Charles Burchfield, Journals, November 16, 1948

To the country east of Lime Lake sketching—first to Lime Lake—parked awhile on the hill to the east above, going over my notes. Then northward, and Farmsville Station & Route 98—parked by the Hemlock Swamps at the junction of 98& 243.

A lovely spot. Here I ate my lunch. The flat wispy clouds that dimmed the sun, passed away & the sun came for clear and strong; a wonderful day. The various weeds are as yet unflattened(sic) by autumnal snows, and have a beauty that is unusual, especially goldenroad(sic)

After lunch I spent about a quarter hour planning and mentally painting the little scene to the west—a lot of woods, hemlocks with the silvery glint of sunlight on thin needles, and golden rod & astir seed heads rimmed with light. But I had to give it up as not being different enough, it seemed I had done it all before. Each time I came to this little spot I think I must make a painting here, but never do. It probably has too much charm.

So east on 243 & then north on a secondary road, the one I came home on last summer after a days painting near Rushford Lake. Almost at once I felt I had come into wonderfully interesting country. I pulled off the road at a convenient place & looked around. A row of nondescript maples with farmhouse & barn beyond & the dirt road running out over the hills to the small suggested a fit subject & I set about putting up my easel. Some men at the farm were putting a roof on a shed and saw me—first one, then another & then a third climb up to the peak  of the rood &stand there watching me intently. Presently, as I expected a young girl & small boy came down the road with their dog to “see”. Altho the girl was rather over—talkative & anxious to impress me with her knowledge of painting—I probably would not have minded too much had I not been finding it a terrible job to get anywhere with what I was doing. Example “Oh you’re painting in water—colors, doing it the hard way I see”—“Do you work mostly in water—color,” etc. I was as patient as could be, because I knew if I flared up, I would regret that & would be just as hampered by regret as this way. I admired & petted the god, and told them if they came back in two hours, there would be something more to see. The cold wind drove them home. Punctually she came back in just two hours. She asked if it would be all right to have the “boys” come to see it too, of course I consented & they all left their work to come & admire.

It was a fine day, after the wind made it difficult and I had to resort to several impromptu schemes to hold the card board and easel in place; not too successful, which made [???] detail changes difficult. In other ways, tho(sic) the wind added to the mood of the day, driving before it long horizontal bars of whispy(sic) vapors, that first dimmed the sun to a soft glow, then blanketed it altogether… It did not reappear until it was close to the horizon; then it came forth brilliantly for a few minutes, lighting up the red apples on a tree across the road, in beautiful silhouettes in front of a woods.

I put all my things in the car, then set out to explore the woods. Then moon (full) was already up a soft orange glow dimmed by mists. The rank odor of rotting leaves coming up from the floor of the woods, the wind roaming in the tree—tops—I regretted not bringing my sketchbook, so hastened back to the car & went back to the woods & made a few stories.

I ate my lunch in the car. By now the moon was higher and shone clearly into the car. Afterwards I took a short walk down the road. To the north, a wide valley then rolling hills, covered with dark woods and bleached out dead grass that, lit up by the moonlight became a pale brownish lavender. Above a bank of feathery clouds, and at its edge, the big dipper or great Bear. The insistent wind from the S. W, roaming over the grass & weeds, had a haunting quality. I hated to end the day & yet it could not go on.

Always when sunlight falls & I am out, the longing to see Bertha grows so great I can hardly stand it. So soon on my way home whistling old airs to pass the time.

B thought my sketch was good. As usual I am too tired to see any virtue in it.

To bed & listen to Detroit Symphony play Brahams  2^nd.     

Charles E. Burchfield,  November 16, 1948