Autumn and what it means to me

It is that time of year as September and October are months of reflections and giving thanks for the people who meant so much in our lives .A day does not go by without thinking of what we would have been doing at this time of year .bring the harvest home, ploughing and planting for the next year .Going to the markets to sell and re-stock. The smells and sights of Autumn. How apt when down the churchyard today there were mushrooms growing out of the side of Fred's headstone and quite a picking growing a few feet away .Calving would have been well underway and we would have endless curd pies to eat made from the beastlings - this is the cows first few days of milking after they have calved. Conkers fights at school -bet they arent allowed to have them now -health and safety and all that rubbish .The trick was to soak them in vinegar if I remember rightly to make them harder when they were dried out. Nothing beats growing up on a farm surrounding by loving family who teach you about seasons and what the months hold in store. Why the pears and apples you might ask -they loved their fruit and planted many many trees for future generations .As George said you don' plant trees for yourself you plant them for the future generations to enjoy. It wa smy way of bring a little bit of their farm to them. Keat's words sum Autumn up perfectly . To Autumn 1795 –1821 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-eves 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’er-brimm’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 twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.