I came to Elizabeth City on Saturday morning. Somehow, I finished the porch at the rabbit patch on Friday evening as the sun was setting. I believe it was sheer determination. As I drove the familiar route, over three rivers, to Jenny and Wills’ home, I drove under a bright and cloudless sky. The water looked gilded in silver. Even the large fields, I passed, sparkled with morning dew, in the suns’ generous light.
When I arrived at the Riverside Village, there was a lemonade stand set up by a quaint bridge . There was an older couple sitting in the shade and they waved and smiled, as I passed. Had I not been so anxious to see Lyla, I would have stopped just to say hello. It was a sweet sight- and a good idea, I thought. Why can’t adults sell lemonade, after all? Maybe I will do that one day, as well.
Moments later, I was walking in the back door at Jennys’ and into the kitchen. Lyla came bounding in and said “Good Morning!” clear as a bell! It came to me like a song sung sweetly. Lyla says all sorts of things these days. I have been “Honeybee” since Lylas’ infancy all because of a silly rhyme I concocted that made her laugh . . every time. Of course, Lyla has called me “Bee” for a while. Since then, she has learned to say “Honey” and so now she has dropped “Bee”.
We had toast and coffee and then Jenny had an assignment to complete, so Lyla and I took to strolling. It became hot quickly and only a “now and then” breeze blew. Young rabbits are all over the village, now. We had several close encounters on Saturday morning.. When a rabbit knows it is being watched, it becomes as still a statue. Lyla, when spying a rabbit, does the same thing. She says to me “shhh” and she will want to watch him for as long as he allows-which is really a good while. Sometimes, I secretly wish for a nice “clap of thunder” or a noisy blue jay to happen by, on such occasions.
The lemonade stand was closed by the time we crossed the little bridge in Riverside, and so we stopped by the banks of the “laughing river”. The water was still, because of the “now and then” breeze. Somewhere I heard some little boys splashing and laughing. I could tell they were a long ways off as their voices were faint. This is July, I thought, when children are unencumbered and this is what they do with their liberty. I found it beautiful to think about.
The air changed, as Lyla and I sat on the grass by the river. It felt wonderful, but the sky darkened and I knew we best head home. Lyla laughed as the wind became strong and constant. Thankfully, the banks of the Pasquotank, are just a few minutes from the house. We had not been back too long when a storm arrived with thunder, lightening , wind and heavy rain. We all went out on the porch to watch. The willow tree bowed low in the gales. Its’ tendrils were flung wildly and harshly, about . The willow is known for its’ graceful beauty, but that night the young willow battled like a warrior. On Sunday morning, the willow stood proudly, with no sign of “wear and tear”, and I was glad, as Jenny especially, loves the willow.
I did not rise so early on Sunday morning. All of the work of the past few weeks, seemed to have caught up with me-and besides that, it rained most of the night. Under such circumstances, I slept quite soundly, and right through , what I call, “the early service”, which is dawn.
After breakfast, Lyla and I headed out, in the cool of morning. Zinnias are blooming everywhere. Zinnias are reliable friends. They bloom til the first frost and discourage pests that spoil picnics -and eat your tomatoes. I planted some at the rabbit patch, ten years ago and they have returned faithfully ever since. Tansy is blooming now, too. I have some of those , given to me by Miss Susie. The particular variety she gave me smells like honey. I have always admired Miss Susies’ yard. She grows all sorts of flowers, so something is always blooming. I just recently saw an arrangement she created and it was as pretty as any I have ever seen.
As Lyla and I walked the sidewalks of “Riverside” we came across a stretch strewn with the bright pink petals of the oldest crepe myrtle, I have ever seen. It looked like the aftermath of a small parade. Lyla said “wow!” in a hushed voice and like her “Honey” . . .clapped her hands in delight.
Dear Diary, I am glad for cool mornings. I am glad for the strength of a young willow and the pink rain of blossoms from an old crepe myrtle. I am glad for silver water and flowers that smell like honey. I am glad that a young rabbit and a mighty river too, reminded me sometimes . . . I just need to “Be still”.