I don’t know of a tree that I don’t like.  I especially love old trees.  I don’t see an old tree without being glad for who ever planted it, be it man or God.  I love  the flowering varieties, from the elegant magnolia to the mimosas on the ditchbanks.  When in bloom, they fill the air up with sweetness so unselfishly.  The fruit trees -well, they do it all and I love them for it.. .There is also a tree that whispers.

The long leaf pine is scattered around the rabbit patch.  They of course, are evergreens.  I  always cut branches of pine at Christmas and decorate the old house with them.  They are a simple sight to behold in vases and wreaths with some holly and a bow-but I like the pine.  It smells like Christmas, even in July.  When the wind blows through a pine, it does not rustle, but whispers in a hushed way.  No other tree can sing like a long-leaf pine.  The pine sings a lullaby.

Not everyone is a fan of the pine tree.  They are likely to topple over in severe weather and they drop cones steadily-but the song of the pine “covers a multitude of sins”  for me.  I heard the whisper when I was a very young child.  That was a long time ago and  the world was a lot quieter then.

In those days, we could hear a car coming a mile away.  The men could listen and say who it was.  Daddy knew when they needed to change the spark plugs.  If it was a stranger, the men would say “somebody in a Ford is coming.”  There was an old church not too far away and I remember my sister and I sitting outside listening to them sing.  I don’t know what kind of Church it was, but when you hear hymns coming across a field it’s so beautiful you will never forget it.  I always woke up to tractors in distant fields  as a child  and to this day, I love to hear that far away rumble. It reminds me of home. We knew the songs of the birds when we were so little and I doubt that is considered important now, but it was then.  It was just as important as nursery rhymes and Bible verses and I am glad , because when I remember a nursery rhyme, I remember the voice that taught me.

I suppose my cousins and I made the  the only racket on those peaceful farms.  We played hard after supper, while the adults shelled beans or peas.  We played til we were really tired and always ended up sitting  on the ground and talking til it got dark. We would share the secrets we learned about from the adults when they were unaware.  We would call truce on any disputes that had arisen.  No one was allowed to stay mad because it made it hard on the rest of us.  The night breeze would stir the pines up and we would listen to the whispering .  You can see the stars  shine through pine needles.  We would all get real quiet though we didn’t plan on it.  At some point, we would hear clanging buckets and then our names shouted out frantically by several adults who seemed to just be remembering they had children.  We ran like our lives depended on it, because in some way-it did.

If you sit by a pine in the daytime, you are liable to see a redbird.  Redbirds love the whispering pine.  If you sit by a pine in the evening, when a soft breeze blows, you are liable to hear their song and rest assured, it will be a lullaby.  No other tree  sings like the pine.

 

 

 

Today, I am back at the rabbit patch,  where the air smells sweet, wild rabbits run about and the green grass grows all around.  The only thing that went wrong, while I was gone is that  Christopher Robin broke a cute little bird that sat on a pile of books and had been doing so a long while.  The last time  I was gone, he broke a favorite rabbit of mine-Christopher Robin does not like for me to leave the rabbit patch.

My youngest sons, Kyle and Christian, had held the fort down, other than the broken bird.  They are good housekeepers too. Cash was especially glad to see me. Christopher Robin was too and showed no trace of guilt.

I am only here a short while as I return to Wilmington with Jenny and her family for a week on Friday.  I have a lot to do while I am here.  I wish the garden  would grow in the same way the grass grows.  The yard here is about five acres and shows no mercy for me or my plans.  It’s a good thing I  like to mow .  It is a good time to think lofty thoughts or have a pipe dream.  I do both.  I know I will downsize one day, but I need a yard of some sort, when I do.  I need something to tend.  I need a place to grow roses and “Sweet Williams”.

Every season has something to boast about-the summer is passing with swagger, and rightfully so. The summer garden is hard to beat. A tomato in January, can not hold a candle to the ones picked in July, with zinnias growing around them.  It is a good thing to pick tomatoes in the evening when fireflies are flashing and honeysuckle is blooming.  Such conditions will make you linger and remember the summers past. 

