Old Houses and November

34 this morning. Light rain overnight, but the sun is out now. We seem to be in a pattern of low 30's at night, upper 40's during the day.

Not much to talk about lately. I'm still getting rid of the remnants of my cold; it's taking a l-o-n-g time to be over. It's cold and damp outside, very November-ish. 

I've been wanting to get into some housecleaning, but haven't felt up to it. So I work on eBay, do simple things like laundry, sweeping, dishes, pricing things for the booths, and yesterday evening decided to sort through one of my desk drawers. It's always surprising to find what I've put in there: sterling silver spoons, old keys, prisms, pieces of broken jewelry, paper clips, lamp finials, pens, pads, calculators, bits of hardware, on and on. Some of it went to the trash, some I packed up for the booth, and the rest was organized a bit and put back. Although only I would know it's been tidied!

I sorted the top drawer of my dresser too, and it was much the same, but with prettier things like hankies and little boxes--and for some reason a few of the wood pegs that held together the last log cabin we took down. Those pegs really made me think about the early pioneers. Imagine having to not only hew the logs but also the pegs to hold it together. And gather or quarry stone for your fireplace, split and shape wood for doors, shelves, beds, tables, and anything else needed.

And that reminds me of an old house we looked at in the early 70's, near Front Royal, Virginia. We wanted to move to the country so badly we were looking at anything within our price range that had a little acreage. Even back then Front Royal was a little expensive for us. This old place had about 20 acres, mostly going to brush, a rutted road to the house which was in very poor condition. There was no running water, just a well out back where the outhouse was also located. No electricity either. And the floors were puncheon floors--the kind made by laying logs on the ground and smoothing the top of them so they would be fairly flat. There were boards nailed over this floor when we looked at it, but it was like walking on the deck of a rolling ship.

The lay of that land was lovely, gently sloping down to the highway. I think perhaps we missed out by not buying it, although in truth the house should probably have been torn down. At that time, the place was for sale for 20,000 dollars. But within 10 years, Interstate 66 was completed to Front Royal and property prices skyrocketed. It was probably worth a great deal more then, and by now it would be in the millions. We were young, had only a certain amount of money and little experience so it was likely for the best that we passed it up.

I often think of that old place, and the people who built and lived in it. What must the area have been like when they hewed those floors, cleared that land? And that old house, settling down into the place it was built, comfortably arranging its bones, full of memories, looking out at the world from its place on the hill.

Which led me to looking for poems about old houses in November. Very specific topic, right? And yet I did manage to find these, which I like very much.

Old Houses

Robert Cording

Year after year after year

I have come to love slowly

how old houses hold themselves—

before November’s drizzled rain

or the refreshing light of June—

as if they have all come to agree

that, in time, the days are no longer

a matter of suffering or rejoicing.

I have come to love

how they take on the color of rain or sun

as they go on keeping their vigil

without need of a sign, awaiting nothing

more than the birds that sing from the eaves,

the seizing cold that sounds the rafters.

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When the Year Grows Old

Edna St. Vincent Millay - 1892-1950

I cannot but remember

  When the year grows old—

October—November—

  How she disliked the cold!

She used to watch the swallows

  Go down across the sky,

And turn from the window

  With a little sharp sigh.

And often when the brown leaves

  Were brittle on the ground,

And the wind in the chimney

  Made a melancholy sound,

She had a look about her

  That I wish I could forget—

The look of a scared thing

  Sitting in a net!

Oh, beautiful at nightfall

  The soft spitting snow!

And beautiful the bare boughs

  Rubbing to and fro!

But the roaring of the fire,

  And the warmth of fur,

And the boiling of the kettle

  Were beautiful to her!

I cannot but remember

  When the year grows old—

October—November—

  How she disliked the cold!

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November

Elizabeth Drew Stoddard

Much have I spoken of the faded leaf;

    Long have I listened to the wailing wind,

And watched it ploughing through the heavy clouds,

    For autumn charms my melancholy mind.

 

When autumn comes, the poets sing a dirge:

    The year must perish; all the flowers are dead;

The sheaves are gathered; and the mottled quail

    Runs in the stubble, but the lark has fled!

 

Still, autumn ushers in the Christmas cheer,

    The holly-berries and the ivy-tree:

They weave a chaplet for the Old Year’s bier,

    These waiting mourners do not sing for me!

 

I find sweet peace in depths of autumn woods,

    Where grow the ragged ferns and roughened moss;

The naked, silent trees have taught me this,—

    The loss of beauty is not always loss.

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At day-close in November

Thomas Hardy

The ten hours’ light is abating,

And a late bird wings across,

Where the pines, like waltzers waiting,

Give their black heads a toss.

Beech leaves, that yellow the noontime,

Float past like specks in the eye;

I set every tree in my June time,

And now they obscure the sky.

And the children who ramble through here

Conceive that there never has been

A time when no tall trees grew here,

That none will in time be seen.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

November

"O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being.

Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead

Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing."

