I  keep my  suitcase packed these days, for it seems that I always need to be somewhere.I was in Raleigh for a while with those delightful grandsons.  I came home briefly and  then left for the lake.  Sister Connie and her family went on a vacation together, so I stayed at her home with her beloved dogs-d chickens. 

The lake is in a secluded area.. . and thirty minutes from anywhere.  Connie keeps her home well stocked and  both she and her husband are highly resourceful people whom do not shy away  from hard work-so she is content on ” the lake of shining waters” .Is it the crystal clear water that ebbs and flows on a bed of white sand or the abundance of woodlands and the life  that fills them?  Faith can only  increase in such a place and despair just cannot abide in this  wild  and  yet , tender territory. 

I thrived in my time there, insulated from uninteresting  worldly affairs.  Nature does not deceive nor embellish.  There was no sense of rush which allowed my thoughts to wander deeply and  go further- when undisturbed. . . .and there was time not to think at all.  One can  learn so much  through mere observation.. .lessons without words,  still  seem to “speak” , and quite loudly- to the heart. ‘ 

I came home on a Sunday, back to Bonnet Street, on a dreadfully hot day. After a sweet reunion with Kyle,   Christian and the gray cat,  I went to the garden.  I had planted in June, which is a bit late for this area.  I tended it with love and devotion until it had become a sanctuary for me.  As I worked on the small patch of earth, I thought of my ancestors.  They all had gardens. I couldn’t remember a single one who didn’t.  My summers were filled with gardens and hence . . .kitchens .  Children helped with picking beans, squash and  strawberries.   In ..the ladder  part of summer, fruit was made into jam.    

 In my garden a circle of peppers surround a watering station for pollinators.  The entrance to the garden, is by a raised planter of summer squash and basil grows on either side. I also have tomatoes and cucumbers-and potatoes.  Herbs and marigolds are scattered about . . . and a footpath ” runs through it”.  Grass grows where it ought to, for I forbid it do  otherwise.  I spend so much time there that the birds  visit in my presence!     

My garden has given me much joy. . . but not too much squash nor too much yield in general.  At the start  of the season there was unusual heat and not a drop of rain.  When at last, the rain did come . . it fell “in buckets”!  It was a record breaking  event for our area. but,  most of the plants survived that .   Currently heat has settled in  -and with malice, it seems.  This year has not been the best for growing  tomatoes and okra, but when I think of the folks in dire straits from severe weather circumstances, it seems absurd to complain. 

 I was home for several days, when it was time to leave  again.   . . for a very special journey awaited  . . . Tres and Sarah were having their wedding! 

The whole family was going to just north of Ashville, NC to celebrate!  The ceremony was just lovely.  I love Sarah and feel blessed that she and my dear son found one another.  They are well suited and also make a very handsome couple.  Twenty souls slept under the same roof for several days.  All of us were filled with joy and so the air itself, seemed happy.

I have been home for a bit   and have no plans to leave again. . . until, the weekend.  

I remain in a reflective mood- though not quite as much as before.   I am always  busy and have accomplished several small projects, besides  my routine tasks .  I converted  a very old pie safe into an apothecary recently. For the next few days, I am trimming bushes.   (This  is slow and dreaded work for me.)   

  I  have needed  to organize my thoughts, for they are a jumbled mess at times.   I am growing , and understanding more,  but it is a slow effort. I realized that I wasn’t  yet, above childish behavior-and at my age!   No matter how many improvements I made to the old cottage nor how many concoctions that I made in the kitchen, nor the hours spent creating beauty-well it just didn’t console  me.  I  eliminated anything that did not inspire me, as best I could,   

A peaceful heart is what I desired – and to claim that, meant I would need to stop all the distraction  and accept  the conditions of this season.  I prayed a lot-sometimes desperately, sometimes earnestly- and sometimes fearfully, for honestly, all of the gloom scared me.  It seemed to cling to me-and no wonder, for I clung to it.  …   A part of me was determined to remember meticulously, the beautiful era past. lest I would forget.  At first, this seemed like a harmless tribute-until it didn’t.  I wasn’t just reminiscing, I was dwelling  in that sweet, safe time.  . . a time that seemed to have slipped through my hands, like water. 

