"How beautiful the season is now. How fine the air -- a temperate sharpness about it. Really, without joking, chaste weather - Dian skies. I never liked stubble-fields so much as now -- aye, better than chilly green of the Spring. Somehow, a stubble plain looks warm, in the same way that some pictures look warm. This struck me so much in my Sunday's walk that I composed upon it." ~ Keats in a letter to Reynolds, dated the 22nd of September, 1819
Happy Thanksgiving, dearest readers! There are just so many blessings to give abundant thanks for -- for family, for friends, for our community. For the food and comforts we enjoy. For our country, for our wold. To be safe, to be alive. For the better and brighter future ahead. However you choose to celebrate, I hope you have a beautiful day.
Two weeks ago now, my sister, Maria, & I visited Ellison Park, which is only about a 20 minute walk away from home, to photograph my newest 1830s short gown outfit. Over top my mid-century undergarments, I am sporting a new, rust-colored, 1830s short gown and chocolate linen petticoat. A small-checked kerchief, bibbed apron (both new), and ruffly cap (blog post here) complete the look. (First worn for the second Domestic Skills Symposium at the Genesee Country Village & Museum.)
It was cold, overcast, and beginning to rain by the time we left, but Maria worked her magic with the camera -- and, I am so happy to get to share the results. Thank goodness for my sister, and willing photographer! (All photographs courtesy of Maria M. - many, many thanks!)
Completed Project Shots:
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease;
For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease;
For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river-sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Poem, "Ode to Autumn," by John Keats, composed on the 22nd of September, 1819. Stay tuned for more construction details to come...thanks for reading!
