Typically the forecast for April, is “rain, likely” . . hence the saying. “April showers bring May flowers” – Today was no exception. With that being said, I started a fire in the garden . . .again. There is but one corner left now, to burn. I put the house plants out to collect the rain. Not long afterwards, a gentle rain began falling.
Christian was up early, as usual. He took a look out and said “It’s a good day for you to write.” I do not know why, but I do especially, like to write when it is raining. Rain hushes a farming community and so the rabbitpatch is quiet and so very conducive to thinking great thoughts or entertaining notions, when it rains . and I do like to get still, more than ever these days.
I grew up in a world, where you worked steadily and made the most of your time, but rushing was limited to bad weather coming, and clothes were on the line or there were strawberries that had to be picked for company. Rushing was not a habit, in those days. Now, we live in a world of convenience . Folks, mostly buy their berries and very few yards have a clothes line. Yet, everyone is in a hurry. Porches are seldom occupied and supper is often from a bag . . and I declare, we have lost, something beautiful.
Of course, in spring, I am least likely to rush. I do not want to miss “the time of the singing of birds” nor the sweetness in the air. Should I live to see a hundred springs, I will not get my fill .
Since, it was raining, I concentrated on housekeeping. I made a bold decision. I packed my winter clothes up – shoes and all. (This is surely a testament that I believe in Spring . . . and the sale of the house. ) The only thing I have had to unpack, since my huge packing up, in the fall . . was my spring clothes. I have been quite surprised, at this, for there are at least forty boxes, scattered through out the farmhouse. They are in every corner, stacked neatly and labeled. Of course, I have not made a trifle or done any decorating in a long while. The china cabinet looks dismal, without a thing to brag about. So do the bookshelves, but all and all, we have still lived comfortably.
I tackled the linen closet next. This was an easy task as I had at least cleaned it out. Packing up the few extra sheets took no time. In the meantime, a man came to fix the lawn mower. The repairman was kind and fair, thankfully. Though it was raining, he mowed a streak or two, to show me his success. Now, I must wait, for a fair day. No matter, my enthusiasm, . . I will mow around the flowers .
Sunday was born like a lullaby, softly sung. The birds did not even raise a ruckus as the light shyly ascended on the rabbit patch. Not long after, I rose, it started to rain. I still love rain. We have had the rainiest year on the local record, but this has not dimmed my love for rain a bit. Of course, I love sunshine, and clear bright evenings, but the sound of a gentle rain, has a beauty too. Many times, I have planted flowers in a spring rain. It is a an awful mess, but the best insurance of success with the young plants, that I know of. I do not like to drive in rain, though.
What delightful moments, the season affords! On Monday, the first rose of the season, bloomed at the rabbit patch. It is a fragrant , yellow rose and was quite a surprise for me. Another good thing about Monday, was that at long last, the rabbit patch territory got mowed. I hummed as I cooked supper, listening to the sound of the mower. (Kyle did the honors.) How it lifted my heart to see the rabbit patch being restored to its’ former glory. There is still much left to be done, but there is less than there was.
On Tuesday, I heard a whippoorwill sing. Few things are sweeter in the evening air, than the song of the whippoorwill. He sings as if all is right in the world . I remember clearly, listening to the whippoorwill, in the quiet evenings of childhood. In the lazy hours, after supper, we would often sit outside til dark. Mostly, the low hushed voices of the adults made me drowsy. The later it got, the less anyone said anything. We would always look for the first star and then the big dipper before we went in.
I doubt any one of us, would have ever guessed that a half century later, the simple substance of those evenings, would still be treasured- more so than any “Kings’ ransom”. or written about. After all, no one could have convinced us, then, that “our way” would be lost, nor that . . . those evenings in spring, would have made all the difference, for me. Dear Diary, Bless that whippoorwill, that made me remember.