At the risk of sounding redundant , I will say again . . .it is raining at the rabbit patch. I am sure some record has been broken in the meteorology department, but how would I know, as cable does not work in the rain here? It is just as well, for I have other “fish to fry” these days. With Kyle and Christian absent in the daytime, I have been studying great works – and done some light reading to preserve at least a portion of my sanity. I have removed the relentless cobwebs from the far corners of the house, again . I have pulled grass and small trees up, between showers. . .and made cookies. Today I am scrubbing floors. . . and paying bills. I must find something to occupy my time as the present state of limbo abides. . . which means, waiting for an appraiser.
The school year begins in a few weeks. I had so hoped the whole business of selling and moving would have been sorted out before school started. Now, I can see, that was “wishful thinking” . I have come to terms with that. There is an art to waiting, properly. It is not a passive state at all, for it takes great effort to forge ahead in a sensible manner, when you are trudging in the dense shadow of providence.
I am reminded of being thirteen again, which may be the worst age of all. At thirteen or fourteen, we are really still children, but we aren’t suppose to be childish. The world seems to have changed in a flash. Our looks are changing and we have new feelings. Sometimes we still want to play, other times we are far beyond it. The familiarity of life has vanished and with it, our confidence. We are too old to behave as we did and not old enough to proceed, in any other fashion, but awkward. Nobody, ever says, “I wish I was thirteen again!”
Now this is not really as dire a time, as all that. Life can have a good many seasons. To me, it is like I am embarking on a new adventure . The itinerary isn’t known, just yet, though. All I need is faith “the size of a mustard seed” and I admit, sometimes even that is hard to come by. Those are the gloomy days. At those times, I will pray and walk among the ancient oaks . I will gaze at the steadfast field and look up at the sky, and soon regret my faltering. “How can I be fearful?” , I will ask myself, for it is fear that lies at the root of most dreary thoughts. The whole world seems in cahoots to restore my Faith and fear just can not abide, under such circumstances . In no time, I “go on my merry way” with renewed vigor, and glad for mercy. The whole thing passes like a fever.
Summer is waning, so say the morning glories. Little, tangled masses are hither and yonder on the rabbit patch. I try to let them be, but they are an unwelcome sight, next to a rose bush. No amount of gentle persuasion works on a morning glory. They look too delicate to choke the life out of something . . .but they will.
The corn is tattling about the time, too. Golden tassels crown the stalks, now. The fields lie golden in August, because of that.
I see “Back to School” ads everywhere, trying to convince parents that their children need everything under the sun or they will surely fail their grade. My own school supplies were things like “sturdy” shoes. They were never cute. I swore they were “boy” shoes. I got a new coat and the “book bag” that was also “sturdy” and looked like something a boy would carry. I did not go to kindergarten and I am sorry to say, if it had been up to me, I wouldn’t have gone to first grade.
I had an especially sweet teacher, and I loved every child in the class, but the cafeteria food smelled strange and I could not bear it most days. I do not mean to sound arrogant, but I was horrified that some students did not know their colors. I disliked the worksheets with simple tasks like “circling seven ducks” and “See Jane run!” was dull compared to my beloved “World Book Encyclopedias”, that were on the bookcase, in Grandmas‘ “front room”. Of course, there were water fountains and slides which were new to me, but best of all was the library. The librarian was grouchy, but she was Grandmamas’ friend. She went to our church and it seems like we were “kin” to her someway. She had a pretty white, brick house with a lot of flowers. I often wondered how a person with so many books and flowers could be so grouchy. . . Honestly, I still do.
The apples at the rabbit patch ripen in August. There is a spicy aroma in the air that never fails to remind me of my maternal grandmother. Her kitchen always smelled delicious in August. Big pots of applesauce simmered perpetually and there was apple pie for dessert most every evening. Apple ‘scraps” went to the pasture. The ponies and goats galloped to the fence, when they saw me coming. I remember being careful that all of them got something, as there was clearly a pecking order. If a pony was shy, he was apt to go hungry.
Nellie, was the ruler of the herd of goats. She was the color of sand and quite bossy. She even bossed the ponies! She ruled the herd in a cold hearted way. It was no wonder to me she was so fat she waddled , for she was quite selfish I quarreled with Nellie daily, about her “unchristian behavior” and threw the apples to her “subjects” as best as I could, at six. Nellie got her fair share too. Every spring, Nellie would have twin kids-and once triplets, and I forgave her for everything, on account of that.
Time has marched on at an alarming rate, since then. Many ways have marched away, right along with it. Oh, how long ago, those beautiful summers were! I am glad that fields still lay golden and that apples still ripen, now . . . for this is how I remember August