The kitchen smells like summer just now.  A kind neighbor brought me about eight pounds of cucumbers.  He is generous like that and has been every year, as long as I have known him.  It is refreshing to have such a  neighbor.   The community around the rabbit patch is made up of nice folks.  He threw in a good “mess” of sweet corn too-sweet corn is one of the best things about summer.  We are in “high cotton” for supper tonight with sweet corn and cucumber salad.

There is something so pure about rural life.  It’s a shame there are so few farming communities left.  Mowing , gardening and preserving your own food gives one an understanding .  Last year, one of my dearest friends was going through a “rough patch”.  I listened to her predicament-it was heartbreaking. She was heart-broken.  She paused a bit and then declared “I think I am just going to make pickles today!”  She did.  It is a long process to make pickles. We laugh about it now, but I suppose it was as good a thing to do as any-and she did end up with twelve quarts of pickles.

Hanging clothes on a line works like a  charm to calm a weary heart.  I plan supper when I am doing so.  My daughter hangs cloth diapers on her line and it’s a lovely sight. When a shower pops up-there is a mad dash.  On those days, I am thankful for a dryer.

I am writing this entry in front of a window fan-another thing I love about summer.  Cash and Christopher Robin station themselves right in front of it.  It is as good as a slow rain to sleep by .

Summer time means a lot of things depending on where you live.  It is a celebrated season no matter what place you call “Home”.  At the rabbit patch, it means clotheslines and window fans.  It is the time when a kind neighbor shows up with cucumbers and sweet corn, and makes me glad that I live on this rabbit patch all over again with its’ old trees. . .  and the green grass that grows all around it.

The days in Wilmington pass in the same fashion as they do at the rabbit patch-without the help of a clock.  I watch the way shadows fall at the rabbit patch . I  see shade claiming the corner of the garden-and I know it’s time to start supper. In Wilmington, time is just ribbons of sunlight on the Atlantic that dance with a cheerful shine  and when they slow to a waltz, it’s time to go home.

My son, Tres came in last night from Charleston.  He lives in Wilmington, but his job sent him to Charleston for a while this summer.    Tres coming home, was the icing on my cake! We had “Sunday dinner” on Saturday at four o’clock.  It didn’t seem to be the least bit odd.   I am as happy as a lark  when I am in a kitchen ,on any given day .

I watched the boys walking back and forth to the pool  while I was cooking and saw once again, that they weren’t  boys   and hadn’t been for a long while.  It has been many years ago, that Tres pushed bright yellow trucks filled with rocks and sticks-and longer still since Brant combed every inch of the woods behind the house , naming the trees as he went.  He would bring back leaves in his pockets for me and we would press them in heavy books .  Mothers  set great store by such memories and  will think about them while they peel potatoes .

I  took my own sweet time cooking dinner- I have done everything all week in the same manner.   The boys ate and declared it was just perfect, so all was right in my world-and it felt good.  We planned on a breakfast for Sunday morning-that is also the day Tres goes back to Charleston and I go back to the rabbit patch. I have missed my two youngest sons. I have missed Cash and Christopher Robin, too. I have even missed the smell of dirt and the way  the wind smells that has blown through the woods.

I will not leave Wilmington empty-handed but instead with a pocket full of sweet memories . I will remember the blue heron that visits the pond every morning and walks stealthily  around the banks  .  There is also a pair of geese, I have spent a fair amount of time watching glide around the water.  It was a sight full of such peace, that it made me drowsy on several occasions .  I got to know some cardinals that live in the wisteria vines at the edge of the woods.  It took them a while to realize there was no harm in me, but when they did, they were quite friendly.   I read some poetry-Longfellow, Frost and Yeats-always Yeats. I didn’t write as much as I had expected, but instead stared “through the looking glass” on the pond for somewhere between twenty minutes and twenty years,  watching the clouds pass by.  I will remember that my boys cast the shadow of young men-and that they walk with confidence-those were golden moments.  There was so much to do with my liberty and I was determined to use it wisely.  

