The first Sunday of the New Year dawned bright and clear.  I love Sunday mornings-I am never as inspired or as reflective on any other day.   Maybe, “There is something about a Sunday”, after all. 

Christian and I had coffee together . . .and a heart warming conversation.  Christian has never been one to chatter, even in his childhood.  In a crowd, he mostly listens.  No one has ever accused him of being loud or overbearing.  It is not his nature.  He has never been impulsive, but instead seem to digest information.  He is fiercely independent and anything shallow and worldly, is uninteresting to him.  Under such circumstances, Christian is one of my favorite people to converse with. 

After the “grand finale” of last year, with Daddys’ health scare and losing the much awaited sell of the rabbitpatch, car repairs at Christmas ( which seems a trend for us) . . .well, against the odds, I told Christian that I felt very optimistic about our future.  Christian said he too, had been feeling the same way.  Then we had a deep conversation about the last few years and how every part of the past, which seemed to halt our progress, was actually pushing us on in our pursuits.  I realised that , little by little, my heart had changed, and it seemed to happen while I was unaware!  Christian believes that each act was needed for us and was never against us, as it really seemed some times.  How beautiful and moving, I thought.   I asked Christian, when did he know for sure, that we ought to sell the rabbitpatch for sure . . .He said “the day, that I walked in the sunroom and water was pouring in.”  I laughed til I cried.  Christian is funny, too.

It is the time of “Old Christmas”, now.   It is hardly celebrated, at all these days and what a shame, I think.  I always think I will pick up, where Miss Sylvia left off, but  haven’t yet.  Miss Sylvia was a dear friend and neighbor, who hosted an “Old Christmas” party every year.  We all left our decorations up, until after the party. Now,  without Miss Sylvia, Farm Life was quiet on the night of “Old Christmas” –  and it made me miss her all over again.

I vaguely remember this holiday, as a child.  “Old Christmas ” parties have dainty foods and children receive small tokens to commemorate when the wise men visited the Christ child.  Next year, I hope to “practice what I preach” and host a small gathering. I will use fancy dishes and serve tiny pimento cheese sandwiches , and Martha Washington candy and all the other “old fashioned” delicacies, that I grew up with . . .and  in this way, I will tell the story of “Old Christmas” .

 

Monday came along and that changed everything. I did see the sun rise and it bathed the quiet pastures and fields in glory.  When I behold such remarkable beauty, I feel like I have been gifted.   My perspective shifts and worldly cares are “put in their place” .  The handiwork of the “Master” has always done so, for me.  Even as a very small child, I had a young walnut tree that I would confide in, on a regular basis.  No one taught me such a practice and I didn’t know of anyone else, who did such a thing.  

In my teenage years, I took to long ramblings in the woods.  It was not always because I was feeling sullen or rebellious for I rarely was.  The woods that had been my playground, still comforted me and inspired me.  It was like “going home” when I walked ,where I used to run.  Life was changing, as it does on the eve of adulthood and though I was having a fabulous time,  I longed for things that remained as they were.  Unlike people, trees are constant and not given to whims, nor guided by moods.   

In my childhood, my cousins and I would spend many winter days in the woods, disturbing the peace of the pines. Often we had several ponies with us and a dog or two.  We stumbled on an old steel once, another time a school bus and old houses.  To say  we were a bit uncivilized, would not be  a far stretch . . .but we were happy and though we were scratched by briers and wore our clothes out, we thrived in the freedom.  We knew when we smelled supper cooking, that the shadows would soon fall and we knew exactly where, too.

I did not stop my ramblings upon adulthood, but instead took my children to the woods regularly.  We walked most winter days and spent many happy hours together.  Winter is the best time to “stop by the woods” for poison vines, snakes and biting insects have abandoned their warm weather posts.  We walked for miles and for a little while, we were the only ones in the world.  

The children, hardly remember the many vacations we took,  . . . but they all remember  walking back to the house, from the woods, by the light of the moon. . . .  . . . .and I remember, too.

   

 

 

 

Somehow, school started back with its’ routine   – and somehow I did it all again.  After a long break, I am always convinced that I will be late and then, stumble through the day in a haze.  It never happens.  Everything falls into place and I adapt quite naturally.  

The winter days have been born in mist just heavy enough to warrant the wipers every few miles.  The silvery shadows make the fields look like hallowed ground . . .which is fitting, to me.  I have always thought  of fields as holy.   They feed us, and clothe us and time spent around a field, even in months like January, is likely to “cure whatever is ailing” you. Fields are  like loving guardians for all of mankind and we do not need one field less, if you ask me.

I have talked to a field on more than one occasion. When I was battling something, a field gave me hope.  If I was complaining, a field hushed me.  Fields have heard prayers uttered in dark moments  and words sung when joy could not be spoken . . .  and not one field has ever betrayed any secret. When the day comes, that a sidewalk runs in front of my house, I suspect, I will on occasion, seek the solace of a field.

Now it has rained every day for a solid week, for the mist turns to drops regularly.  It has not been much more than chilly enough for a light sweater.  I have no idea what is going on in the rest of the world, as I have been avoiding the latest news  broadcasts for a while, but I do know that here, it feels like April.

With the holidays, now behind us, life has thankfully, resumed to a much more manageable pace. Now there is time to write and to read, and being housebound so much, for tending to the housekeeping chores.  It is the time to slow cook roasts and to make  creamy chowders.   Few things afford as much pleasure as the smell of the kitchen in winter.     I have big plans tomorrow to make apple dumplings.   I have never had them, let alone attempted to make them.  The recipe calls for a homemade pastry, brown sugar and butter as well as apples.  It sounds like a heavenly combination  and I do hope not to scorch it with  my impatience to try it.  

Daddy has been “holding his own” these days.  He has recovered from his surgery -and the hospital stay, as well.  Daddys’ side of the family is known to be an independent lot-those that marry in to the family, call it  being “hard headed”.   We are, I suppose, that determined.  This makes us accept challenges, do things our own way and we do not bow  or give in one iota, about things that do not make sense.  We make our own decisions, and are not easily  swayed due to the need to be popular or even traditional. Of course, this trait can exhaust our loved ones, at times.  We are likely to call one another hard headed too, if so inclined.  Daddy is as hard headed as any of us.  But, being “hard headed”, meant a poor, little country boy, rose up from the dirt like a “Phoenix.”  Armed with determination, Daddy has excelled at most everything he has ever attempted.  Now, especially, that strong “Warren” gene  is coming in mighty handy, again. 

