“Miss Edie” said it was going to rain-according to her arthritis. She was right. It started before the early service and it rained all day. It was a steady rainfall that maintained a soothing rhythm, all day. This rain would have been quite suitable for sleeping or watching an old movie. I was quite sure I could have written a charming piece, under such conditions. None of that was to be, but the rain was lovely just the same. I remembered Mama always said “April showers bring May flowers.”, when I was a child.
On account of the cool, rainy day, we had soup for supper. It was a hardy vegetable beef variety and it is likely, that it may have been, the last soup of the season, as we do not eat soup in warm weather.
A silvery fog was settled over the rabbitpatch when I woke, on Wednesday morning. The sun looked like a silver dollar, when it rose from behind the old barn. The territory looked like a black and white photograph that could have graced the cover of Pops’ beloved “Progressive Farmer” magazine , many springs ago.
By mid morning, the sky was a very bright blue and the sun was shining boldly. A child brought me a handful of clover flowers and I breathed the scent of them deeply. I love the sweet, green fragrance of the clover. Though, a patch of clover is the most likely place I know of, to get a bee sting, (for honey bees love the clover, too) , I am always happy when the clover blooms. I was never too keen on making necklaces and crowns, from them, as most children are. It is a tedious work, but my cousin, “Cookie”, was quick about it, and she made crowns for the both of us, while I searched for four leaf clovers, to press in heavy books. Even today, I am apt to do so.
When the clover blooms, the evening air is especially sweet.
When I was pulling out of the drive way, this morning, I noticed “Miss Sylvias’ Irises” were blooming. They are a delicate lavender, and always remind me of watercolors. Miss Sylvia was the first person, I met when I moved to the “Farm Life” community, now twelve years ago. She came to welcome me and presented me with a cookbook, which is a collection of recipes from the women in the community. Most of the dishes are “made from scratch” and the book quickly became my favorite one on the shelf in the kitchen.
Miss Sylvia has been gone a year now. When I see her irises, I remember when she played my piano at Christmas and sat in the shade with me in July. I remember the stories she told me about the former days at the place I now call the “rabbitpatch”, but mostly I just miss her friendship.
Also blooming, along with the iris, are the wild roses in the woodlands. They clamor the nearest tree and act like a garland of fragrant pearls. Now, the vines cascade along the woodlands’ edges and sway so gracefully. The blossoms are clusters and do not favor their “high society” cousins found in tended gardens, but they are lovely enough to make you want to write a poem.
Now that the evenings are milder, they beckon to me, like a long lost friend to come out to bid the world good night. With the moon, almost full, the countryside looks bathed in a holy light-and just glancing at the mighty heavens, dispels fear as good as anything I know of.
Dear Diary, I am so glad it is April when the wild roses bloom. I am glad for clover and moonlight . . . and memories of a friend, who gave me irises to plant.