 My account of the last five days may sound “sleepy”.  There are no crimes or politics to read about nor any heartbreaking going on, the diary of the rabbit patch is not intended for such purposes-but I know some of the secrets of the pond and woods out back and I have seen diamonds without measure.  Ones without price ,that shimmer with a shine not found in any store.  You do not need fame or fortune to bear witness to their dazzle. These diamonds give no honor to worldly ranking . No man can bury them and no one can steal them, yet they are there for the taking.   They abide on lazy rivers, lowly ponds and on the vast Atlantic ocean.  I have seen them . . .in little ribbons of sunlight that fall on the waters in a generous manner-and I am better because of it. 

 

 

I am away from the rabbit patch, right now.  I am by the sea-and in the absence of fields.  I am just a few hours away from my country dwelling, but it is a different place altogether with it’s streets full of cars , air full of salt and  its’ “big shining water”.  My niece Hayley and I are visiting my first -born, Brant for a few days. 

Wilmington is a fancy place -especially when compared to the rabbit patch. It  has historical significance and the charm that goes with it.  It is  rich in cultural arts. The residents come from everywhere and they come bearing  their unique gifts .  It is a friendly place by the sea and I like that.  Still, I think my Brant, is the best thing that Wilmington has going for it.

I expect to spend my days here writing and cooking-two of my favorite things.  The yard at Brant’s townhouse is well-manicured and tended by a staff.  There is not a garden on the premises either.  It seems I am left to my own devices as I am the only one without an agenda.  I brought a few books along as there is a pool to read by and the grounds are a lovely place to take a walk.   I think that the chances of a neighbor showing up with a bushel of stringbeans or cucumbers are pretty slim too, so I must resort to a life of leisure for a while.

I do not drive while in Wilmington.  Thank goodness that Hayley is not hindered in the least by all of the activity in the street.  The best I can tell. ..  everybody is late for something and think they have nine lives.  It is most unpleasant for me to even ride along in such chaos.  Hayley, however sings along with the radio and takes great notice of the shops as we are zipping along-unless it says “ice-cream” I am unaware.  I come back alittle shattered and am convinced that I am an old lady, after all! My commute to work is fifteen minutes through fields and horse farms-and I am very glad about it.

I am a firm believer that isolation is a missing factor in most of our lives.  I make it a priority to have some of it daily, but several days  of writing without interruption and reading til I simply don’t want to anymore, is a happy, but inconceivable notion. I will wonder about a lot of things during my “holiday”. I will call old friends  and write pretty cards.  I will write in Lyla’s journal-and in my own too.  I will visit the ancient oak on one of my walks, which is surely sacred and grows  just a bit away from Brant’s front door. I will cook a “Sunday dinner” on a Wednesday, and make a cake too. 

Best of all, I will have conversations with Brant on late evenings.  We will sit by a pond , with a splashing fountain, outside of his back door.  There is also a small patch of woods with wisteria still blooming!  I will listen to his dreams and he will hear mine.  We will talk about our yesterdays and  the hope of times yet to come.  I will look at this beautiful human,  generous and kind in spirit-a lover of all living things-and  who has enough charm to brag about, and be glad he is my own son.

These are the kinds of things I wish to tuck deep in my heart, for a cold day in January -and again, when ice is falling on the rabbit patch on the longest night of the year and the earth is sleeping through it.  . . I will remember  my time well-spent in early summer away from the rabbit patch and

in the absence of fields.

 

The sound of a “strawberry moon”  sounded like a beautiful event-but it did not start out in that manner at the rabbit patch.  It was the kind of morning that seemed determined to make you think the whole day might be full of  aggravating moments-and it was for a good while. One thing went wrong and then another, but around two o’clock, things took a turn.

I finally made it to my parent’s, having fixed most of what had gone wrong.  My sister and niece from Raleigh were there. Jenny and Lyla were too.  I had already seen my sister and niece, from the Lake in the morning, so things were looking up.

Mama had done her best to have a good meal on the table-and she did.  It was eaten in shifts though, as things had been a bit “off” for everybody in general. Some of them were eating at two, when I got there.  Lyla was sitting in the same high chair that I used to sit in!  Jenny said she had been a rascal all morning, but she was pleasant and cheerful at her great grandparents home.  

