May is known as “the sweetest month” and so far, there is no denying that. This is the longest spring, that I remember in a long while. Usually, spring comes and for a very few weeks, is so very lovely. It lasts but a month, and then the heat becomes wicked and makes one wilt to be outside. Not so this year. Most days, it seems sinful to be inside as the days are just about ideal. The birds sing cheerful verses all day long and I smelled a magnolia blossom today wafting on a gentle wind.
I have almost finished the kitchen floor at the rabbit patch. I worked all weekend and every night this week for several hours. As much as I enjoy working, I will be quite content when this chore is finished. First off, it is a nightmare, when the kitchen shuts down at the rabbit patch. I tried to keep a “path” to the sink, then to the refrigerator, then to the stove and so on. We had to go outside to enter the laundry room, as well.
Christopher Robin and Moonshine were banished from the house altogether. These cats dependably track through paint. In the past I have scolded them for such antics, which implores them to dash about in all directions. It is not easy to get teal blue cat prints off of a kitchen table-or a chair or another floor. Cash, my boxer, uses better judgement and naps in front of a window fan-at a safe distance. Tonight, we will have roasted chicken and potatoes, squash and peas, to celebrate a shining kitchen floor.
The windows are up at the rabbit patch. A farmer is plowing a massive field, just across the road. I smell the dirt he is churning and I bet he smells our supper cooking. I love the smell of the earth. The soft hum of window fans float through the old house now, like a lullaby. I am very fond of window fans. The best sleep, I know of, is either by a wood heater-or a window fan. Only, when the hateful humidity descends on the south and even the wind is hot, do we install the window air condition units. I always put it off as long as I can.
I named the rose garden, at the rabbit patch, “The Quiet Garden”, after Gladys Tabers’. Every rose is blooming now and the pink wild rose sprawls about the picket fence in a full display of little blossoms. The Quiet Garden is a charming place, with the exception of winter. It is a wonderful place to think and wonder-and to unload burdens. One of the many nice things about roses is that they do not tell your secrets-nor do they scoff-nor do they criticize. They are like old and dear friends, in that way. I have a beautiful view of the garden from the window by my “morning table”. In the evening now, fireflies flash their little lights where the roses abide. There is no rhyme or reason to their flight, but I pass a few moments watching them in the twilight, lighting up the “Quiet Garden.”
I did not plan the “Quiet Garden”. Like every other beautiful thing in my life, it just happened without any foresight on my part. A farmer was cleaning his barn out one Saturday, and come across a few sections of picket fence, that he had no use for. He offered them to me, and thus the idea of a rose garden was born. Now, one of the rose bushes gives ample shade-enough to give refuge, for the weary, in July.
Dear Diary, In the sweetest month of May, I am glad for the smells of the earth, magnolia blossoms and roses. . . I am glad for fireflies in gardens . . and I am glad too, that a generous farmer cleaned his barn out, one Saturday, a long while ago.