I was already sad due to o, o lord, another set of shootings and the departure of my g-dfamily after a lovely few days with them in Truro. But the daylight savings blues made this a truly melancholy twilight. I walked for hours in the woods and on the beaches of Wellfleet’s Great Islands Trail, and the sorrow walked right along with me. For once, my Mrs. Who shtetl chic didn’t shake me out of my despair, nor did the rusts, ambers, olives, and turquoises of the high grasses, dune trees, and sea crests as I trudged and trudged. Even the kindly couple whom I befriended on the trail–white-haired, bright-eyed–didn’t change this grey to gold; rather, we shared the rueful sweetness I remember from waiting for seemingly forever at very cold bus stations in the Boston winters of my adolescence. I’ve never been more struck by the wisdom of December’s festivals of lights. Surely we Americans need something to look forward to in the long dark nights to come.