We ended up in the yard just after the last of us had eaten.  The shade was so cool and Lyla sat in a swing taking it all in making Jenny look like “a storyteller”.  Daddy was doing maintenance on my car for a while -he was  “born a mechanic”, and remains convinced that I am as irresponsible as ever when it comes to any sort of task involving tools.  He is right. He joined us afterwards, and we sat there a long time.  Jenny had school assignments to do, but she put it off, which is not her nature-but I am glad she did.   It has been a long time that we have all sat in the shade together-four generations, and none of us had another thing pressing.  There were other things that needed doing, but for a while , none of us cared.  Once upon  time,  the act of sitting in the shade with the family was a common occurrence -it was about a daily ritual, unless it rained.  

The adults would sit talking while the children ran around.  We were not allowed in the circle when we were playing games that involved dashing and hollering-and mostly that is what was happening.  Even if you went in to retrieve a ball, we were accused of “disturbing the peace” and those were the exact words.   If you stayed with the adults more than five minutes, you ended up shelling beans  and I  avoided that.  If you ran in the shade to tattle or whine, you had to take a bath and get ready for bed.  We kids learned to solve our own problems.  I remembered that time yesterday and wondered how it had ceased.  I felt very sorry it had.  Sometimes, it seems to me, that modern living , with all of the advantages it offers, is just a” wolf in sheeps’ clothing.”

I don’t know how long we stayed under the shade tree yesterday.  I do know we moved the chairs and the swing twice to avoid the bright sunshine.  I know that daddy’s dog, Casper chased a ball til he was tired, much to Lyla’s delight.  I saw my mama so happy to enjoy this time.  She was completely content and I understood.  Lyla “took a shine ” to my fourteen year old niece, Dana and Dana was happy about that.  My Jenny got to sit and rest.  She never had to chase Lyla, the rest of us did and took great satisfaction in keeping leaves, bark and flowers out of her mouth.

Last night, I went out to see the “strawberry moon”.  I really like that name, though the strawberry season is over, here.  It seems like a named moon is a special one.  It was lovely, and the Cherokee did great justice in bestowing such a sweet name .  I stood in the moonshine and declared I did not understand why the morning time was so hateful.  I also declared that the first afternoon  of the summer was too beautiful for words and that I was grateful for it.  I love the moon light.  It has such a way about it that it can make an old pile of wood  look like a  magical place where fairies surely dwell.  I thought to walk back to the field of clary sage behind the big barn.  I wasn’t sorry.  The long and mostly white spikes of blossoms shone fairly in the soft light.  It was like witnessing a secret wonder and as far I know, only me and the whippoorwill were in on it.

So I spent a fair amount of time yesterday,  sitting in the shade with people I love.  I watched a dog chase a ball and heard Lyla laugh about it. I saw mama “sitting pretty” and daddy feeling satisfied.  My sister and niece, loved my grand daughter and claimed their place in her life.  It turns out that the time of the “strawberry moon” was just as beautiful as it sounded. It was a lovely time  and a nice way to spend some of my life.

 

The last Friday of spring dawned gray over the rabbit patch.  I dismissed my plans to mow as it was damp and grass will clump and look untidy under such conditions.  It was a good time to pull grass from around the flowers and I did so for a while.  I watched the clouds passing over the rabbit patch. There was no hurry in them-and I knew it meant rain.  At that moment I had a notion to make a cake.

I called a few friends .  They agreed that it was a good day to eat cake.  We decided on a time-which was “afternoon”,so no one would have to worry about being late-(there is no “late” at the rabbit patch.)  I gathered what I needed to make a chocolate raspberry cake, and then I took to the woods for elderberry.  I was determined to fill a vase with those fragrant, graceful blossoms that the Irish hold so dear.  The woods were “lovely, dark and deep” but that did little to comfort me.  I kept a watchful eye out for snakes and regretted not inviting Cash on the venture, quickly.  I found wild strawberries and blackberries. They have a sinful amount of thorns but I cut some anyway.  They scratched me without mercy and I disturbed a family of rabbits in the process.  They made such a ruckus in the bramble, I was convinced it was a snake and it took me a minute to recover.  I cut some honeysuckle and thought how pretty that would be with the elderberry.  I was halfway down the path and hadn’t seen elderberry, but I smelled it.  It was getting hot and mosquitoes were buzzing about.  I knew my friends did not expect me to take such measures, but elderberry has a short season of blooms, and there is nothing else like them.  I hoped I didn’t get ticks-or redbugs.  Thank goodness I am not allergic to poison vines.  I finally found the elderberry.  It was growing in a thicket  so overgrown that I don’t even think the rabbits could get through it-let alone me.  I resorted to  roses and gardenias, which were growing in more civilized places.  I had  gathered quite a bouquet and  knew it would require a large vase.  I arranged them while the cake was cooking.