I remember the day that things changed.  It was right about the time that the ginger lilies bloomed. . .but that is another story.

 

Since snow was in the forecast, Christian and I decided to take the boxer to the vet.  as quickly as possible.   The south shuts down when it snows and Cash was ailing.  One day, he had  been sick several times-and then he stopped eating.  Boxers are typically lean dogs.  Cash is- still muscular, and in great form, hence, he was getting thinner., so off we went. 

I am quite partial to boxers,  so Cash is hardly my first.  He is twelve  years old also,  which is considered elderly for the breed.  The diagnosis was lymphoma.     I asked for an      antibiotic .  He  also has medicine to keep him comfortable . . .until, he is not. 

We did get snow.  It fell mostly at night, so the next morning, Christian and I were up early, eager to see how  the event unfolded.  The small town was transformed  with the silent  beauty that  only snow can  make.  Like love, snow ” covers a multitude of sins.”    . .for things like abandoned flower pots are interesting structures when snow disguises  their identity.  My garden table, is now  surely a fairy  castle! How wondrous the woods must look!    As inviting as the landscape looked,   the old cottage, needed tending.  Dusr had coated every surface, the floors needed mopping and there were boxes to be unpacked . . .but the bathroom was fantastic! 

I  immediately put a turkey in the roaster-in case the electricity failed and set out to restore order.  I had left , when the leaves were golden.   It seemed like that  was so long ago.   Now Trees are bare and  nests are empty- and right there in plain sight, for winter  can not bear  false witness.    I sure hope the truth of the rabbitpatch property is eventually beautiful and charming, but currently it is not.  The yard is strewn with all sorts of debris .   .but one day, this will will not be so.    My priority  has been the cottage.   

Today, I can say finally that the former order has been restored and the floors are clean.  I am still working on laundry and stocking the kitchen. 

Usually,  my winter is  spent reading. writing and painting.  I always pick a subject to study, as well. I did write letters in my grandchildrens’  journals,  but the rabbitpatch diary, was without intention, silent.Words tumbled in my head I wrote verses and sang them as I rambled in the woods and sometimes I would discover something and  want to share it.  . .but thee was always something in my hand or a simmering pot needing water.

I especially missed my readers. You have all become  very dear ro me.  Your encouragement makes such a difference in my life.  I missed you.  Now to my facebook friends .  l can not respond to anything, no matter how much I want to-for I am suspended!  I have no idea why and I have done everything recommended and enlisted help!    Please do not think that I am not grateful nor negligent.  I will continue to try to remedy this.  WordPress friends, I will not be able to catch up on my reading,  for I am too far behind.  My heart remembered you often and how I hoped all was well with my sweet community.  Thank you all from the rabbitpatch.

 

I don’t suppose, I will ever  grasp the concept of time.  I know it is summer, for the heat though dreadful, does at least, turn the tomatoes, a lovely crimson.  I see the very old crepe myrtle in all its’ glory, now and the community of little wild creatures, that abide on Bonnet Street, are taking cool sips of water from the birdbaths regularly.   . . as they should, for how  nonchalantly the sun moves  across rhe sky now.  A shower of rain is cause to celebrate, these days!   I have always called this time summer, but now . .  . it is the time after Mama died.   

Life does seem ro divide itself in segments naturally. Unlike a calendar, there is no precise way to measure the duration of these fragments.  Just the other day, I answered someone with “That was before Brant was born,”   and I still say. “After Farm Life” quite often. 

This particular “segment” remains especially somber-and odd.

I am so very disappointed with ” all the business of death”.   . .and at such a time of distraught, for everyone.  I dread the disassembly of my parents; home.  We have barely started this heart wrenching task. I am hoping that the thought of it is worse than than the act itself. 