-  Percy Bysshe Shelley

 There was a time when I dreaded the coming of November.

I did not want to see the darkness coming so early, the necessity of carting in firewood and carting out ashes. I didn't want to see the gardens all brown and dead, the birds leaving, the muddy shoes lining the porch, the falling of the leaves.

"How silently they tumble down

And come to rest upon the ground

To lay a carpet, rich and rare,

Beneath the trees without a care,

Content to sleep, their work well done,

Colors gleaming in the sun.

At other times, they wildly fly

Until they nearly reach the sky.

Twisting, turning through the air

Till all the trees stand stark and bare.

Exhausted, drop to earth below

To wait, like children, for the snow." 

-   Elsie N. Brady, Leaves

I've changed over the years, though. I am not sure when. Maybe it was when we put in the gas stoves so firewood was a pleasure, something for the fireplace and evening quiet times. Maybe it was when I began writing more and paying more attention to the subtle changes. Maybe it was when there were no longer so many muddy shoes and boots, and the birds stayed around because we began feeding them year-round.

Whatever the reason, November is now a time I look forward to. The frantic pace of summer and early fall is over; the gardens are at rest, not dead like I used to think. The cellar is as full as we can make it, and the lamplight in the evenings makes the house glow with comfort. It's time to rest a bit ourselves, although my storytelling and writing work is still keeping me busy--but it is a busyness of my mind as I plan and practice, research and write. By the end of the month there will be venison in the freezer and best of all, family will come to celebrate Thanksgiving.

A friend wrote this morning of his appreciation of the good things in his life--even though politics, shootings, the difficulties of friends and strangers trying to cope with the devastating effects of the hurricane in Florida, and the ugly head of racism all keep us worried and stressed. My friend wrote of his snug home, his good food, his new bike, his many friends, his good life. And his joy in these things spilled over onto all of us who read his words.

November is a month for reflection, a month for sharing, and a month for appreciating the goodness we have in whatever measure we have been graced with. I cannot fix the ills of this world. I can, however, do what I can in my little corner, and I can slow down and be thankful for where I am and those I love. That's what November means to me now--a time of soft light, gentle evenings, appreciation.

"November comes 

And November goes, 

With the last red berries 

And the first white snows.

With night coming early, 

And dawn coming late, 

And ice in the bucket 

And frost by the gate.

The fires burn 

And the kettles sing, 

And earth sinks to rest 

Until next spring."

-  Elizabeth Coatsworth

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

November Sunday

 A few drifting flakes of snow this morning, enough to make me feel like it's really November. It's mostly gray and cloudy, cold damp air. a few flowers linger on, bright spots in the browns and grays of this season.

I am cozy inside, putting together all the Christmas carols research into an orderly notebook. I have completed the research phase, I think, and now it's time to buckles down to study and practice. Our first shows will be in less than two weeks. Exciting to look forward to, a little scary to look at this big thick notebook of things I need to glue onto my brain.

Last night we prepared dinner for two of our sons and a grandson. It's such a pleasure to see them and have time to just talk. We made squirrel gravy, ham, rice, broccoli, corn, applesauce--good country food. This morning one son and our grandson were here for a pancakes, blackberry syrup and bacon breakfast, but now they are gone too, preparing their camp for this week's deer hunting. Larry will go with them and I hope he is lucky enough to bring home some meat for the freezer.

The men will be back tomorrow night if all goes well, and I will be cooking again. I miss cooking for hungry males--when my five sons were young, meal preparations were massive and pretty much ongoing. Today with just the two of us at home, there usually doesn't seem to be a good reason to cook big hearty meals.

I am happy that the white dressing table I took to our Ravenswood booth sold so quickly, but now I need to really get to work on some painting to restock as the big white desk also sold so there is room in the booth for plenty more furniture. Guess what I'll be doing tomorrow?

For now, it's back to the carols. Wish me luck getting all this down pat by next week!

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Night Drive

 Ridge road, just before the "pole-bar" hill, almost home

The ridge was in darkness as I drove home.

It will be like this for several months

as winter covers the land with its icy blanket.

November, followed by frigid December,

the deep freeze of January

and unpredictable February

follow each other in a bone-piercing reign of ice.

The moon, a gilded ornament

in a landscape of black glass
glinted overhead 

as the road led me surely to my home and fireside.

Wordless Wednesday: November Walk in the Yard

 The herb garden, mostly cleaned out and ready for winter. Brave parsley hangs on.

 Spirea adds its changing leaves to the fall colors.

 The hard frost Sunday morning shook down many of the mulberry's leaves.

 Late roses are stilll blooming despite two heavy frosts.

 Even the yellow rose still has blooms.

The oaks show their scant autumn color--oaks didn't make their usual good showing this year. Can you find the hidden Lab?

