Reflections on the Twelfth Week of Fall – Jane Austen Day at Wells Wood

Jane Austen

Friday morning, when the kitchen clock finally chimed 5:45, I jumped out of bed and yanked yoga pants up under my nightgown. Adding a bathrobe, slippers, and stocking knit cap, I dashed outside into the country dark and looked up. Clouds. No chance to glimpse a Geminid meteor. On a normal day, I would have gritted my teeth and frowned at the clouds. Instead, excitement bubbled through my veins like carbon dioxide bubbles escaping a shaken bottle of cola. I closed my eyes and listened for nature sounds, my first task celebrating Jane Austen’s December birthday by living a day in her life. Deer Creek babbled in the valley. A breeze sighed through white pine boughs.

On a day in June 1798, twenty-three-year-old Jane Austen had woken to the sounds of the Steventon bird chorus. Blackbirds, nesting in the hedge outside the rectory, announced dawn. Robins then song thrush joined in followed by noisy rooks and the pheasants clever enough to escape hunters during the winter.

I walked back inside the log house.

My husband yawned on the sofa and said, “What do I have to do?” He reached for the schedule I’d left on the coffee table for him. “I didn’t read this yet.”

The schedule had three columns―Jane’s Day at the Steventon Rectory, Spence’s Help, and Janet’s Day at Wells Wood.

“Nothing for Jane yet.” I pulled off the cap and kicked out of the slippers. “But you can make me two eggs and two slices of chicken for breakfast.”

He studied the paper. “You’re not eating until eight?”

“Right. If I lose track of time, call me at ten to eight.” But I doubted I’d need the call.

Jane had practiced the pianoforte in the early morning. She liked to work on new pieces―perhaps a composition by Ignaz Pleyel.

A thumb piano was the closest instrument I had to Jane’s pianoforte. How long could I pluck tines with my arthritic thumbs? Not nearly as long as Jane practiced with her young fingers.

With distracted attention, I performed my normal morning chores then settled at the loft sewing table. I opened a Christmas carol book to “Joy to the World”―in the key of C like the thumb piano. Beside the book, I positioned the chart matching tines with treble clef notes. Glancing from book to chart to tines, I twanged out the tune. Actually, the thumb piano twanged out of tune. Determined to practice like Jane, I tolerated the wonky sound and struggled through the carol four times. Wishing I could hear Jane play, I switched to other pieces even if they had sharps and flats. They couldn’t sound any worse. By the fifth piece, I’d memorized the keys and concentrated on rhythms for another chorus of “Jingle Bells.”

Spence called from the kitchen. “It’s seven forty-five-ish.”

Sheesh. I’d played for an hour? Time to make tea.

Steventon Rectory

Jane had prepared expensive Twinings tea from London for her family―her father, mother, sister, and whichever of her seafaring brothers were home. With bustle and chatter, the family sat down to a breakfast of bread, rolls, eggs, and cold meat.

After clomping downstairs, I made a pot of Twinings Honeybush Mandarin Orange tea from Giant Eagle. Then I popped harvest bread into the toaster oven.

Spence lifted an omelet and three slices of chicken out of the frying pan and onto a plate. “Do you want to listen to the news?”

“No. Jane’s family discussed politics at the breakfast table.” I put my hands on my hips and cleared my throat. “What do you know about the Irish rebellion of seventeen ninety-eight?”

He set the plate at my place and pulled out his chair. “The Irish were always rebelling. It was a religious thing.”

I fetched the toast, poured tea, and sat across from him. The first bite of toast tasted dry, but it sent a shiver up my spine. I ate Jane’s breakfast! “Was their George III anything like our Trump?”

“Heavens no. George was a good king. That’s if you don’t count how he handled the colonies. He ruled well. Then he went insane and farmed.”

Our breakfast discussion continued with the state of the British Empire in 1798, the status of Brexit, and speculation on what Trump had tweeted that morning.

Done with politics, I poured one more cup of tea and settled in the great room with my lap desk.

Spence studied his schedule. “It says here you don’t need me until eleven-thirty or twelve.”

I addressed an envelope to my cousin in Michigan. “Right. Jane wrote letters to relatives and friends in the morning. Then she took a midday walk.”

He stuffed his wallet and keys into his blue jean pockets. “I’m off to Giant Eagle’s then.”

With Ignaz Pleyel compositions playing on YouTube, the next best thing to hearing Jane play, I regaled my cousin with the out of tune carol saga and my excitement over dry toast. The wood stove fire crackled, and two cats napped on the floor. I giggled and affixed a stamp to the envelope. Writing Christmas card notes had never been this much fun.

When Spence returned around noon, I bundled and we headed for the woods.

Front Yard Garden of Chris from Steventon

Walking in a meadow on the spring day, Jane could have inhaled the fragrance of anemone, hyacinths, and lily of the valley.