I am still coming to terms with this new “territory”. , , in life.   This world is just so wide and vast, I remind myself.  

Order has almost been restored at the rabbitpatch.  I have at least completed the “no plastic” mission.  Of course, this will require my on going attention and I must put thought in to what comes in this little cottage. 

 Most of my flowers have survived my neglect and the cruel heat of midsummer.  The “confederate rose” that I rooted last year survives and thankfully so, as this is a hard to find plant. The stalwart phlox blooms.  The roses are complaining.  The wild jasmine lives whole heartedly  and thrives  . . .and seems  to grow joyfully.

I am practicing some of the food preservation skills. that I studied in the last six months.  I have made sauerkraut twice and am fermenting tomatoes now.  They smell amazing and if it ever gets cool enough, we will have an Italian dinner.   I tried my hand at yogurt and that was especially good with fresh strawberries.   .. but lo and behold!  Yesterday, I made crumpets!  I am using a sourdough starter, which took me weeks to make.  I have a lot of practice ahead to accomplish my lofty notions,  but will  not attempt too much just yet in my  little kitchen in July . . for fear of wilting with a wooden spoon in my hand. 

My computer gave out the last month that I was with Mama.  That changed things,  as I could not study new medications, nor understand what certain symptoms meant. I  felt unsettled not knowing things and fearful that I would miss something crucial. . . and oh how I love knowledge!   

After a few days.  I realised that I was praying more.  I was now, relying on my faith.   I didn’t have to know everything.   .nor understand every detail.  This was of great comfort to me.  It was also a very significant course, and I considered it deeply..  I simply had no other options, or else I am certain that I would have remained as I had been. . .  “leaning on my own understanding”. 

I  must be as stubborn, as my children declare that I am. for it took me getting backed into a dim corner,  to  resign from  my former habit and to accept the liberty that awaited.   . .and I am determined to act like the wild jasmine-to live whole heartedly . . .and thrive . . and grow joyfully.

A new season looms ahead. . . an unfamiliar  one for me.  There are no “short cuts in this place.  Instead, one must wander through without any sense  of direction. It is a season of dense shade and brambles. . .It is the first season of my life without parents, for Mama passed just over a week ago. 

It makes no difference that I myself am older now and  we all knew, it would happen. 

It is comforting to know that Mama was spared much of the suffering, that could have been and my heart is full to the brim with gratitude for the abundance of love she had  been shown since  the  first days of her illness.   . . .We had time to prepare, too,but even with my  own very wild imagination . . . I am bewildered.   

I spent the biggest part of the the last six months at Mamas’ house.  I have been at the rabbitpatch on Bonnet Street. but a few days.  I learned some hard but beautiful lessons during that time.  I  can not fail to mention, the significance of these things, nor the Divine Source of them. . .God did not give me visions, nor prophesy, instead He gave me truth and  courage, which are tremendous  gifts -and invaluable.  I have concrete examples  of how these lessons  were imparted, that are tucked in my heart.

Certain things in life are just inevitable. Fame, nor fortune, nobility nor intellect do not prevent  loss and grief.  As it is written, “The rain falls on the just . .and the unjust.”  The art of recovery may be  one of the most important  things to teach our children.    I have thought about this a lot, these last few years. 

All was going well, til Daddy died. That remains one of the hardest things, that I ever had to bear.  A short while later, I had to sell my beloved farmhouse surrounded by old oaks, and dear neighbors.  A year later, my job  of twenty three years ended.  Then Mama got sick.  Thankfully, my parents and grandparents helped me learn about disappointment, as a child. 

The still-born colt, would not stand. The kitten could not come in the house.  Sunday clothes would always be itchy and cookies crumbled, often and quite unfairly.  .all fragments of great lessons. 

My own children, all grown now, had an abundance of the same sort of lessons.  And I am well aware, that even now, they are still learning  and on a much larger scale, what to do with somber times.  My actions matter to me . . for they  will be  observed by my dearest ones.  My ways  will speak and should honor   the inheritance bestowed upon me by our elders, now passed. 

