Living on a rabbit patch is not for the faint of heart. My own, has barns that complain constantly about something. The house itself, joins in, clamoring for its’ fair share of attention and the grounds around it can make me weary at times. . . but in September, on a day like today, I forget all of that. September makes me remember why I ended up on a rabbit patch-and the long and winding road that led me home.
In January, the farmhouse is cold and you are apt to want an old quilt over you in many of the rooms- but today the windows are wide open and the country air blowing through the house, does not allow me to harbor any resentment about past winters. The ageratum is everywhere in masses. They are as tender as spring violets and like the violets,they bloom where they please. How lovely to come across a patch of them unexpectedly on my wanderings. The bright yellow “swamp flowers ” are just about as friendly. Their lowly name does not hinder their joyful presence in the least. Years ago, I talked Kyle in to stopping by a field and digging a few up, to carry back to the rabbit patch. I am in the habit of this if I take a fancy to something blooming wild-no matter what you call them. Kyle worked like his life depended on it, to do it quickly. He found the practice odd and would have been horror-stricken if we had been seen in a ditch, digging flowers. I always remember this, in September, when the rabbit patch seems to grow sunshine.
I am not sure whether I bought the rabbit patch, or the rabbit patch bought me, now a decade later. I did not know that there was a busted pipe under the house and that the the water heater was useless. I thought if I just painted it, all would be well. There were five bedrooms-one for each of my children, in case they needed to move back. I forgot they were grown and had their own homes, with the exception of the youngest two. I think the wild irises blooming at the edge of the woods made me forget. There are seven barns scattered about and it never crossed my mind that loose tin would be a perpetual thorn in my side-or that doors would fall off, ever so often. I had painted flowers and verses on them. I hung wreaths and painted birds and thought they were beautiful old barns. . .and they are. I can barely keep an account of the wrongs of the rabbit patch, today though. I can forgive and forget in September, especially when a full moon will rise over the fields tonight.
I came here not knowing that I would have a magnificent sunset view from the front porch. I had forgotten that in the dark sky over a country dwelling, a million stars shine at night and you can see every one of them. I didn’t know that the silence of rabbit patch would act like a tonic on me, either.
It seems now, that all my life I was going down a long and winding road leading me straight away to this old rabbit patch, so I would know that I can paint birds and roses – That I can stack wood, mow for hours and love a cold winter night in an old house. In September, on the sweetest day. . . I remember-and my heart is grateful for time well spent.