 Mama, is to be commended too,  as she does whatever is necessary for his well being, whether it is assistance in a task, preparing foods he will eat  or tending to his medicine.  About every hour, she says “drink water”. . . and she has tolerated the “Warren” gene for more than sixty years. 

On Saturday morning, the sun rose with a bit of fanfare. Golden light seemed to crack the sky open and then there was the sun, bright and the color of a tangerine, rising over the oldest barn.  There was wind too and since the wind only rattled the old oaks and made the pines whisper, I welcomed it, for wind takes care of the standing water .  

I read for a while, after the “early service”.  I finally started a book, a friend recommended, Cathy, who writes like a poet, and tends a garden.  It is “Elizabeth and Her German Garden”.  In the beginning, Elizabeth describes her garden with great detail, not only the flowers but how she feels in her garden.  She has  modern ideas about the planting and a gardener, that she must convince, to plant as she directs.  This morning, Elizabeth has finally left her garden, for something besides going to bed.   It is the perfect book for January, I think. 

Maybe one of the things that I love about winter, is that it affords me the chance to do some of the things I love.  I love to write, naturally.   I have journals – one for Lyla and  one for Brynn.  I have a personal journey for my “all grown up” children.  A dear friend, Beverly, gave me the gumption to start a prayer journal, as well.  Of course, there is my beloved Rabbitptch Diary,  too.  

I also love to read well written books, which largely means books written before now.  There are exceptions to that, but rarely are modern novels appealing to me.  I do love to research and will tackle all sorts of random subjects, hence I am still reading about “Secretariat” .   I am just in awe of the synchronicity of the people that came together to raise this horse, and their circumstances.   I have also read a bit about “Bruce Lee”  and “Eleanor Roosevelt”, this week. 

Then, there are recipes, which is how I was led to try the apple dumplings.  There is also the medicinal properties of herbs, which I find a fascinating subject.  Now turmeric and  ginger and cinnamon are all a steady part of my cooking.  

My friend Faye, will be glad to know that I am also on a band wagon about essential oils.  I really always have been.  When I adopted my Kyle, from Colombia,  now almost thirty years ago, lavender and chamomile were used in his bath water.  These days I am using them in home made household  cleaning products. I have been making  my own  face cream, toothpaste and deodorant for months.  . . and my medicine cabinet sure looks different than most – so I am never short on new things to learn.   . .however months like June, do not afford me the luxury of such exploration that January does, for the grass and wild vines grow in June.

 Of course in January, I become homesick, for my children.  Now, we are scattered tending to things like making money.  I have no clue what my sons are eating for supper but I think it is safe to say, it is not such things as, rutabagas.  I miss their banter with one another and watching them with Lyla and Brynn.  I miss seeing Jenny being a “second mother” to them.   I hope they are all taking their elderberry and saying their prayers . .  It feels sometimes like the calendar, acts like a great divide that runs between us and between now and the next holiday.   Well, I just miss everybody. . . and most especially in January.

 

 

 

 

  

The eve of the new year dawned quietly.  The sky  simply became a silvery blue.  Nature, that does not keep an account of time, as man does, did not give mention that this day was any different than yesterday.  Nature  just goes about its’ business.

In many homes, folks are decorating and fixing fancy foods.  Guests are expected and the midnight hour is highly anticipated.  None of that happens at the rabbitpatch.  New Years’ Eve is a quiet, reflective time for me.  I am likely to re examine the past year, by thinking of all the blessings it yielded.  I will consider my actions in the face of challenges and hope to do better next time.  I will also do laundry and carry the trash out. 

I do not make specific resolutions about things like a better diet or exercise. Far be it from me, to join a gym or give up bacon.  I lack the fortitude, for such things. I wish I could start a savings account, but the truth is, I have lived on a shoe-string budget , most of my life and unless something changes, I will in the new year, as well.  Even in my youth,  I shied away from resolutions.  I see them as promises and I felt awful when I broke a promise even to myself.    . . so now, in my “late afternoon” years, I tread cautiously, when it comes to making resolutions.

Rest assured, as I review the past calendar year, I do not come up empty handed. I  see much room for improvement.  I take in to great consideration, what things gave me joy, in the long run.  These are the things, I want to increase.  What things resulted in satisfaction ? -these things I want to increase, too.  I must also take in to account what caused me sorrow and what to with that. I suppose, in short, I am really thinking about the quality of my contributions to myself and others.  That is a lot to think about.  It would be much easier to just join a gym. 

Some things went ever so well, last year.  I adopted several habits that lessened my impact on the planet.  At long last, I now use reusable bags for shopping.  I use shampoo bars, instead of those packaged in plastic.  I use bamboo straws, in summary, I try to avoid plastic altogether.

I started living as minimally .  That was a pleasant surprise, for I really had no such noble intention.  I had big plans to move.  In doing so, I decluttered as I packed.  I thought long and hard about what would really go with me.  What did I need?-and what did I care for?  I could not believe how much went out of the old farmhouse.  I had a good size  truck load or two to donate and at least one load of  trash, for “moth and rust doth corrupt’.   I felt like a burden had been lifted . . .and I still do. It goes without saying, that I strive to not be wasteful.

And now, I have run out of commendable things.  How quickly that went!

The account of things hoped for is much more lengthy.  I really hope to be full of mercy this year. Oh, that I would never hold a single thing against anybody.  When I am tempted, I must remember myself, first and not dare  to pick up a stone.  Next, I must remind myself that I  know nothing about anyone elses’ journey, really. Poor behavior, I think most always derives from fear-fear of not having enough, or being loved or powerful enough and so on.  How can I fault anyone, hindered by fear, when fear has been no stranger to me? 

Certainly I want to be more generous and certainly, I need to pray more.  I want to love more -and dream bigger.   I want to live my own truth, wholeheartedly, short comings and all.  This may be the grandest quest of all, and I seriously wonder if this may not also be the grandest gift we ever give. . . to ourselves . . .and to God. 