Mamas’ passing reminded me that there was one less person , left in this world, that knew  the ways of our elders.   . .the sound of their voices   .  . and one less person, to “tell the story” , of  who created our family.  The hard work and sacrifices they made, still matter.  Goodness,  I miss everybody!   

I am staying busy, doing the things that I love. I have made pasta, butter and yogurt., this past week.  I am taming the yard that was left mostly, to its’ own  devices.  There is also a lot of business recently. 

I think a lot.  The event of loss, seems to force one to think  greater ideas-profound thoughts that pop up with ease, suddenly, now.  Clarity is increased and so is understanding.  So many things are revealed . When  the world is dimmed,  our focus is sharpened with  precision, and much can be accomplished. Priorities  in my life, seem to scream out, imploring me to “stay the course”.   

The “time to mourn”  is more than just a tragic time.  Something beautiful can spawn from it.  The sense of loss, is but a part of it, for  we  are hardly saddened by  loss except when we feel love and gratitude, in the first place.  Recognition of  a precious blessing, has value -and needn’t fade with time,  Faith can flourish, or be born, depending on ones’ circumstances.  . . and so. I have hope . . and assurance . .even though the world seems lonelier now that Mama left. 

It always does, when a mother dies.  

 `

 

 

Time has a way of passing no matter what. I spend the most of my time with Mama and I am thankful that I can.  Unless Mama has an appointment,  I do not think or even care what day it is nor  the hour .   Instead,  I think long and hard about  a lot of  other subjects.  I can hardly remember sometimes, what I used to think about, before Mama got sick.  I asked myself “why” it took an awful diagnosis to make me really  aware (AGAIN) of what matters most in life. . .our  faith and our loved ones. 

Right now, I am still bewildered . . so is Mama.  I think we both miss ordinary days . .  and thinking ordinary thoughts .  I force myself to mentally, go to pleasant territories,  on every occasion that I can. I watch the birds, full of chatter, these days and  so very busy.  Daddys’ bees are too.  The hive hums  merrily since  the return of warmer days. 

Winter wheat grows where tobacco used too, on the farm that my grandparents tended. It is a lovely thing to watch a wheat field grow.  Every stage of it is beautiful. 

 

 I came home one day, and the little Rabbitpatch looked beautifully uncivilized!  Mounds of very green grass were growing, in forbidden places and dainty little wildflowers were growing as they pleased.  I was delighted!  I felt like I was at a celebration. Of course, the politics of living in town, even a small one, do not abide by such notions  and I knew that I had to quiet this lovely commotion, pretty soon. 

I was bound and determined to hang sheets on the clothesline, while I was home, and so I did. The very next morning, I stood in a patch of sweet clover and bluebells, while I filled my small line.  That was when, I saw a rabbit sitting all still and quiet under the tea olive at the end of the line, where a sheet frolicked in a merry breeze. Hours later, I came out to collect the linens and there again was the rabbit.  This time the rabbit scampered quickly under the little shed that belongs to my neighbor.  Last year a family of rabbits visited  the old cottage on Bonnett Street  daily  (rabbits are rarely seen in this neighborhood.) and so I always left tokens of my affection, under an old oak-carrots, apples etc.  This year I will leave such things under the tea olive. 

I finished, (for now), a project, while I was home.  All of my food, is now stored in glass, with the exception of some canned goods.  I have been working on this for months. The food industry does not make this easy!   Few things come in glass, so I will make  my own condiments and breads and of course, this will be an endless project, but I am committed to it.   . .and how good my pantry and cabinets look! ( I have never been a fan of plastic for food storage- or water.)

