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Attic of Gallimaufry

Autumn

Dee Harkey in front of book store

Seven Rivers Warriors

Dee Harkey as a young man, maybe

Dee Harkey about 1900

Pecos River Flume at Carlsbad

Frank Kindel riding across the flume, no hands.

Pecos River at Puerto de Luna

Charles Eddy

"Autumn", read by Professor John Richetti of the University of Pennsylvania.

John Richetti reads other poems

Who is John Richetti?

Walking the River Itchen.

John Keats' Biography

Lou Gehrig Biography.

Medieval Farming hadn't changed much by 1819.



Two centuries ago near the River Itchen, John Keats enjoyed September's seasonal slopes, breathed the tempering air, and spoke to Autumn his final ode.

The poem links to Ian Reynolds' discussion of its composition.

We chose John Richetti's reading of Keats' "Ode to Autumn" from the many on public offer, because it's not horrible. The poem moves most readers to some standard, even stale, comments. We've linked to the reflections of a countryman, a mechanical engineer with something else to say.

Keats' lyrical imagery reflects the farming techniques of the early nineteenth century. Mowing and threshing machines were yet unkown. Grasses were cut with a hook or scythe, and grain arrived in the granary after the sheaves dropped through the winnowing wind of a flapping canvas.

Keats immortalizes the granary, the winnowing wind, the hook, the stubble and even a few swaths left for the gleaners after the harvest. His autumn idles into winter as cider dregs drip off the press.

Seasons embrace a mysterious duality, each a beginning and ending. Keats reminds us autumn is a complete drama, from ripening to storing away, from the fading of summer to the cadence of retreat. Each drama has its music, finite measures on an endless staff.

Seasons have social drama too, and in America part of Autumn is the game of summer, baseball. Twelve decades after Keats strolled beside the Itchen, Baseball's Iron Horse completed his long, dazzling summer.

Lou Gehrig, number 4, leaves us after the 1939 World Series. Image links to WSJ article. You'll need a subscription to read.

The opening shots of World War II echoed beyond the Itchen, as the New York Yankees and Cincinnati Reds played the 1939 World Series. The Reds were back in the Autumn Show for the first time since 1919 when they'd notoriously won the "Say-it-ain't-so-Joe" series, after gamblers bribed Shoeless Joe Jackson et al. That made the autumn of 1939 a springtime in Cincinnati until the Yankees swept the series. It was an autumn in other directions too.

Lou Gehrig's famous leave-taking came in July of that year. As Wally Pip, the man he'd replaced at first base 2,130 consecutive games before, watched in the stands, Lou told the world he was the "luckiest man on the face of the earth." During the series Gehrig watched from the dugout. No Yankee ever wore his famous number four again.

We see Gehrig in a final picture after the final game (see above), disappearing into a crowd unattentive to the great Gehrig's last exit. Autumn becomes winter while its pageantry distracts.

This picture of Lou Gehrig and Babe Ruth at the 1939 World Series, links to a recounting of Gehrig's last year in baseball.

John Keats was dying of tuberculosis when he wrote "Ode to Autumn." He acknowledged to his friend Charles Brown that he could, "not be deceived by that colour," on his handkerchief. His brother had just died of the disease, and Keats knew its signals. His advancing mortality surely sits among the stanzas of his famous stroll.

Lou Gehrig had already given his famous goodbye at Yankee Stadium when he exited upstage in the above picture. After he was diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS, or, now, Lou Gehrig's disease), he was still telling his wife he might have another ten years, but he told friends he was dying.

On writing "Ode to Autumn," and on dissolving into the crowd, John Keats and Lou Gehrig had less than two years to live.

A link to Gehrig's Hall of Fame entry.

We shouldn't strain for similarities between these two men, different in so many ways. Still, we might feel the gathering swallows and soft-dying day of Keats in Gehrig's career, full of rhythms, rhyming, structure and heedless devotion. We might, after all, see these two striding together, away through the crowd, somewhere beyond our trans-mortal imaginings.

"Then in a wailful choir the small gnats morn/

 

"The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft

"And gathering swallows twitter in the skies."


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