No doubt, I will need all 365 days to begin anew, every dawn and every twilight -and  each day . .  to hope, again . . . for better.  Mankind can keep a record of years and days – and the hours that are the substance, of them . . .but it is of little consequence . . .for a new year begins every day, and thankfully so.

Chances are, that fireworks will ring out in the countryside tonight.  The years that I have been  awake, I have watched them in two different directions. They always set the dogs to barking.  I have never known of a dog yet, that liked fireworks.

 

So far, today is an ordinary day . . . of course, it is only mid morning.  It has been weeks since, a day went along as it usually does, without an agenda-or a single plan.  There is always housekeeping, with its’ familiar tasks.  I do want to paint a table, that got moved yesterday . . .and I do want to start my book, for that never happened, though I have had it a month.   Otherwise, it could just be a beautiful ordinary day. 

A light rain is falling, as the forecast predicted.  It is warm enough outside, that I have a window up.  It is the kind of rain, for children to play in, or young romantics to walk in.  An old lady could make use of it too, if she had bought those rain boots.  Instead I will listen to it fall like a soothing melody from a silvery sky and remember my grandmother saying, “I love you like rain.”  

 

Housekeeping today included all sorts of chores.  The house was orderly, to start with, but the laundry room could sure stand a “going over”.  I scrubbed the floor where a sofa once was and of course Cash tracked through it immediately.  He never fails to do so.  I cleaned out my pocketbook.  I love order, but fail miserably with  a pocketbook.  Large or small, they somehow stay laden with receipts and coins and rosin and all sorts of odd things.  I found a key, but have no clue what it goes too.  I tossed out the old pocket calendar, for the new one, Mama gave me.  For some reason, that felt good.  It was full of deadlines and legal notes, that ended up meaning nothing.  All of that is at least behind me.

I feel like I have been through a “crash course” of sorts, these last few months. Lessons learned the hard way are my least favorite kind.  It was as I have said before, “first one thing and then another”, and  each thing, frightfully on the heels of the one before it.  There was no use in crumbling under the heaping mess, for first of all, that wouldn’t do one iota of good and besides, I owed  it to my children to show them how to stand on fractured soil.  Now, that it is an ordinary day, I can at last see the dust settling and feel almost, unscathed by the botched business of selling the house with the rambling grounds.  It is not because I am saintly, but instead, because the burden was heavy and made me weary . . .and so I tired of it.  I sorted out my thoughts like I was cleaning out a junk drawer   I discarded what no longer worked or was needed.  In doing so, I received my “second wind”.

It rained all day, so that I kept a lamp on.  I actually packed up some pictures, .  . . proof that my gumption was restored. There was not a bit of hurry in me today, as I went about my work.  There didn’t seem to be a bit of hurry  in anybody, for the countryside was still and lacked even the slightest motion. . .and the  landscape , muted now, in late December, would have made a beautiful, but somber painting.

 

On Saturday, for the first time, in a long spell, the sun came up boldly, proclaiming the day.  It seems it has been weeks since the light was bright enough to cast a shadow.  Even the mockingbird, was glad and sang.   The morning was mild, so my window went up again. 

Today, I will hopefully, finish painting the floor.  I never intended for that to happen.  It all started when we rearranged the furniture.  The  paint was scant in some areas of the old hardwood, I noticed as I scrubbed the floor.  All it needed was a “touch up”. I surmised, but I soon realised, it needed more than that. That is always the case, it seems, with any project, that I have ever started.  Even planting a rose bush, has the same conditions, for I will want to add a layer of mulch, and then , I decide, a birdbath beside it, would be nice and on and on I go, til it took all afternoon to plant a single bush.  That is a summary of how all of the years here passed. 

  I was finished with the floor by noon.  Since I had the paint out, I decided to paint  the “morning table” too.  The humble, ” morning table” is like an old friend to me.  I  rarely attach sentimental attachment to furniture, but the morning table, where I write and sit my cup, will make the future move to the next rabbitpatch.  Likewise, the “Christmas closet” will too, and the bed, that all my children have slept in -and a dresser, that my late husband, Jamie restored for me.  I will also take an old pie safe and a cupboard, that belonged to my dear friend, Julies’ grandmother.  I suppose I will take the piano too.  I had decided against that, but when Christian  plays his songs, beautifully enough to make an angel cry, I know full well, it must come too. . . .whenever that time shall be.

 

When the table was painted and almost dry, I decided to sort through the bin under the kitchen sink.  That led me to mixing up solutions that remove stains, deodorize pet beds and sofas, and  room spray .  The concoctions are free of toxins, have wonderful fragrance and are economical.  Most importantly, they work . . .and  I would rather spend my money on hyacinths in May, after all.

  

In the twilight hours, I read. . . just for pleasure, about Secretariat, the champion of horses.  I had seen a documentary and I clearly remembered watching history being made when Secretariat was in his prime.  I was just  a young girl, then and so, it was a long time ago, but I have never forgotten the excitement of watching this horse literally leave the others “in the dust” and winning the “Triple Crown”, by what seemed a “country mile”.

 

When Secretariat died, the usual procedure, was to perform an autopsy of sorts, though his death was no mystery.  It turns out , that this horse had an unusually large heart.  Much larger than the average.  Oddly, Secretariats groom, had always declared, that Secretariat “had more heart” than other horses. The high school drop out, had noticed it right off.   He was there at the birth, and this foal had stood, at just 45 minutes old.  Though, Secretariats’ owner had lost a coin toss, and therefore ended up with the “lesser” colt, the groom knew better.

I was glad I had somehow, decided to explore this random piece of history, for it inspired me in many ways.  I thought about how sometimes we feel, like we have “lost a coin toss” only to learn later . . . that we had really won the prize intended.  I thought about wisdom, thankfully, not reserved what the world considers, the  “privileged” and of course, I thought about having a heart – big enough,  to “win” our own races, even if the odds do not seem favorable.   

“Ordinary” days needn’t be dull.  They may lack glamour and hold not a trace of excitement.  They may hold a good deal of solitude and mundane tasks.  But in solitude, we can consider greatness and if we do our best work, the most lowly of tasks can still give us a sense of satisfaction.  A life is composed of all sorts of days . . . .and if our heart is big enough . . . we can love them all. . . and we might just get a “second wind”.

