I meant to write yesterday, but I have felt awful since Easter Sunday-and I could not conjure a single thought. Besides that, I was not up before dawn, which is the most likely time for me to wander tenderly with my spirit. Otherwise, my thoughts are as shallow as those of a goldfish!
Thank Goodness, for the garden and old trees and April skies, for such things implore me to stop everything . . .and get still. If all else fails, there are the church bells, and a friendly robin and a family of rabbits that visit. Such things make me set down my bucket of water or stop digging, to take notice.
Recently, April was full of rainy days and then, bright days full of sunshine. I am a fan of weather, in general and find both kinds of days, lovely.
Now , May, the sweetest month, has arrived to fill the hearts of poets and farmers alike. As a child, May meant, little goats and foals would be born. I still remember how we would all get up and scramble to the pasture , in a mad dash.
At school, I was more apt to “daydream” in May, which was considered sinful. I would stare out the open windows and wonder which field, Pop was plowing and what Grandmama was doing in the kitchen. I could imagine Mama hanging out clothes on the line and sister Delores Ann, playing merrily . I was always especially homesick in May. . .and the school bus seemed as “slow as molasses in January” on the ride home.
I must have been born, “a homebody”, for I still prefer to be home. “Home” is one of the few places left, where things make sense, to me.
“Familiar” is getting more and more scarce, in this world-and what a shame. We no longer, second guess anything, but instead go head over heels over “new”. We ought to all stop or at least pause. Needing quantity over quality is an insatiable quest. Rushing about to get more often means we settle for less. Oh, I hope to choose wisely and recognize true values . . not what is easiest, nor shiniest, at the moment.
I have noticed, that when people reflect on their childhood, they tend to remember what happened often, mostly. . . not gadgets. The fondest memories are not usually related to convenience. They are things like supper, and Sundays and whatever else that occurred until it could be deemed dependable. Isolated, the details seem ordinary . . . yet we remember.
I am a sentimental one and the value of things tend to stick with me.
Maybe that is why I am so thrilled to have a clothes line! Kyle put it up about a week ago and it truly looks adorable-that is right . . it is charming. Fragrant flowers grow at the ends of it and a decorative birdhouse too. It is a short line, but it does hold a set of sheets, nicely. When I announced the installation of a clothes line to friends, many of them out right frowned. I laughed about that, for I may be the only one left that enjoys the quiet work of hanging clothes on a line . . .while a mockingbird sings.
Sister Delores and niece Dana came this weekend. On Sunday, we visited with Aunt Christine and Uncle Gene and our cousins. There were first, second and a third baby cousin all chatting and snacking together that sweet hour. Before we left, Aunt Christine showed us her newly planted gardenias. It was the icing on my cake. All of my life, a walk around the yard, to look at flowers, has been the conclusion to a gathering. In my earliest memories, it was Mama Hodges’ yard. I did not enjoy the tour, as a child, for the women treated it like a ceremony and talked quietly as we we walked listening to the history of each flower while the children had to restrain movement lest we trample some holy specimen. Some how. it has become a tradition and looking at Aunt Christines’ gardenias, made me remember.
On Monday, Mama, Delores and Dana came to the Bonnet Street rabbitpatch. I made coffee and they brought Mamas’ favorite cake, that Aunt Christine has presented as a parting gift. Delores Ann sews and so we made plans for curtains for the rosewood cottage. Dana is on break from school, as she graduated this past weekend. She talked about her dreams and concerns about how to proceed in life. . . until Christian came in with some of his artwork. That changed the conversation and the two of them were in another world, for the rest of the visit. We did take a walk around the yard. Well, the yard is ever changing.
Just this past week, I found the courage to remove an unsightly long row of hedges. The things were covered in thorn vines and poison vines too. Besides that, they were spindly, despite my many hours of labor. I made sure there were no little nests and since there were not, I said “good riddance”. Now sunlight falls , where shade used to. Birds and squirrels have been feasting on the contents of disturbed soil ever since. I must settle on what the future holds for this broader and sunnier patch of earth, on the north side of the house. I take this matter seriously and I contemplate by staring at the space til I am almost in trance. The boys are used to this habit and know exactly that I am plotting, something that may involve them. I have heard them sigh, at the sight of me contemplating. Tres caught on to this quickly and sometimes would deliberately interrupt.
Meanwhile, the grand children are growing like dandelions-and I miss them. The youngest flowers around the rosewood need watering and work is an especially busy place, these days. Mama can drive, now, Tres and Sarah have birthdays this month (the same day!) and I will continue to ponder the north garden . . .and make my biscuits.
Sister Delores took a few pictures for me to share . . so you can watch my garden grow, too. The relaxing rabbit sits upon an old bookcase, now with a hinged top. Picnic supplies are stored inside.