During our walk on the late fall day, I smelled damp leaves. A lone woodpecker hammered on a hollow tree. Dried remnants of wild cucumbers hung from vines, Christmas ferns grew by mossy logs, and skunk cabbage sprouted in woods ponds where minnows darted under a thin layer of ice. Though wearing clunky winter boots and sinking into the soft woods floor, my step floated around piles of deer poop.

Jane had never mentioned animal poop, but she must have encountered it while walking and gardening.

Spence and I circled back to the log house. My stomach growled, and I checked the clock. Only 1:30. Without oatmeal to glue my ribs together, I couldn’t wait until 3:30 for Jane’s two course dinner of roasted meat or fish, soups, and sweets. I tugged Spence’s arm. “I need to eat NOW.”

He walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “I’m on it, Babe.”

Within fifteen minutes, I sat down to dinner―rainbow trout, pole beans, chicken noodle soup, honey milk balls, and black walnuts. I savored the food, especially the rich, wild flavor of the walnuts.

After her walk, Jane had worked on Susan, her satirical novel later named Northanger Abbey. 

With my stomach full, I could write―not humorous writing like Jane’s, but a heart-tugging story about my friend’s last Christmas. My fingers tapped the keyboard until Spence’s phone buzzed.

Christmas Fern on Mossy Log

“Hi, Yvonka!” He put his feet on the coffee table and leaned back into the sofa pillows.

Yvonka volunteered with Cleveland Lead Safe Housing and would chat with Spence for at least a half hour. So I treated the event like Jane would have.

When visitors had called at the rectory, Jane hid her work in her writing box and picked up her sewing. If a clumsy dancer had stepped on the hem of Jane’s gown at the June 4^th ball to celebrate the King’s birthday, perhaps Jane would mend her dress while the company chatted.

While Spence talked to Yvonka, I stowed my story in my writing box―my computer. Then I hand stitched the binding on a mug rug. 

After Spence’s call, I glanced at the birds cuing up for sunflower seeds at the window feeder then into the sunny garden. Could my old bones take more butt-in-the-chair time, or would work in the garden relieve the cramped-ache in my hips?

I made another adjustment in Jane’s schedule.

Jane would have gardened in the morning―picking spring flowers flowers or tending sprouting vegetables.

My late fall chores put the garden to bed. I raked pine straw then toted it in bushel baskets to mulch blueberry plants. I didn’t have a bouquet when I finished, but the red circles of mulch around the plants looked festive, and I’d inhaled the fragrance of white pine with fresh air while I’d worked.

Around 5:00, Jane’s family had gathered to drink tea and listen to Jane read her morning’s work. Today she’d read her new pages in Susan.

I put the rake and bushel basket away then made Twinings Winter Spice tea. I called Spence and the two cats, my resident family, to the great room. While they lounged, I read “Her Christmas Gift,” the story I’d revised that afternoon. The cats didn’t want any tea, but they listened.

After tea and reading, Jane had eaten a light supper.

For my light supper, I heated a slice of chicken pot pie in the microwave then sat by the warm wood stove fire with Spence.

He ate his regular dinner and promptly fell asleep.

No worries. I could handle the rest of Jane’s day without his help.

Wild Cucumber

In the evening, Jane had played cards or read.

I did both.

Like Fanny Price in Jane’s Mansfield Park, I chose cribbage. [https://www.bicyclecards.com/how-to-play/cribbage/] My usual partner, son Charlie, worked at UPS so I played with online avatar Bill. Silent and clever Bill never made mistakes, but he lost because I drew better cards.

To end my celebratory day, I read “The Three Sisters,” one of Jane’s Juvenalia stories in which the oldest sister debates accepting the proposal of a man she detests because she doesn’t want a younger sister to marry first. I belly laughed so hard that I woke Spence.

I closed the book and wiped happy tears from my eyes. Exhausted but content, I told Spence, “I had a wonderful day.”

“Good. You deserve to have a fun day.” Spence yawned. “Maybe next week you could be J. K. Rowling. Find out what she eats . . .”

“Agatha Christie would be better.” I stood and stretched. “She’s closer to my age.”

But in my heart, I knew I would only follow Jane Austen despite differences in age or season.

Acknowledgments:

Thanks to my son Charlie who started this adventure Tuesday morning by sending me the link to a Guardian article about an author who’d followed a day in the life of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn.

Thanks to Jennifer, owner of Jane Austen Books, who let me consult about Jane’s schedule. Jennifer also searched LeFaye's Chronology to discover the June 4^th Basingstoke ball in honor of the King's birthday.

Thanks to Chris from Steventon, who described the June bird chorus with charm and who let me use a picture of her front garden.

Thanks to Spence. Though he’d said, “You could make it up. You’re a writer,” he went along with my desire to live Jane’s day.

Thanks to The Anglotopia Magazine for outlining a spring day in Jane Austen’s life at the rectory in Steventon.

Frozen Wood Pond Where Minnows Swam under the Thin Ice