It is morning here as I write from the little rabbitpatch on Bonnet Street. The air is cool and filled with the music of song birds. First light has come, while most of the neighborhood slumbers.
Though I remain a fan of rural living, I am thankful that the town I live in is a small quiet one. I realise now, that I grew up quietly. If a car drove by, we all stopped what we were doing to wave. The low rumble of a tractor is quite different from sirens . That is why I especially love morning time, in the town. I could go on and on about such things , but too much has happened to do so.
I went to see Jenny and her family, last weekend. I took a long walk with the little girls. We stopped in to see “Aunt J, which was delightful. She never fails to make me smile. She is loving to my daughter and grand children and it does my heart good to know she is their neighbor.
After that, we visited with the “laughing river”-my old friend. We said hello to some pines whispering and to daffodils blooming. We saw a bluebird who perched and watched us, too. It was a happy time, for me. The river was shining and sapphire blue. I always feel like the river remembers me, when I visit.
I came home and went back to work on the huge storage cabinet, newly built. It is finally finished and neatly stocked with all sorts of treasures-photographs, a few toys, my journals spanning several decades, the baby dress I came home in, Kyles’ piggy banks, the bunny that Tres slept with-tokens of precious memories. The only thing in it, that I have no attachment to is “the business box” .
Yesterday, I gave the cottage a deep cleaning for at last those horrid cardboard boxes were out of the house and the paint and sawdust too.
The work week arrived, and with it the routine. The weather here has been acting like spring for a solid month and so I am working outside, at school, in little gardens, which thrills me.
Everyone was happy at the arrival of spring in early February. Most every day the temperature was 70 degrees- and a lot of days 80! The birds got busy and Miss Sylvias’ irises, now planted, just out the kitchen door of the rosewood cottage, are blooming. It has been windy since long before March. Any minute, folks will be picking strawberries. I find the weather lovely . . but quite unnatural-and I am a bit wary. I do not want to “rain on any ones’ parade”, but I can not help but wonder about such a thing, as a very warm February.
Christian had a birthday one Friday. He detests fanfare and so I gave him a book-and we shared a special meal. I told him the story again of the day he was born and he talked to me about his hopes and dreams. To have a meaningful conversation, is a rarity these days. . . but oh, how beautiful.
Christian has never been a big talker and the substance of his conversations is never shallow. He does not speak like a fool, that rattles along as if something is loose somewhere. He speaks with thought. . .and after observation and much consideration. Such folks are few and far between these days.
Brant, Sydney and their darling boys came home one weekend. We gathered at Mamas’ for a Sunday dinner.
Mama had knee replacement surgery on a Tuesday. Sisters Connie, Delores and I are working in shifts for the next few weeks, cheering Mama along. Mama dreaded the surgery, but she could hardly get around. I am glad to report that she has made great strides in her recovery.
I went to Raleigh – in between shifts, so what a lot of bustle for me! Baby Banks is 4 months old . For now, his heart belongs to his mama, though I got a fair amount of smiles. Ryan is three. He is a small bundle of cheer and shine to me. Usually, when I am visiting, Ryan is so excited to sleep with me. Though he had said he was the first evening, I sensed a lack of enthusiasm. Brant was encouraging him and mentioned that he could take care of me, should some need be. About fifteen minutes after Ryan had snuggled in, he sat up and looked at me with a somber face and said “Honeybee, you are going to have to be brave”. Then he slid out of the bed . He looked back and said “I am sorry, but I love him.” ( his daddy) I laughed myself to sleep that night.
The next morning Brant was up early for he leaves for work before dawn. Sydney was up, for she had a class to attend. I was up to have coffee before the boys got up several hours later . . . only, they didn’t- for Ryan woke up within a few minutes and little Banks was up, shortly after. Sydneys’ mom joined me just a few hours later and between the two of us, all went well. We had a sweet visit and enjoyed sharing such a special time with our grandsons.
I declare again, that grandchildren are a wonderous gift-and not short of a miracle.
I had a dreadful time when my own children grew and flew from my nest. They would come home to visit and I would cry for three days when they left. This lasted for years. Tending my nest, was the most important work I would ever do and since the nest was mostly empty, I couldn’t imagine the possession of fulfilment nor such gumption ever again. None of my close friends, though they were sympathetic, had experienced this type of grief-for that is what it was. I didn’t dare let on to my children about it, either. I planted and cleaned and created with fervor and lied in wait of their return . . .for years. Christian was unaware that he was my saving grace.
When Lyla was born, . . well, I had a renewed spirit and that changed everything. Now, there are four little blessings that call me “Honeybee” and my gumption has returned in full force. As I plant their birth flowers and fix up another old house, it is with them in mind, that I work.
I am always on a hunt for something beautiful because I want them to know all of the loveliness of life. “I must tell them”, I think when I listen to a magnificent piece of music, or read a tender poem-or smell a sweet blossom.