  I am also working on a secondhand cabinet, that was given to me.  When, I am finished, it will serve as a linen cabinet. Of course, a cabinet that is for linens, ought to be as pretty as the contents it houses, and so  a simple paint job just won’t do.  There will be roses and shamrocks on it, quite an odd pairing-and maybe a songbird.   I also have four legs, I salvaged from an antique wood kitchen table to attach,  and the boards from that tabletop will become shelves, in my pantry.  I always loved that shackly table, but alas it literally fell apart, after being hauled out of my oldest barn at Farmlife.  I kept it anyway. This is  all  a work in progress and I will work on it when I can.  My house is full of “collected” furniture and each piece has a story.   

I have several more projects in mind for later.

  In the quiet hours at Mamas’ house,  I read and study. 

I am very mindful of what content, I allow  myself to ponder, for one is  in a vulnerable state, when  circumstances are just so gloomy. So, I recite “Loveliest of Trees”  as I have for thirty years now , at “Eastertide”. 

I have rooted cuttings from a forsythia and a quince bush. 

I am studying food fermentation.  The heath benefits are quite impressive.  Right now, I have a small jar of saurkraut on the kitchen counter,- a very small step in my quest , but a step. 

Daddys’bees swarmed this week.  My friend and beekeeper came one night and collected them. How happy I was for my friend and the bees.  This has led to a study of bees.  I want to be a beekeeper one day.

Tomorrow, the family will gather at Mamas” There will be an egg hunt, a brunch and a “Sunday dinner”.  I so hope,that Mama will have a good day.   . .We all do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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it was as if a celebration was taking pls

I can hardly keep the diary current, these days, for things just keep happening.  Last week, was a prime example . .  .

I had been up about thirty minutes one morning,when   I  heard an ungodly sound coming from the bathroom.  I sprang to the scene to find a  spectaculr fountain  spewing from the sink.  I  quickly shut down the valve and then surveyed the scene.  It took several towels to soak up the puddles.  I saw then that the  faucette was missing a handle!  I didn’t even know such a thing could happen!    I went to the living room to sort out my thoughts.  Half of the Christmas tree was dark.     

The phone rang as I contemplated calling my cousin about the plumbing.  I received unpleasant news.  Afterwards, I looked up and said aloud “God, it is 10 am.”  Well,  alot  had happened. 

On Thursday, Mama and I made a trip to see our “Riley Kate”, sister Connies’ grand daughter.   She was  delightful and mom Hayley was doing well.  We sat in Connies’beautiful home with the Christmas tree  shining brightly.  Outside the very blue lake  was covered in whitecaps, for there was a cold and wild wind, blowing, that day.  It was a lovely afternoon, and I left full of gladness for my sister.  Hayley is next door and a beloved grandson lives there and works  with his grandad and with Hayleys’ husband, Carson.  (I shed a few tears at the beauty of it.)   The  next two days, I was in the kitchen.   

We all gathered at Mamas’ house for an early Christmas celebration, on Saturday. It was a happy, busy time.  Lyla was especially full of joy, literally dancing around.  Ryan and Brynn were  together and in cahootz over one thing or another, plotting and imagining.  Little Banks was passed around then Christian took him on a walk, allowing Banks to explore the yard, unhindered.  Lyla and Brynn passed out cards they had made . . .such treasures! 

I was trying to ice a “birthday cake for Jesus”, so the children might remember the holiness of   Christmas.   I had been interrupted twice and then again, when Sister Delores herded all outside for pictures.  I grumbled and whined about it, but followed the eager family out.  They were assembled around a car with a bow on it.  I being dull , asked “What is this?”   Tres  walked over and handed me the keys!  I was stunned- ,more so than  I had been when I saw the  surprise shower in the bathroom!  I am still shocked.  Tres said, all my children had helped in some way, for me to get it. 

Now my old car still runs well, but it is over twenty-five years old.

A storm came the next day.  I have not seen this much rain at once, in years..  After weeks of freezing nights, it is mild and very wet on Bonnet Street.  It has now been raining for 24 hours.  Thankfully, no flooding  at the rabbitpatch. Tonight, freezing conditions are expected to return. 

