It is raining, as I begin this post. It is a steady, rhythmic rain. The sound of it on the tin roof is like a lullaby. 

I am always reminded of my maternal grandmother, on such days, for she used to say “I love you like rain” when she would hug me good bye.  Now I say this to my own grandchildren.  My grandparents were farmers and so I understood the feeling she was conveying.  Rain meant a lot. 

The church, that I attended as a child, had “Homecoming” one Sunday in October.  The weather was perfect and I could not help but remember, the many years, when the event was held outside under a grove of old oaks. Cakes were uncovered, potato salad was unwrapped and children kicked off their”Sunday shoes” within minutes of the preacher closing his Bible.  We lingered for hours ,after the dinner, visiting with one another and watching the children play. The children ranged from ages two years to young teens and all frolicked together, on a slight, grassy slope.  I remember a boy named “Johnny, carrying my then two-year-old son, Brant in his arms to win a race.

“Miss Dallas” made the best macaroni and cheese, -according to everyone that ever tried it.  I remember as a young mother sitting with her ,  one homecoming, to get the recipe.  I still use that recipe, told to me, under an old oak, today.   We all remember Miss Dallas, each time that it is served. 

Now  this Homecoming happened in a spacious building.  The tables were laden with dishes. Acorns did not fall in casseroles, nor did a breeze disturb a tablecloth,  but there was still the fellowship of folks who share the memories of that church.  As in the former years, I was in good company, that day. 

October is the birthday month for my maternal, grandfather, I called him  “Pop”. He was a man with a lot of “bark”.  He  had eight siblings, so the “bark” was understandable.  He was a loving grandfather and fiercely defended his family. He laughed a lot.  He was impatient.  Pop had a sixth-grade education, yet he was  impressive with mathematical skills.  He did not use pencil and paper to calculate how much fertilizer per square acreage, nor the wages due his workers. 

When I was growing up, the kitchen in the little farmhouse, rarely had any processed food.  Instead, there were Grandmas’ canned goods, made the autumn before and a smoke house with hams curing.  There was hoop cheese in the “Kelvinator” and always a pie or a cake. I do remember a box of gingersnap cookies, that got left out on the sideboard most days.  The elders did not have to worry about me getting in to them.  Pop loved them . . .I thought they were awful.  Little hard cookies , with a “bite”  did not tempt me.   Well, I decided to make gingersnaps this month to honor the memory of  my “Pop”.  They turned out  much better than I expected,  much better than the boxed cookies  . . .soft and just enough “bite”. 

The aroma of those cookies was good enough “to bottle”!   I didn’t have to call anybody to the kitchen, on that day.   

Another day, I washed  all of the  blankets for beds and the small “throw” ones, that will don  the sofa and chairs for    this chilly season.  The clothes line came in handy and what a pretty sight  watching rthe linens sway in the brisk autumn breeze.  I have not lived in a warm house for twenty years.  I do not mind  it anymore.  

Autumn has settled gently on the rabbitpatch.  Twilight comes sooner now, and with  it a chill that lingers til mid-morning.  Lately, the sun shines with a brilliant luster, coaxing the floss flowers and chrysanthemums and every tree,  to pay tribute to the lovely time of  October.  The chatter of the world is hushed by this spectacle, for me.  . . and even if,  for just a short while. ..it does me good. 

Each day I walk in the young garden around the little rosewood cottage. Oh, how grateful I am  for this.  I thank God for gardens, where things grow quietly-where unthinkable acts do not occur-where  there is not a lack of integrity–and nothing screams out for attention.  In a garden, things growing, behave  as you’d ezpect.  A rose behaves like a rose, dependably.  A garden is  a place of beauty.  – and especially now, for the dainty flowers of the tea olive are blooming!  I must think on such things, otherwise the sorrow that I feel for this world,  be unbearable. 

It seems to me that every person in the world has strong opinions about everything, so I am not wishing to “kick that hornets’ nest”.   . .but, being older,   I have memories of better times.  At least, the ways of people were gentler, much less volatile and while there was tragedy, (as there always has been)- it was not at the current volume, nor at this height of  heartbreak.  . .at least in my own lifetime.

So, that is why I take to  gardens and say” good morning” to birds and squirrels and bake  breads and count my blessings upon rising.  While there is no profit in “burying your head in the sand”, ,  I must seek refuge occasionally with actions that are free of discord and  feed my spirit. 

 Wild geese fly over the rabbitpatch, twice daily.   . .mornings and in the late afternoon,.  I must be on the schedule of geese, for I  rarely miss seeing them.   I go in and start   supper after the evening flight of the geese. While  supper simmers, I  usually read.  This week, I read again, a favorite quote of mine.  I close with these words, hoping they may provide hope and comfort for you as they do for me.

“More things are wrought by prayer, than this world dreams of.”-  A. Tennyson