accurately, November condensed into a semi-physical phenomenon that hovers slightly above ground level and smells faintly of wet mittens and roasted parsnips. Her eyes gleam with the muted light of a 4:37 p.m. sunset, and her cloak is woven from the fibres of long-lost umbrellas. She is equal parts comforting and disconcerting, like finding a lukewarm cup of tea you forgot to finish two hours ago and realizing it’s still kind of good.

 

The calendar year has mascots aplenty. December boasts Santa and his entire elf-industrial complex. October has a monopoly on pumpkins, skeletons and the powerful candy lobby. But November? It has been historically mascotless. Vemberia aims to change that. She is not here to sell anything, per se, though she does accept sponsorships from small-batch candle makers and artisanal sock manufacturers. Her mission is civic, even spiritual: to give November its due. To remind us that the month’s endless drizzle and encroaching darkness are not a curse, but a deeply necessary recalibration of national temperament.

 

Without November, Canadians might become too cheerful, too sociable, too unreasonably optimistic. Vemberia prevents this.
She teaches Canadians to cherish indoor lighting, to savour canned soup, to find comfort in the soft tyranny of layered clothing. She invites us to ponder the mystery of damp jeans that never fully dry. Her teachings are best summarized in the Vemberian Creed, adopted by her growing number of adherents: We embrace the grey, for it is honest. We accept the drizzle, for it is inevitable. We remain indoors, for it is there we flourish.

 

How should Canadians honour their new mascot? The Vemberian Council recommends several approved observances. The Lighting of the Porch Bulbs takes place on Nov. 7, when citizens are encouraged to stand solemnly on their porches and flick their outdoor lights on and off three times, symbolizing the fragility of electricity in a damp world. The Feast of Mediocrity occurs on Nov. 23, when participants dine upon foods that are neither exciting nor terrible: casseroles, lentil soups, tepid mashed potatoes. The goal is to achieve flavour equilibrium. Finally, the Day of General Dampness closes the month as a time set aside for reflection, laundry and quiet gratitude for central heating.

 

Although Vemberia herself has not yet approved official merchandise, early prototypes include woollen hats that smell faintly of pine cleaner, commemorative mugs with condensation pre-applied and limited-edition action figures that grow mold if left in dark cupboards, authenticity guaranteed. Schools are already incorporating Vemberian education into the curriculum, focusing on emotional preparedness, layering techniques and advanced raincoat folding.

 

The tourism sector has also expressed interest, with slogans such as “Visit Canada in November: She’s Not Trying to Impress You” and “Come for the Clouds, Stay Because Your Flight Was Delayed.”

 

Vemberia’s arrival marks a new era of national realism. Canadians are tired of pretending that November is a “cozy” month. It is not. It is a 30-day existential waiting room between the dying glow of autumn and the onslaught of Christmas music. Vemberia teaches us to stop resisting and start appreciating the slow drip of time itself.

 

She is not glamorous, but she is honest. She does not sparkle, but she endures. In a world obsessed with positivity and sunshine, she is the necessary counterbalance: a mascot of gentle gloom, stoic perseverance and the quiet satisfaction of finally remembering where you put your gloves.

 

So, this November, when the wind rattles your windows and the forecast simply reads “ugh,” look to the horizon. You may just see her silhouette gliding through the drizzle, cloak fluttering faintly, whispering in a voice that sounds suspiciously like your furnace kicking in.

 

“It’s fine. Everything’s fine. This is what November is for.”

 

And you will believe her.