The kitchen floor was littered with small leaves and twigs, and I was a mess- and needed to check for ticks.  Somehow I got the floor scrubbed and myself presentable by afternoon.  Things took a turn, and Rae was the only one that made it.  We ate a lot of cake on little china plates- being I had gone to so much trouble and we talked a good long while.  I have been knowing Rae almost thirty years.  Our children were young then, and so were we.  There is an “understanding” between us and mere words won’t do it justice,  but it is beautiful and solid-it is genuine and precious and my heart is grateful for it.

We strolled leisurely around the rabbit patch afterwards. I showed her the acres of clary sage in the fields behind the barn.  I also showed her the sad state of the garden.  I learned that she calls running vinca “snow on the mountain” and I like that name better.  I showed her the “see through” flowers.  As we strolled from flower to flower, we wondered aloud about some things.  There is no risk when we speak our truth. A friendship, that has spanned decades, is of great comfort.  Life changes are unsettling no matter your age.  I often say, that now  that the kids are grown up, I feel as if I am fourteen again, unsure of how to proceed and needing to find my identity all over again. 

The sky was silver over the rabbit patch when Rae left.  Light had changed very little over the course of the day and it truly seemed timeless without shadows and sunlight.  I went back in the kitchen.  It was a pretty table after all, even without the elderberry.  I washed the china plates and felt happy as I did it.  Only, the cake tattled that a wonderful occasion had taken place earlier, right here in the kitchen, while the clouds passed over the rabbit patch.

 

Today is the first day of summer vacation at the rabbit patch.  This is my eleventh summer here ,on whats’ left of a once prosperous farm. There is a 4 acre yard, a patch of young woods and an old farmhouse, right at one hundred years old. There are seven barns, old trees and a garden. We have peach, fig, apple, pear and pecan trees as well as grape vines that have massive, old  trunks.  This is where my heart calls home.

I have worked day in and day out every summer that I have been here.  I have cleaned barns, cut vines and planted roses all over the place.  I have a nice herb garden that is naturalized well, now.  Perennial flower beds are tucked in mostly everywhere and there’s a white picket fence all around it. The rabbit patch is not short on charm. 

I know every inch of the place personally because I  have been there.  I know the birds that live here and what the sky looks like at all hours.  I know where the wild violets like to grow .  I am rarely surprised here these days with few exceptions.  A few years ago, some tanagers showed up that I hadn’t met-but mostly, days pass in old familiar ways.

It sounds lovely-and it is, but it is a far cry from easy street, to live on the rabbit patch.  By August, I usually have scratches from briers , bites of every sort all over and paint in my hair.  Still, I love being at home painting flowers on my barn and canning tomatoes.

The summer holiday has started off in a beautiful fashion.  Jenny and Lyla came for breakfast.  While Jenny worked on her college school work-I took Lyla to see Miss Sylvia, my neighbor and the first friend I made when I moved here.  Miss Sylvia is well known for her helpfulness to any and everybody-and for cooking “peach jacks”.  Up until recently, she fed all of the widows  in the community every month.  There is no telling what else she has done that I don’t know about.  She is eighty years old and was going to can string beans when I left.

On the walk back, I introduced Lyla to “Ace” -probably the first real horse she has ever seen.  Ace put on quite a show for us. I pulled grass for him, and Lyla laughed about that.  I never did convince her, that Ace wasn’t a dog.  When we were going down the drive at the rabbit patch, I stopped to pull grass from around a rose bush and Lyla laughed again.  I picked some gardenias and white roses.  Lyla smelled them for a while.  It was a perfect way to end a morning-the first morning of my summer.