 

  

The rabbitpatch was quiet on Christmas morning.  Christian had to work an early shift,  Will and Jenny were home with the children, of course . . well everybody was somewhere else.  Our family gathers at my parents on Christmas night, so naturally, I had some things to do to prepare.

I did not mind the solitude, even if it was Christmas.  Long gone are the days of my own childrens’ childhood.  Now, one is married, with her own little ones .   Years pass and things are bound to change.  That is what you can truly count on . . .change.  There are new joys now and new ways to make memories .  We must adapt or else we are likely to feel gloomy yearning for what once was. 

I thought of such things on my “Silent Morning” .   I had not been to a true “early service” in a while and I had missed it.  The sun broke the darkness up and seemed to say “Joy to  the World”,  in doing so.  I was sure the trees knew it was Christmas and the  wild creatures in the woods.  Only things made by man would be so dull, so as not to know, I thought.  After I thought about a good deal of things more, I began peeling apples for a pie.

Thankfully, “The Bishops’ Wife”   was on, and so I watched that as I worked,  It is a delightful film, without a bit of tragedy, and was quite suitable for Christmas morning.  At intervals, I would remember a tag to be placed or a gift to add to my collection and I would abandon the apples.  Mama and I tied up a good many loose ends on the phone.  She needed bags and I needed an envelope and so on.

I thought about Mary and Joseph.  The birth of the first child is always a happy but overwhelming event.  What must they have felt?  I can not imagine being talked to by angels about the child, I was carrying, and then some strangers rush in as the babe lay sleeping, to tell you there was a “Heavenly birth announcement!  Mary had a lot to “ponder”.   . .so did Joseph.    Goodness, I remember when the school wanted to see me, to tell me that my Tres had an extremely high IQ.  It scared me senseless!  How in the world would I raise this child?  I felt feeble minded and lacking right off.  I  hoped chasing little goats and climbing trees, building forts and finding rocks, would somehow be enough.  As it turns out, it was.  So my thoughts rambled on Christmas morning til the pie was done and the Bishop stopped thinking about a cathedral, and turned his thoughts to his family.

Jenny called and told me the details of their morning.  Lyla was pleasantly surprised that Santa came.  I think she realised, that the tale of Santa, was really too good to be true, but she went along with it, just in case.  Jenny said Lyla was as concerned that little Brynn had gifts, as she was for herself.  Jenny threw some things together  for her infant, quickly and happened to find Lyla not looking as she did so.  Lyla was delighted for Brynn.  One of the things that I am really content about is Lylas’ unselfish love for her sister.  She has never spoken a word against her, nor been jealous.  I think Lyla was relieved too, that those nosy elves were long gone, for she asked Jenny about them.  Lyla had said earlier that she did not think “elves should be flying around childrens’ houses.”  

Christian was home by mid afternoon and Kyle came about the same time. The sun was setting, as we drove to my parents.  We had all decided to keep Christmas more simple this year.  We drew names, for the first time ever and shaved the menu.  Still, our car was loaded and I kept fearing, I had forgotten something, as we rode along.  The sky was beautiful and I saw a photographer in a field capturing the beauty.  It did my heart good, to know he appreciated the majesty of the evening and braved the cold to prove it.  I thought someone should take his picture, while he worked.   

The boys unloaded the car and Mama and I made a mad dash to stuff the envelope and find the right bags, for her gifts.  It was a secret work and we talked in whispers . . .and hurriedly.  Lyla ran in saying “Merry Christmas!” and Brynn was fussed over.  It was her first Christmas, after all.  We ate til we were full, and still did not make a dent in the food.  My apple pie did not even get cut, for Connie stole the show with her pies.  Her chocolate chess was the best I had ever eaten.  I will say, that  my cheddar, garlic biscuits remained a hit-and Delores made the oreo truffles that are always a favorite.  Mama cooked a ham and Daddy made a pot of beans and there was too much more to mention.  Maybe one day, I will write our Christmas Cookbook, for future generations, I thought.

We opened our gifts, and then played music.  Brant and I played violins and Christian played his guitar.  Jenny forgot Lylas’ violin and Dana forgot hers, when she went to retrieve a gift.  Lyla found a drum and so some of her sorrow  was lifted.   After the concert, we began the task of packaging the food to be sent with willing guests and putting the extra chairs away.  There was trash to be taken out , counters and floors . . .and no one was spared a duty.

On Christmas night, back at the rabbitpatch, I donned a new soft sweatshirt for bed and used a rose lotion, I had been gifted.  I saw that Mama and  Daddy had really put too much in that little envelope.  I looked at a calendar, Connie had made of our family pictures.  I held a little figurine of a boxer , that Dana had painted with every marking my Cash bears.  Hayley used her new camera to record our moments and Brandon, had grown a lot. There were so many tender moments -Tres talking to my dad and all wanting to hold Brynn.  Delores had surprised me with handmade matching aprons for Lyla and I and a bib for Brynn.  The fabric had honeybees all over it and I was quite impressed.  Delores confessed she was sewing the last stitches just before the gathering.  I doubt I will ever wear it, that I do not think of that. 

Daddy had an appointment, the day after Christmas.  It was just a follow up from his recent surgery and all was well.  All of my sons were spending the night at the rabbitpatch, so that was the icing on the “Christmas cake”, for me.  I cooked a big supper and hummed the whole time.  Even Cash and Christopher Robin were so happy, for Cash danced around and Christopher Robin purred.  The boys stayed up late, watching some game and so , I suspected, the big breakfast,  I had planned would certainly be a brunch.  I can not complain one bit.  If it were up to me, I would have them stay a month  -or forever. 

 

The next day after Christmas , I awoke with a smile.  I do not know why, and can not explain it, but there is something so beautiful when the children sleep under my roof.  At least  this time, I had my sons.  (Will and Jenny are visiting with Wills’ dad and grandmother.)  We did have brunch, as I had predicted, which worked out well, as Christian had to work that blessed early shift again.  He came home just in time, so the kitchen table was full, as I like it best.  After we ate,  the boys had a big discussion about how to address the repairs needed at the old farmhouse.  Then they rearranged some furniture for me .  Before I knew it, they had to go.  Now, it seemed like Christmas was over.