Somehow and against all odds,, the delicate flowers of the star jasmine, still blooms ,framing  the backdoor.  Two chrysanthemums are full of white blossoms, also.  Everything else has”settled in for a long winter’ nap”. 

The oaks rest, and so does the very old  crepe myrtle.  A warm brown carpet of fallen leaves, covers the garden, now. Winter has come .  Nature is stilled and hushed, its’ “work” unseen for mere humans.  My collection of rainwater is partially frozen . . so is the compost . . . and  “Jack Frost” comes every night to paint his shine. 

In the south, Christmases are not always cold.  Many times we are known to raise windows, while the turkey and ham cook.  This year, hopefully, we will not have to take  such measures.  

Please know that I wish everyone a bright and happy Christmas.  May our love for one another be rekindled,  and  let us give grace  often and freely   May gratefulness fall upon upon us like the  light of the Christmas star, spawning an unfading joy and  a sense of hope that abides.               Merry, Merry Christmas, love  Michele

  

The last fortnight was beautiful . . and busy. I spent all day Wednesday in the kitchen cooking .  I was as happy as a lark.  The cheesecake  and the pumpkin  pie “set” as they ought to.  The biscuits for the dressing, were fluffy and golden.    Those dishes, and a blueberry cobbler, had all been requested by different family members-and everyone wanted collards.  By mid-afternoon, all was packed up to be taken to Mamas’. where we would all gather.  I cleaned up the scene of all of this activity and headed to Mamas’.  Some things cannot be made ahead of time, so the next morning would come mighty early. 

By mid-morning on Thanksgiving day, both turkeys and the ham were done.  There was still potatoes cooking to be creamed, stuffing to mix up   – and the gravy, yet just around noon, I was sitting on the porch. 

The weather was bright and brisk.  Chesnut and Mohagony leaves were scattered about Mamas’ yard just beyond the porch.  The air smelled of autumn scents and it was so still and  silent,  I felt it was a holy time. Across the road, were the fields, I had played and worked in, in my youth,  Behind them were the woods, with the “forbidden”   pond. Sounds and pictures tumbled in.  The  sounds were muffled, distanced by years  and some of the pictures bore watermarks- but, I was filled to the brim with gratitude for those who loved me before, those who loved me now, and the ones yet to come. 

Suddenly, the families arrived   and the children spilled out of the cars and ran to the porch, shouting “Honeybee!” . 

On the Sunday after Thanksgiving, my children and grandchildren stopped by the rabbitpatch, before they went home.  It was a wonderful  time.  We had just enough time for a light meal . . .and for Lyla to find her Christmas present.   Now, Brynn and Ryan pleaded for theirs!    I talked to their parents.  Really, there was nothing to do, but to give Brynn her stop watch, and hand the telescope to Ryan.  After the shock, I laughed about it.

 Just a few days after Thanksgiving, another child was born into the family . . .Niece Hayley gave birth to her firstborn, a daughter, Riley Kate.  That day, Mama, sister Delores  and I  were keeping our phones within  “arms’ reach” so we wouldn’t miss an update.  What a thrilling and joyous day, it was!   What peace flooded our hearts, when the ordeal was over and we felt “all was well”. 

After the birth of my grand-niece,  I could  concentrate on holiday decorations.  Straight away, I was collecting cedar for arrangements and wreaths.  Between the scented pine cones and the evergreens, the house smells like Christmas.   A tree does not yet abide in the living room to shine through the window and I have lots of baking to do.   After Lylas’ plundering, there will be less presents to wrap!  

It is pitch dark, as I conclude this entry in my diary.  The little neighborhood  on Bonnet Street is shrouded in a silvery mist.   Today, I need to write a letter and make butter.  I have been making  nut butters, and I made garlic butter last week. The nut butters are quite economical to make , while cream butter saves you a dollar . . .but the buttermilk. derived from the process, is an added bonus. 

I may visit the beekeeper today  or I may attempt making fairy  cakes.  Mornings are full of possibilties, after all.

 

I

 

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