Let me give you a place to sit and something to think about. A Morris recliner by Stickley, a melon fabric.
Memory is a series of life’s moments recalled when needed.
Last year at Oxford, last summer at Water House, Walthamstow, northeast London, a square, heavy Georgian building of yellow brick, the Morris family home from 1848 to 1856. In 1856, William Morris, twenty two and a student at Oxford, writing as a character named John, in The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine:
John took up a garden fork preparatory to running down to the melon ground where the worm-populated dung heaps were; for some strange reason that moment and the half hour were one of the unforgotten times of his life; and in after days he could never smell the mixed smell of the toolhouse, with its bast mats, earthy roots and herbs, in a hot summer evening, without that evening with every word and gesture coming clear to his memory.
Strange, is it not, that inspiration can come from a dung heap, a melon, and a summer long ago? This first day of May, I have just planted my cantaloupe seeds out behind the store in bed recovered from the compost of last year.
Let me give you as an added bonus, two poems by William Morris:
I am the ancient apple-queen,
As once I was so am I now.
For evermore a hope unseen,
Betwixt the blossom and the bough.
Ah, where’s the river’s hidden Gold!
And where the windy grave of Troy?
Yet come I as I came of old,
From out the heart of Summer’s joy.
I am the handmaid of the earth,
I [em]broider fair her glorious gown,
And deck her on her days of mirth
With many a garland of renown.
And while Earth’s little ones are fain
And play about the Mother’s hem,
I scatter every gift I gain
From sun and wind to gladden them.