 Though the holiday, itself has passed,  we needn’t pack the wonder of it all away with the ornaments and ribbons.  Let us remember how it felt to give  . . .and to receive, for there is an art to both.   Not all gifts are manufactured, nor must they be wrapped in pretty paper. . . and gathering should not be reserved  for  just days  recognized as holidays.   . . .  Things like generosity and goodwill can be practiced  just as deftly, when the mimosa blooms.   We ought to love as we do at Christmas, always.

I came to Elizabeth City on Thursday.  A light rain fell from a gray sky.  Every river I crossed was just alittle more blue than the sky.  The detour was still active, and this made the trip a  bit longer, but still I managed to get there before twilight. 

I have been so busy that I really only knew it was sometime just before Christmas.  I was not aware of the date, and as far as what day it was . . .well it was just before the weekend.  I had carried my unwrapped gifts with me for Jenny and I have established a tradition of wrapping her gifts together, anyway.  I had shopped early and mostly finished, but not a one was wrapped to be given at this particular gathering.

When I saw Lyla and Brynn, it felt like Christmas time.

On Friday, Jenny and I ventured out. Both of us had some loose ends to tie up. Lyla was the perfect child companion on this day and not one doll caused her to have  a single unpleasant moment.  Brynn is usually content -as long as she has her mama.  So, we all had a nice outing and found most everything on our list.

We wrapped presents most of the afternoon.  Lyla and I made gingerbread cookies, which turned out soft and tasted as good as any I have ever had.  We used a cookie stamp, for the first time, which does sound so simple, but we decided more practice was needed.  By the time Brant and Sydney arrived, supper was ready and their presents were under the tree.  Daddy had a good day, so all was well on this day.

Tres and Christian were arriving on Saturday, so when I woke, it seemed like a special morning.  After Breakfast, Brant Sydney and Will, went out to finish up their shopping.  Jenny and I wrapped more presents and did some housekeeping.  I had to go the grocery too.  The place was mad with folks rushing and the store was out of many things.  It took twice as long as usual, but I came out with everything on the list.  I got the last of the rutabagas , the last of the string beans and the last of the pineapple.  No matter how hectic the store was, there were plenty of smiles and if you but caught the eye of a fellow shopper,  you were greeted with a “Merry Christmas”.  As soon as I got home, I started peeling the rutabagas, for that is a long and tiresome task.

Tres and Christian got in just after dark.  Brant was installing some projection lights on the house, much to the delight of Lyla . . and me too.  Tres had bought some too and so the uncles set about to get the things connected.  It was so lovely, that folks slowed down or stopped altogether, to look.  All the while, those rutabagas cooked.  I had a pot of the beans simmering and finally added some pork chops, which made a good combination.  We had a late, but good supper . . .and then Jenny wanted to open our freshly wrapped presents. 

Lyla gave out the presents and announced who they were from.  She never once opened her gifts or asked about them.  Brynn watched in amusement .  Lyla finally opened her own gifts and the whole affair ended on that note.  While we were cleaning up, I remembered a gift for Tres, that was nowhere to be found.  We searched high and low.  It was in Lylas’ closet.  I suspected she had something to do with it.  She wanted the reindeer bag for herself, as it turned out.  Previously, all of the figurines from the nativity were missing.  Lyla told me they had all left and that was her explanation.  Jenny found them in a teapot, creamer and every available cup, later.  

It was a late night for all of us.  I had somehow kept up with Mama & Daddy.  Mama was very tired, but otherwise, things were good.  I went to sleep without the gumption to even pray.  I simply hoped the best for everyone.

Sunday was the conclusion of our gathering.  Parting always makes me sorrowful-and even though we will gather again, Christmas night, I dreaded ending this beautiful time.  We had breakfast and then, Lyla and I baked Scottish shortbread cookies for Sydney to carry with her.  Christian played his guitar while we made the cookies and Lyla sang along. 

I made a pot of vegetable beef soup for lunch and then Brant and Sydney had to leave.  Brant, has as hard a time as I do with good byes.  No one is ever ready for it to end.  We are a soft lot for one another and seem bound internally.  Lyla was sad to see them go, and so when Christian asked me the time we were leaving, she said “Oh no! not you too!”  When we do all leave, Jenny says Lyla will say forlornly, “I miss Uncle Brant, Uncle Tres, Honeybee . . .until we are all named, one by one.

 I helped Jenny wrap the rest of her presents and noticed I was feeling “off”.  There were a number of culprits to blame and I was too tired to decipher which was the cause.  Reluctantly, I decided to leave early enough to get a good nights sleep and consume as much elderberry as I could.

Christian and I had a nice drive home.  The sky was spectacular and we both loved the winter trees.  I have not really spent a bit of time in weeks with Christian and so I made the most of our drive home.  Some of my best conversations are with Christian.  Of course, we share the same views of life and agree on most everything. It was a sweet consolation to depart with him. 

I half expected my dog, Cash to bark when I saw him. He was joyfully prancing about instead though, and neither he nor my cat, Christopher Robin, seemed to be holding a grudge despite my long absence.  I had missed them both and it cheered me to see them.  Christian unloaded the car and I started a load of laundry.  The kitchen table was full of all sorts of things -none of it was food.  I do not like such disorder, but decided  I could stand it for a night.  I took a dose of elderberry and called Mama.

Christmas is a favorite time for me.  It is bright and merry and even the hard hearted are apt to be more tender at Christmas.  I love exchanging gifts, though I do not fall headlong into the exaggerated commercialism.  I think big spending, for the sake of the holiday, robs us all  of peace and dims the meaning of Christmas.   Lyla will receive three simple gifts from Santa, in keeping with the gifts of  the Wise men.  Even “Santa” is  introduced  much like a fairy tale.  Still Lyla will toss reindeer food on the lawn and listen for sleigh bells.  

There is something about Christmas.  I cannot justify why I love gingerbread mostly, at Christmas.  I love the traditional, old fashion music and have yet to like any of the modern songs.  The house ought to smell like pine or cedar – and fruit, which makes no sense as fruit is readily available in all seasons now.  I embrace these traditions and look forward to this season, really, all year . . .  But Christmas is a holy time for me, first and foremost.  It is too easy to lose sight of this, with all the fanfare, but far from impossible.  There is room for trimming the tree and making cookies, and tying bows on gifts for loved ones.  . .for all commemorate the joy of the season.   It is no wonder to me that ” All Hearts Come Home for Christmas.”