A Dark, Wet, Rainy Night

It is a perfect night to be indoors and now I can finally sit and enjoy the fire. Evenings this week have been busy--turkeys to finish up on Monday night, then cider to can last night and tonight because we needed the freezer space. My summer clothes needed to be put away (envy, envy of those of you who have space to keep everything out all year!) and the winter clothes taken out and hung in the closet. I also needed to cook something with some of the turkey we cooked Sunday. Larry made turkey salad for my lunch, but we still had a lot left over, so tonight I made turkey noodle casserole, enough for a couple nights. And there is still turkey left over! It will go in the freezer until Sunday, when I will make something else with it.

So now I am done with all my work and enjoying the fireplace and the quiet drip of rain. The forecast says we have a possibility of snow showers tomorrow, I think, but I'm doubtful of that. I expect it might snow in the higher mountains, not an unusual occurrence for them at this time of year. I've been browsing through some of the books I bought at the used book sale a couple weeks ago and enjoying them immensely. Here are a few I'm reading:


A Thread of Blue Denim by Patricia Leimbach brought back a flood of memories. I believe she used to write a column somewhere that I read regularly, and I am positive I have read other books by her. A potato farming family in Ohio, Leimbach's writing is funny, nostalgic, and down to earth. She loves her farm and her life and it shows. This book was published in 1977, and she's written more since. For those into homesteading or country living, her book is a joy to read. I linked the title to a copy offered on eBay for $1.00, just in case anyone might be interested. A Thread of Blue Denim is also available for $.49 at Amazon.

I've also been reading a book called The Big It and Other Stories by A.B. Guthrie, Jr. who won the Pulitzer Prize for his book The Way West. Published in 1960, the writing is just stellar, characters well developed and the western setting depicted so clearly that I can see the people and places easily as I read. This title is also available online for just $1.00.

Then there is Come Hither: a Collection of Rhymes and Poems for the Young of All Ages by Walter de la Mare. I've just been skimming the poems, stopping at ones I particularly like, but the book has a wealth of information in the story about the book at the beginning, and the section of notes called About and Roundabout. These are old favorites, many of them, and others are new to me, or are ballads, bits from plays, etc. The Green Man Review says: "This is one of those magical books which can be read in many ways and on a number of levels. It is any and all of the following:

1. A poetry anthology for children
2. An elegant Edwardian ghost story about a strange book found in an old house owned by a mysterious author
3. An at times pagan allegory about Nature and dream
4. A book within a book within a book, being a reproduction of the book the author read as a young boy in the old house
5. Walter de la Mare's musings on a wide range of topics, from folklore to books to old Scottish and Irish ballads.

Here is one of my favorites from the collection that speaks well to this time of year:

Song
by Canon Dixon

The feathers of the willow
are half of them grown yellow
above the swelling stream;
And ragged are the bushes,
and rusty are the rushes
and wild the clouded gleam.

The thistle now is older,
his stalk begins to moulder'
his head is white as snow;
the branches are all barer,
the linnet's song is rarer
the robin pipeth snow.

I am going back to my reading. I will leave this one last poem from Come Hither, by Rudyard Kipling. It reminds me of the traces of old roads I see so often on my journeys and even a few trails here on our farm where wagons used to travel before the roads were defined as they are today. It also reminds me of my own poem, The Old Road, which is very similar, and it tickles me to find that Kipling and I shared the same fascination with the almost hidden tracks of past travelers.

The Way Through the Woods

They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate.
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few)
You will hear the beat of a horse's feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods.   .   .   .
But there is no road through the woods.

I hope your evening is as lovely as mine has been.

November

This used to be my least favorite month. As I get older, I find I am appreciating the differences in the months and seasons more--seeing, feeling, touching, tasting and hearing them.

For example, in November:

• the smell of fallen leaves, woodsmoke, and cooking
• the sight of deep browns and russet of leaves, bronze of chrysanthemums, the completeness of dark on no-moon nights
• the rough texture of split wood, smooth coldness of apples, warmth of wood fires and quilts
• the sound of owls calling, fires crackling, soup bubbling, leaves rustling, and wind howling
• the taste of cider, pumpkin pie, chili and hot tea

You can probably add to my list. What are your favorite November things?

I was browsing through a 1920's elementary school literature book and found this poem. Although some if the sentiments are a bit sweet for my taste, I thought it expressed well some of the sensory offerings of the month.

November
By Alice Cary (1820-1871)

The leaves are fading and falling;
The winds are rough and wild
The birds have ceased their calling—
But let me tell you, my child,

Though day by day, as it closes,
Doth darker and colder grow,
The roots of bright red roses
Will keep alive in the snow.

And when the winter is over,
The boughs will get new leaves,
The quail come back to the clover,
And the swallow back to the eaves.

The robin will wear on his bosom
A vest that is bright and new,
And he loveliest wayside blossom
Will shine with the sun and dew.

The leaves today are whirling;
The brooks are dry and dumb—
But let me tell you, my darling,
The spring will be sure to come

There must be cold, rough weather,
and winds and rain so wild;
Not all good things together
Come to us here, my child.

So when some dear joy loses
Its beauteous summer glow,
Think how the roots of the roses
Are kept alive in the snow.