When May came, it did not come “empty handed”, but instead bearing gifts. Surely, nature is at its’ finest, just now. Every day has been drenched in golden sunlight. “The heavens have been declaring the glory of God . . and the firmament, His handiwork.” Dappled shade falls on the territory, where a few short weeks ago, it did not. Every day is born with cool air that is filled with melody. . .and something blooms everywhere.
Now, the wild honeysuckle blossoms sweetly taint the night air and the fireflies, which we call “lightening bugs” – are out in great numbers, flashing in the pines. If the days are golden, then the nights are surely silver.
Now is the time to buy geraniums and strawberries. Blankets sought in January, now are packed away and window fans hum softly, at the rabbitpatch. Even the kitchen table reflects the season, for chowders and roasts smothered in gravy, will now be replaced with lighter fare.
No matter how mindful I remain of this lovely season, one day seems to turn in to another “behind my back”! I am quite busy at work, as is usual for the last weeks, in any school. I am also busy at the rabbitpatch, where the fence needs mending and the grass grows unreasonably fast. Most every day, the boxer and I take an evening walk around the territory to survey the unfolding beauty of the landscape -and to note what ought to be done next. Still, the days pass and when I do look at a calendar, I am always shocked!
One evening, I noticed the “Mothers’ Day” rose ,was beginning to blossom. The pale pink roses are the small roses, like that of the “ladybanks” rose. The sprawling bush climbs a fence in the corner of the “Quiet Garden” and blooms faithfully at “Mothers’ Day” . . hence, my name for it. That is why I looked at the calendar, at all. In light of the news, my sisters and I met Thursday and went out to eat, with Mama and Daddy, at a local restaurant. Connie, a nurse had been in class all day. Connie is much younger than, I am, and I suppose that is how she mustered the energy, to join us. Delores, lives near Raleigh, and had driven in that day. Both of my sisters are able to honor busy schedules, while I am not. In contrast, I am on a mission to declutter my life, as if it were a pantry! Still, “Mothers’ Day” is upon us and my own dear mother, deserves her day.
On Sunday, my sister, Connie is hosting a picnic, at her home on Lake Phelps. Mama and Daddy are going to that. Connie and husband Mike, will cook for an army, that day, as if it were a “second nature”. We are all invited. My own children, who “take after their mother” are still working on the plan . . . for tomorrow! Will and Jenny are leaving today for a vacation – or else Jenny would have herded her brothers, like a devoted shepherd, and covered details. Jenny, born second of the five, has always been like a “second mother to her brothers. I see her now with Lyla and Brynn, and declare she is a natural at the art of mothering. Thankfully, Jenny is loving AND sensible, with her own children and her brothers, who often depend on her advice. My children are devoted to me . . .and to one another . . and this thrills me to no end.
On Saturday morning, I had some housekeeping to do, and the list compiled from my mental notes, taken on the evening strolls, around the rabbitpatch. I have a party, quite interested in buying the rabbitpatch, coming this week. Though, I haven’t a bit of the former anxiety, regarding the sale of the place, I do want things tidy. The truth is, I want things tidy, anyway. I like things in a proper place. I am not opposed to a jacket on a sofa or a pair of shoes, by the door, but I do like order. My pocketbook is the only exception to that rule, for that has always been an impossible quest, for me. Money is tossed in, like I have plenty of it and there are often chocolate wrappers, and receipts for all sorts of things. There is always a book, in case I have to wait, for something, somewhere-and a small notebook to write in, for notions strike me at odd times. My mothers’ pocketbook, on the other hand is a wonder, all to itself.
I have read several essays on aprons- and their many uses, besides cooking. They hold apples and eggs, and even dry tears . Grandmamas’ apron did those things and more – and when my Aunt Josie died, I asked for her faded , thin apron. . . but my mothers’ pocketbook even rivals an apron. That pocketbook still hold all sorts of remedies. There are band aids, tissues and, if a headache or a sore throat, a nagging cough or pangs of hunger arise . . the remedy is in that pocketbook. There is a stash of money hidden in some dark corner of it, folded neatly . . .just in case . . and things for nails and hair. I think if you wanted to write and mail a letter, the supplies for that . .are likely, in there. In fact, for all I know, there could be an apron – in that pocketbook. . .along with a rain bonnet, of course. I simply, can not live up to my Mamas’ “cure all” pocketbook.
By noon, I was sure I had done a full days’ work. The light of day did not offer any indication of the hour, as clouds had muted any chance of telling time by the sun. Lunch revived me enough to plow on and I ended up, accomplishing enough, to have a holiday tomorrow – no matter what plans, unfold.