Since Will mailed the Christmas Cards this year, but forgot to use stamps . . .here is what could have been . . . 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is good news . . . Daddy came through his surgery beautifully.  The thirty minute prediction turned out to be over an hour underestimated, so we were all feeling anxious, for a while.  We did not say a word about it, but my sisters eyes met mine and we didn’t have to utter a sound.  We caught up on the lives of our children and traded recipes.  We talked about Christmas and Hayleys’ upcoming trip to Las Vegas.  We talked about Lyla and Brynn – and I told them about the magic solution to get chocolate out . . til finally it was over.  After we saw daddy, we were totally convinced all was well and began calling to let loved ones know, the good news.  On the way home I wondered what will I think about now?

For months, I have had a lot to think about.  None of these things were small either.  I remember, that when the summer was rolling peacefully along, I had a slight bit of intuition that things were about to change. . .and I was right.  Intuition is just never wrong.  My brother in law, Mike says his mother, knows everytime he has ever been injured before he tells her!  She even knows whether it is his ankle or hand!  My intuition pales in comparison to that-but still I knew things were getting ready to “break loose”.  Daddy was diagnosed with a serious muscular condition, I found a cottage, the sale of the rabbit patch was on and off til finally off altogether, there were several car issues  and the Holiday concert and on and on it went.  My simple diary became  accounts of complications. Thank Goodness, for things like quiet pastures and laughing rivers-for they made a difference.

None of us are so privileged  , as to escape calamity.  I kept putting things in perspective and sorting out priorities, to maintain some sense of balance til here I am today, with at least some things resolved.  When friends would ask “well, what are you going to do about this or that?”  I would often say, “I will think about that tomorrow.”  And I meant it, for each day held something that seemed to need immediate attention.  This is why I found such comfort in things like fields and woodlands – and quiet pastures, that remain steadfast and do not yield  to human circumstances .  

Rain fell all night and continues this morning.  Daddy had a good night, but is raising a fuss about getting out of that confining hospital.  Mama and Delores spent the night, so I supposed they feel the same way.  I am cooking a pot of soup and another pot, of chicken and pastry, to carry over, hopefully today, if Daddy does  “break out” -as he put it.

Some day I will need to wrap Christmas presents, but today I am catching up from being gone for several days.  I will not put  a tree up this year.  It is just not a priority, in light of the circumstances.  There is a wreath on the front door and the little surprise tree, from Mama and Delores.  Besides, I have  helped put up two trees already . . and I just lack the drive to find the boxes, anyway. My children and I are having a Christmas  gathering at Jennys’ and then we all gather again at Mama and Daddys’ on Christmas evening.  Jenny and I have high hopes for things like toffee and a big pot of hot chocolate-  french toast – and we haven’t even ask the boys yet.  They will ask for things like rutabagas-Will will want beef stew and Lyla will want more cookies.  Of course, we will play carols and Lyla will tell the Christmas story, so rest assured that I will have plenty of Christmas Cheer, with or without a tree.  Christmas is as much a “feeling” to me, as it is anything else. 

 I do not know when Jesus was born, and it may have been spring, as some experts think.  For me, it is of little consequence, for as I told Lyla, we are celebrating the birth of Jesus, who came to show us how to love -and how to help others. 

 

The soup was done, by the time the doctor came in with the news, that it was likely, Daddy would need to stay another night. He took it better than we expected.  Delores lives in Raleigh and wanted to attend my nieces’ recital, so I plan to spend tonight at “that confining place”, myself.  My youngest sister, Connie was spending most of the day there-in fact, she brought cheese biscuits for breakfast for everyone.  This has of lately become her habit, and none of us are sorry for it.

Things sure can take a turn.  It is Monday, and Daddy is still in the hospital.  In some way, we all are!  Mama has only left to shower and take care of necessities.  I have spent the last two nights and Connie joins us in the day.  A fever, confusion and breathing problems came all at once and spawned this change of plans, but alas, daddy seems on the mend -and almost “out of the woods”.  I am thankful, that things have come this far, but I will say, that a hospital is the last place to expect rest.  Protocols are my  least favorite topic, now and for goodness sake, do not go there alone.  It has been “first one thing, then another” as of lately. 

It is impossible to read much more than a paragraph of anything, at a time and by the time you get back to it, you will need to reread it again to have any recollection.  Writing is next to impossible for, interruptions are so common, I have come to expect them.  I can not believe this environment is conducive  to  healing, at all and in fact I think I am likely to come down with some sort of  mental ailment, myself, for I  am most suited for a  quiet and peaceable life”, it seems. 

 Daddy sleeps in spurts and at any given moment, allowed. He wants to go home, and talks about it often.  He misses his dog “Casper” especially.

We were expecting to go home on Tuesday morning  and we were all looking forward to it.   . . then everything changed . . .again.   Another concern arose in the middle of Monday night and cancelled the prospects of a morning release.  All hope is not yet lost for today, but it will  certainly not be in the morning.

I have been taking a lot of walks as often as I can.  I have grown quite familiar with all of the little nooks and crannies of the facility.  I also know that not one window has a decent view of anything remotely natural.  . .unless you crane your face upwards, which always helps, anyway.   I suspect that a small garden view would do wonders for patients . . and a peaceful hour.

There are a lot of friendly people roaming the hallways.  Many are volunteers and I think how nice it is to see this.  I wonder if I might do something like that one day.   . .along with my “little library” and a happy lemonade stand.   Dreaming doesn’t cause a bit of harm.

Daddy came home on Tuesday evening.  He was as “happy as a lark” . . well, we all were -especially Casper.  The countryside was still and quiet and I knew, this was good medicine for Daddy. We carried all of the parcels in and made a heaping pile in a corner, and vowed to tidy up in the very near future, but for now, we all sat quietly and let the peace of “home” wash over us.