I have big plans to plant basil this afternoon.  Later I will cook supper and take as long as I please to do so.  Christopher Robin, my kitten needs a bath and as always there’s grass in the garden.  I have to come up with a plan for some home repairs that needed to be done yesterday and I will vow again to downsize after that.

This life is not for everybody-but it is mine and I am quite satisfied.  I would rather be looking for the red tanagers, than taking pictures in Africa. I would rather hear Lyla laughing than hearing the mighty Niagara waterfalls- and Miss Sylvia is as good company as I  know of-Ace too.

This is the way  the summer passes, here on the rabbit patch. If you ask me what time it is, I will tell you it’s “June” and that it is a lovely time- a beautiful, ordinary time at a rabbit patch, with an old house on it that needs fixing. It is the place  where I live. . .  and  my heart  calls it home.

 

A day at the rabbit patch is a lot longer than it was, just a few short weeks ago.  The night does not come swiftly.  It falls without hurry. The elderberry is blooming in the young woods  Well hidden nests have hungry chicks instead of tiny eggs. . . and white moths are on the wing, for I have seen them in the twilight. 

Springtime is all but passed and summer all but here.  Screen doors and window fans have lost their charm these last few days.  In two days, the alarm clock-and most any clock in the house will count the hours in vain.  School will be over, even for music teachers- and summer is about timeless at the rabbit patch.  It is quite liberating to have a season without clocks and schedules.  I have plenty of obligations, living on the rabbit patch, but somehow, when you measure time by grass growing and tomatoes ripening it seems natural and quite acceptable.

Summer at the rabbit patch does not allow for rushing, unless a storm is coming across the fields.  Then there is a mad dash to the clothesline -and then to the front porch to batten down the chairs and any thing else that is liable to go flying in a summer storm.  

Otherwise, the summer is reserved for a season free of chaos and clutter of any sort at the rabbit patch.  In early summer, I will have a morning garden party or several.  I plan to spend a good part of my summer drinking tea in the shade of the sycamores with loved ones .  I will have long conversations with cousins not seen in a while and I have several neighbors that I want to visit with.  In the country, neighbors can be separated by farms and live a few miles away-still they are the closest ones to you.

In the summer, I have time to think great thoughts-and silly ones too, if I am so inclined.  I may be cleaning a barn out while I am doing so, or shucking sweet corn but I am not hindered in the least by such tasks.  The yard and garden alone require regular attention.  There is always something to be mended from the white picket fence to the barn doors-so summer lends me many options on how to spend my time. Therefore, I have no qualms with spending hours in the shade of trees on a regular basis-and I wish everybody could do the same.

The biggest advantage of the season will be spending time with my children, my first grandchild and my parents.  Everything else, takes a back seat in comparison to that. Age has an uncanny way of defining what really matters in life-it has done this for me anyway.

As spring retreats and summer arrives, my thoughts turn to such things with great expectations -and a determination to work, play and rest with a sense of balance.  The time to pick vegetables in the morning and eat them a few hours later is upon us-The time to gather with loved ones for an outside supper is here.  I know for sure, because the gardenias say so , the hydrangeas agree -and* when white moths are on the wing, summer is just a short while away.

                                                      

*W.B.Yeats

 

There is no sign that a river ran through the rabbit patch garden just a few short days ago. These last few days have been bright and beautiful, and have erased any evidence of such an occurrence.  The only  proof of the crime that remains  is no one has been in that garden in a good while. Grass and weeds are claiming territory and they seem to mean business.  Supper has been late  this week on account of that,  and laundry has been done at odd hours.

I was ready to give up on the garden, but a small pepper changed my mind.  There it was right at the end of the row in plain sight, hanging from a small plant-so I went in and started pulling grass.  It came up easy and the next thing you know, I had finished that whole row.  I am now about half way done. I have done a bit every day after work and I am down to the “short rows” as my Pop used to say, meaning  I am about to be finished.  There is no rest for the wicked nor a gardener-but a gardener does eat better.

