Elections are over. The Red Sox won. We set the clocks back, winter is upon us.
    But as that long shadow grows, preparing to shoot our heating bills sky high (excuse me, my parent’s heating bills), and the ground hardens, there are some of us who refuse to give in, refuse to let summer end (But Stowe, it already ended. Yes I know, humor me). We form a brotherhood with membership spanning the globe, and the only criteria for joining is a relentless, fierce love for a season passing, for being outside, for swimming in the rivers and for driving with the windows down. We are not winter-haters; we are opportunists squeezing the last bit of amber juice out of a fading fruit.
    Once in a while you will spot one of our members. They are there in the sporting goods stores eyeing the wiffle-ball bats; they are in the grocery marts squeezing the watermelons or at the gas station with sweatshirts and running shorts on. We do not drink egg nog, not yet at least. Our hair is longer, shaggier, a testament to a time when haircuts were precluded by pick-up games or rope swing appointments.
    The most telling sign is a strange glow in the eyes, the crazy-eye phenomenon. Those who refuse to let the temperature turn them into heavy readers are jogging this very moment, their breath rising into the sky in visible clouds. Their eyes beam with virility.
    Some of us still drive with the windows down; I have witnessed this first hand. Our membership does not concern itself with hot chocolate, instead we pump our bodies full of vitamin C. Vitamin C, as you may very well know, is the anti-cold, and as the favored vitamin of our club it serves us by enabling us to stay outside longer, even when the air coming into our lungs is so cold it chokes us. Vitamin C turns regular people into impenetrable, active machines, dauntless bulwarks against the cold— everyone knows that.
    My friends and I play soccer every Sunday, and our turnout is still about 20 players. The ground is harder now, and many of us wear pajama pants over our shorts and mittens on our hands. Last year we played with snow on the ground and I expect the same will happen this year.  The recreation league that uses the field took the nets off of the metal goal-frames, but we still play, sending balls hurtling into the woods.
    The geese are absent from the sky, already venturing to their warmer abodes. Under their wing beats our club thrived, as we do in their absence.
    I spotted a member in the checkout line in a Limington market, attempting to buy lighter fluid for a barbeque.
    “What do you mean you haven’t stocked it?” he asked the perplexed cashier.
    “Summer is over buddy,” was her reply, sending the man stomping out.
    We still mow our lawns even though they will be covered in snow in a very short time, and we rake too. For clarification’s sake, all rakers are not club members, some rakers are simply concerned with the appearance of their house— much less the utility of their lawn.
    We swim much less now, and use the venture to incite response from the media. The Polar Ice Challenge is a classic example of this; our members generating press based on their own innate drive to hold on to the spirit of summer.
    Dogs become great motivators for our breed, willing us to go outdoors when the temperature drops. You can spot a summer-saver a mile away from the way they play with their leashed pet on the sidewalks or walking trails of our state. Our members tend to be walking with their pets, not for them; this subtle difference illuminating our philosophy.
    We do not give in to the bulky, swooshy winter coats just yet; we hold our ground as long as possible, sporting sweatshirts and beanie-caps until they can no longer keep out the cold. In secret we wear flannel-lined pants, showing the rest of the world that we are unphased by the changing of the seasons. Many of our members can be identified by Band-Aids on their legs or arms, their bodies still subject to the activities of summer.
    Last week my friend Ben Harnik called me, it was dark out and cold. The Harniks enjoy a Limington home complete with a lighted tennis court. We often take down the net and play soccer on the surface, fielding fast paced pick-up games of arena-style soccer.
    “Yo, I think C-Dunny, Dirty, Rolo and Zach are all trying to play soccer tonight. Are you and Dylan (my brother) in?” he asked, making reference to a few of my best friends.
    I didn’t even have to think, and before I could answer I had one foot through a thick sock and into a soccer shoe.
    We do not hold large gatherings, which is a shame because I am betting they would be extremely rewarding, cold, fun events. Our membership thrives in the face of a harsh state, and when winter comes and we must finally bundle up for real then the skis will come out, but until then we stand, faces to the wind, ready and willing to embrace the sun, the air, our active lives.