On Wednesday, we woke, and had breakfast.  We had rested well  -and it was a good thing, as the day slipped by in a lively manner.  Good friends showed up early and brought old fashioned fudge and home made peanut brittle.  Before they had left and driven a mile, a physical therapist came by to perform an evaluation.  My Aunt Christine, Uncle Gene and cousin Gena came just after the therapist left.  While they were visiting,  Daddys’ brother called to say he was just a few minutes away.  This happened all day and we ended up with fruit, bread, chocolate, a pecan pie, pimento cheese and chicken salad!  We shared everything with everybody and so it was like an endless buffet, of sorts.  Neighbors, Jeff and Karen were the grand finale of the day and what a finale!  Jeff told us his own version of his hospital stay.  His room was next to the helicopter landing pad!  We laughed at his description of that noise and decided we had  the lesser of the evils, after all.  Karen, gave us a concoction of nuts and all sorts of things like cereal and pretzels, seasoned her own unique way.  It is the best, I have ever had.  People call this snack, “Christmas trash”, which I do not like especially when words like “medley ” sound so much more fitting. . .and are available. At the end of the day, We had all gotten a full dose of medicine in the form of generosity, laughter and love-and we were better for it.

I woke early on Thursday.  I have missed seeing the sunrise.  My routine has been most eratic and a far cry from normal.  I found out yesterday, that today is Thursday.  I am supposed to go to Jennys’ today. Jenny had a fancy party to go to in Virginia, but even that has changed.  Jenny has a sinus infection and so now I will go to take care of her. . . and the babies.  My sisters are working on some arrangement between them, for Mama and Daddy.

My own children are supposed to join me in a day or so, for a Christmas gathering.  I did the bulk of my shopping throughout the year, but not a one is yet wrapped.  I have several, not yet bought, but Christmas will come, anyway, so it seems I am now in a rush.  Under normal circumstances, this would rattle me, but in light of this last week, I will not complain.

I have said it before, but it bears repeating, “plans”  have never done me much good.  It seems my lot, is “to walk by faith, and not by sight”.   One way or another, I am going to understand this lesson.  The last six months are proof of that.   We read that verse, and may claim it, yet to truly live it, seems unnatural to humans.   It is not  an effort for the faint of heart.  I think it takes the “wisdom of Solomon” to find that fine line of doing what we can and ought to, and then accepting what transpires.

In some ways, this is a very liberating concept.  Not an ounce of worry, has ever made a difference in any outcome.   . .and besides that, I do not have an imagination wild enough to dream up the prosperity I have known nor such a beautiful substance as has made up my life. 

   

 

 

I came to Elizabeth City, Tuesday evening.  I was determined to be there before dark, as I am not prone to drive after dark-and it is not just because I am older.  I have never fancied driving in general, not even in youth and never after dark.  I went to work, went to an appointment for Daddy and encountered a detour, but I was there by twilight, anyway.  

Lyla was in a Christmas program at her preschool, and I had missed it last year.  I wanted this memory for my collection and so it was worth what it took to get here.  Besides that, Brynn, being an infant, is changing constantly.  I can no longer imagine life without her.  She is a calm, baby and a beautiful one too.  The sweetest thing is Lyla has never harbored one iota of jealousy against Brynn.  They are the dearest little pair, for Lyla is quite attentive to her little sister and Brynn smiles about it.

The program on Wednesday, was a nice affair.  The children wore their “Christmas best”  and sang songs like “Away in a Manger” and recited rhymes that began “Wisemen came from way afar . . .” and  “Let us spread some Christmas Cheer”-Well, it was a wonderful way to spend an hour.  Afterwards, Lyla decided that Brynn should have a manger too – and a box and a blanket would do, just fine.

Jenny and I managed a little bit of shopping, afterwards.  It was very hard on Lyla, for she so wanted a certain doll and could not bear to leave it there.  She was not worried about an elf reporting her mischief, or that the “sweet baby Jesus” would not forgiver her.  Lyla, thankfully, did not cause  enough of a ruckus to set off an alarm, but Jenny spent a fair amount of time, whispering in Lylas’ ear. 

When we got home, Jenny went out again to complete her errands.  Brynn wailed for a few minutes, but then then drifted off to sleep.  Lyla and I made cookies and I am glad to report the results were just perfect.  Once again, fortitude paid off, for my quest to be a baker of  cookies fit to eat,  is being realised, at long last.  A “Honeybee” ought to be able to make cookies , at least.

Will and Jenny had plans to attend a celebration honoring a friend, Sarah, who recently got her Masters Degree.  Will was especially tired and ended up staying home with the children and I.    It was a wonderful time.  Brynn was quite content with her daddy and so Lyla, and I were watching the Polar Express.  Lyla had never had hot chocolate and so I made her a cup of  the homemade kind.  It was a peaceful happy evening . . .until just before Jenny walked in the back door.  Brynn, for some reason, started crying,  Jennys’ very old dog, did not make it to the backdoor, but before I could tend to that, the entire cup of hot chocolate somehow escaped from the sealed cup -and on to the couch.  It was  terrible mess and Brynn was crying all the while.  What a commotion erupted at just the wrong moment, and all at once.  Will was walking with Brynn, and stepped right where the dog had her mishap and so he yelled out, too.  I was scared senseless at the sight of the sofa-well, we all were.  Jenny took Brynn and I hurriedly mixed up a batch of stain remover (peroxide and soap) and went to work on the sofa.  Jenny quieted Brynn and it wasn’t long before peace was restored, though we all were worse for the wear and tear. . . .and yes, the chocolate came out.

On Thursday, I gave Lyla my Christmas gift.  I know it was early, but I thought it best she have it as she waited for Christmas.  I gave her a nativity, suitable that she can handle the little figurines and “tell the story”.  She was delighted and took great note as I used the pieces to tell her the story.  I have been telling her about the first Christmas for weeks, adding more details each time.  Of course, if you walk in the door, you are likely to “hear the story” before you can sit down.  When Will came in, Lyla insisted he listen before he put his brief case down.  In the midst of the shepherds arriving, Lyla noticed a switch on the stable and what a pleasant surprise, to see the thing light up!

Daddy has surgery scheduled for Friday.  The surgery itself, is not the least bit complicated, but as we all know, there is no such thing as “minor surgery” when it is your father.  Daddy is eighty three, after all and so we are all a bit anxious.  On account of this, I am leaving early on Friday morning .  I will cross the three rivers and drive past the resting fields, and wait with my mom and sisters for the thing to be over.  