The world in a garden is quiet. Cash  and Christopher Robin fell asleep while I worked in the dirt. I smelled the gardenia bushes mixed up with scent of the earth and felt happy.  I thought how good the  vegetables were going to be and started thinking about feeding the people I loved.  I thought that soon the kitchen would smell like a garden and how I love that.  I caught the fragrance of elderberry blooming in the rabbit patch as there was a spring breeze blowing my way and it bore such tender gifts, just liked it meant them for me.

I kept pulling grass and thinking about things I love in my life.  The more I thought, the more things came to mind-especially the people I love.  There’s a lot of reasons to love people.  Sometimes we love a person because they have helped you or they have been generous in some way. We love people that we admire .  In a broad sense, I love everybody as I ought to-some people just make it easier than others to do such a thing.  I realised how blessed I was to have so many people all around me, everywhere I go that I love, easily and with all my heart. I think what makes a person so dear to me, above all, is the way they treat others .  When I witness acts of kindness to strangers or the ability to have compassion for others it touches me deeply. I admire people that treat others with respect and value.  It says more than enough to me about the condition of their heart. They “wear their sermons in their shoes” .  I think how easy it is to love those that are like yourself.  We call them “friends”-and they are.  We like the same things and enjoy one anothers’ company.  It is lovely, but it doesn’t require any great effort. We get something back, after all. Well, this has been written about before, but it came up when I was in that garden .

When I finally looked up, it was almost dark.  The night air was cool and the breeze was just a sweet memory.  Killdeer were flying about as is their habit.  Lights were on in the kitchen window and I couldn’t see the difference in weeds and vegetables anymore.  

Cash led the way to the backdoor of the farmhouse.  On the short walk back, I knew two things-there would be a garden at the rabbit patch this summer, after all and that of all the things that truly matter in life- “The greatest of these, is love.”

I woke up this morning to the sound of rain falling .  It was coming down in a gentle way and the world was gray.  I was thinking how lovely it would be to linger in that state. Cash and Christopher Robin were in no hurry to find their day.  What a pity, I thought, to be a human-and then I thought about the garden. Surely it was drowning.

I declare that this spring has been as rainy as any I remember. I love rain, more than most people do, but it sure can dash a gardeners’ dreams of marinara sauce for the winter!  Such is the life of the one who tends the earth. I have learned a lot of life lessons in that little patch of earth .  The garden at the rabbit patch is like an old friend and I have no secrets from it.  I have prayed, cried and laughed in that garden. I have seen the sun rise on it-and the stars appear above it. There may be a “river running thru it” now,  but the heart of a gardener is patient and hopeful.  We learn to “wait and see” and we can accept the mystery-much like the way life works.

I had gardens in my youth, when the children were young.  They were mostly disasters as I couldn’t invest the proper time in them.  There was a lot of laundry back then-and supper is no small affair when you have five children.  We managed to eat out of the garden, but not much got “put up” for winter-and the well-stocked pantry is one of the greatest benefits of a summer garden.

There is a rumor, that gardens are for “old people”.  There may be some truth in that as now there are farmer markets everywhere.  There was no such thing when I was growing up.  If you had land, and didn’t grow a garden-well, folks might think you were lazy.  Of course, I grew up in a farming community where everybody had a big yard and a tractor.

I went out last night as always -and I looked at the garden. Light rain was falling.  Two bunnies were making their way through that swamp.  They were sandy colored and I knew my former pet, “Cookie” was alive and well and I felt glad.  She escaped a long while back and naps under shade trees , boasting about her liberty on summer days. I have taken a lot of bunnies that grew up and weren’t appreciated  for that-Cookie was one of them.  They had a little pen that allowed them to feel the grass under their feet and plenty of space to bask in the sunshine-as rabbits ought to.  I don’t like to see anything caged up.    My grandmother, lived at the rabbit patch in her last years. She would sit by the pen with iced-tea and watch them with amusement.  I miss those days right now.

The sun is shining on the rabbit patch like it’s making up for lost time this afternoon. I have promised the garden that when school is out in a few days, and the river running thru it is dried up-that * “I will stand and see, ask for  the old paths and where is the good way and walk there in.”

*Jeremiah 6:16