September was the 7th month of the Roman calendar, but is the ninth according to our reckoning. The Anglo-Saxons called it ‘gerst-monath,’ – Barley month!
Feast Days:
September 21. St. Matthew
September 28. St. Michael or Michaelmas Day
Mottoes
“Fair on September first, fair for the month’. ‘Plant trees at Michaelmas & command them to grow.
Source: “The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady” By Edith Holden. Copyright 1977 by Webb & Bower Ltd. Exeter, England. Printed in Italy by Arnoldo Mondadori Company Limited.
Back at the fountain, BEFORE the sun set. A chill was in the air. The sound of a hooting owl was heard in the distance of the dawn, and in the still of the early morn, of a cloudy day. Rained in the afternoon.
Sitting at the birdbath I painted this picture. Summer lingers in the feathery green leaves of the coreopsis. The yellow flowerets of seven petals sprinkle around. Water in the bowl reflects dark shadows of a limb. The air was still.
A rainy day, I walked from the opening of the bridge seen in the background. When I got to the other side I encountered this Gentle Soul, whose name is forgotten to me, if I ever knew it. She asked me if I would take her picture with her iPhone to send to her son, living in London. I said, “Of course!” She added that her father had died in the past year. She was visibly sad, and lost. I asked her if I could take her picture with my camera and she consented. She and I parted ways.
After I conversed with a merry couple by the bridge, I headed to an ancient church down the lane. It is St. Michael’s. As I entered the tiny chapel, I caught a glimpse of my new friend, brushing a tear from her eye. I quickly fled from the doorway, and she came out. We exchanged new words. I asked her about her dad, and she changed the subject. Again, we parted ways. And, the last I saw her was in the distance walking in front of the train station, at Betws Y Coed. To this day I wonder where she fled. This poem by Wadsworth, reminds me of my encounter with a long lost friend.
In Dublin, I happened upon one of the many public institutions, free of charge to enter. In this case, the National Library of Ireland. What a treasure! It was serious inside. Quiet, like a library, ought to be. I didn’t go far, when I noticed a special exhibition for the poetry of William Butler Yeats. I followed the arrow, and descended a couple short flights of stairs, to enter the display. It was very dark down there. The exhibits lit up inside display cases in a large spacious area, to view the works and life of Yeats. The collection of Yeats was donated to Ireland by his former wife, and his two children. Yeats married when he was 52, and to a young woman who was 25. Apparently it was not the most normal marriage in the world, but his wife respected him enough to preserve his work for future generations to come. I don’t claim to know much about his poetry, nor much about him, but was quite amazed by the eccentric life he lived. I was also amazed by the exhibit, which I tripped inside of by accident, and had to run through quickly, because my traveling companions decided a coffee at a nearby coffee shop was more important than WBY. Here is the website of the exhibition, and a couple of his quotes I transcribed from a brochure I picked up on the way out. If you have flash drive and can enter the site, it’s the closest you can come to being there. The tags below this article give an idea of the range of esoteric topics Yeats entertained in his life as an artist. It’s worth a visit.
You may be an artist, a writer, a someone, a nobody, a bricklayer, or a masseuse, but in the end we are all historians. Whether we leave a record of ourselves, through a drawing, a novel, short story, essay, a cornerstone in a building, or touch someone with a a healing hand, it’s all a part of history, and each participant makes a mark on that moment in time. Our communications, whatever form they may take – others will be the recipients of the message.
Shirley Baker’s words ring true.
What is history if it is not an imagined past – a collection of facts which are viewed and interpreted in the light of our own experiences.
And another quote.
My journal may prove completely worthless and a waste of time. Yet, as a historian, I must satisfy the impulse to record what is happening around me.
In the morning, I drove by a bunch of pale yellow daffodils, sitting beside the road, in the culvert, all alone, they stood out in their vanity, among the weeds. Further down the road, the gate to the cemetery was wide open, on this cloudy day. Gray stones popped up against green grass. Littered with small American flags, some commemorated heroes of the past. This is where Amelia, from Gurleyville, was buried. Then, I came upon the old barn, dull and dreary, with a caved in roof, almost completely collapsed, a telling sign the structure’s end is near. And there was a wooden fence, by a house. Unpainted, with dried ivy growing up its side, it made me wonder if the plant will ever come alive. Simple words, are these, from notes to myself, of the things I saw through the lens of my eye.
April is gone. Now, it is May. Splashes of color paint the landscape, in the pouring rain. Garlands of pink cherry blossoms hang down against green trees, like ornaments, on a proscenium stage. Tiny yellow leaves appear, on trees, as babies, waiting to mature.
Sunshine jolts my moody spirit, where deep thoughts reside. It illuminates the sky, and all below. The moon shuns its glare, when night falls, at the end of the day. On Earth, May will stay, until June arrives.
On Tiffany Creek 