The concept of having a family and what it means, becomes clearer, as we age.  We enter as babies and grow up with their rules and values.  As children, expectations are set for us to live up to.  We are taught how to behave , under all conditions.  We are given habits and our thoughts are shaped as the elders see fit.  Then there comes that time, when we all naturally want independence from all of it -and them.  We entertain  foreign notions and may want to act differently than we were taught.  We are likely to quarrel and feel inclined to establish our own ideas. . . . when we hardly know a thing, actually.  . . .Then we get older . . and find out . . .they were mostly right about everything.

It is a wonderful and spectacular thing to grow up loved.  To matter deeply to others.  To be provided for and to be taught how to live.  Right or wrong, that kind of devotion ought not be taken lightly.  If we live to be old, we realise deeply what a family is and what it means to belong to  our people and for them to belong to us.

  And so . . .  I will wait thankfully, with my family for a person, that binds us all more tightly than we could have ever imagined  in our youth.   . .and I will claim them every one -proudly.

 

Christian has to be at work, long before the crack of dawn.  I am an early riser, whether I am working or not, so Christian did not mind, waking me this morning . . .for there was snow on the rabbit patch!  For just a little while, fluffy flakes fell, til a few inches had accumulated.  People either love or hate snow, in the south.  I love it.  Now, this bit of snow, is expected to be  a very short lived affair and it just may melt not long after morning light.  A cold rain is expected to follow, after all, so I sprang out of bed to see the wonder of snow falling. 

It was hours before daylight, but I could see the territory was covered and snow was falling in big fluffy flakes.  I knew Mama would not be so amused, as she is not a fan of snow.  I love it.  That is the thing about snow, in the south . . .people love it or hate it.  I have never met anyone neutral on this subject. The aftermath is mud and it is a messy affair – and woe to housekeepers because of that-but I will bear a dirty floor, for a few hours of wonder.

  

As soon as daylight came, I went out to survey the landscape.  The pines were frosted and I found them beautiful.  The fields and the woodlands behind them, were fit for a postcard . . .surely not even Mama, could deny that.  To walk in “woods filled up with snow” is an almost holy experience.  Oh, I regretted not splurging on some snow boots, almost immediately. 

Now, all you have heard about the south and snow is true.  I expect, even churches will close today.  Most  small towns, do not have snow plows.  If they do, that is of no consequence to country dwellers, for we rely on the farmers to clear out roads.  Besides, only a few souls are brave enough to venture out.  Country roads, are often lined with woods causing patches of ice to cover the road.  This is what causes the madness at the groceries in the days  before a prediction of snow.  As far as I know, no southener has ever starved during a snow storm.  Besides, stores and businesses often close altogether, in the event of snow.  

There was only a slight chance of snow, today.  That is all there ever is, for us.  Once years ago, snow was forecast with certainty.  In light of that, my dear friends and co-workers, Rae and Jo Dee, and I  decided to spend the night together, for school would be closed, after all.  We bought a lot of the junk food, we considered forbidden-and stayed up late.  Of course, I was the first to wake the next day, and immediately went to the window to see the snow.  I shrieked in horror “It didn’t snow!”  I may as well have screamed “fire!” for a ruckus ensued.  We were scrambling with such a confusion, looking for shoes and clothes to wear.  We never did that again.

By mid morning, a cold rain was falling.  The wind blew and so the pines whispered.  I put on a pot of “Great Northern” beans, for they take a long while to get done, if cooked slowly, as they ought to be.  I baked bread too, for I always cook when there is any sort of storm.   Since this was the first snow of the season -and it may well be the only snow, as well, I could not make “snow cream”.  First snow is considered dirty, for it cleans the air.  Fact or fiction,   my elders drilled this in my head and so I must hope, it snows again.   

I was delighted, that a favorite old movie was on.  “It Happened on Fifth Avenue” is a sweet, “happily ever after story”.   There was also “Jane Eyre” later on.  I did a little housekeeping while the wind  howled and the rain  fell in big droplets, steadily.  There wasn’t a bit of snow anywhere by mid afternoon. By three o’clock, I turned a lamp on.  The wind and rain had increased and seemed to have joined forces.   

Sunday, was full of fanfare.  At times, I was busy, and at times I rested.  I went over my Christmas list and “checked it twice”.  The laundry basket is empty and the floors are clean.  The burdens of last week had no bearing on me, this day.  It was as if the wind had swept them far away, along with everything else, not nailed down.   I felt as steadfast, as the old oak just outside the window, by the “morning table”.  Suddenly, it dawned on me  that storms of all sorts, pop up , full of a rage, loud and threatening.  They rearrange all in their path – and though they may cause the oak to tremble, the old tree does not fall.  

On Monday, there was a two hour delay for schools.  I suspect the streets in towns were flooded.  I was up at my usual time -early.  The air was still, so the pines did not whisper,  The mockingbird did not sing, either.  A light rain fell and was the only sound breaking the silence of the morning.  Hearing the  steady tapping rhythm, of the raindrops on the leaves, was very calming and provoked a comfort, that could be felt, deeply.  The delay afforded me the pleasure of listening to this earthly lullaby.  Mornings are very important to me.  In some way, they seem to affect the rest of the day, thus I do what I can to live my mornings pleasantly and peacefully.  Some mornings, I awaken and will immediately, stump my toe and then predictably will spill coffee -on those days , I simply get still . . .and start over.  It seems to break the spell, often.  I have often wondered why things happen in threes, but they always do, hence I stop at a series of two, if allowed.  

I came home and began my chores, as I always do.  I do know I intend to pick out heavier clothes for tomorrow, for that cold rain is still falling.  The misty drizzle of the early morning became  downright rain while I was on the way to work and it has been raining ever since. 

This week is already looking as if it will be a busy one too.  Lyla is in a Christmas program at her preschool on Wednesday.  I am packing tonight, to attend.  Daddy has an appointment on Friday, so I want to be  back home for that.  

I have not been busy unpacking the seventy-five boxes roosting in every corner of the farmhouse.  “Hope does spring eternal” for me, it seems.  I have not yet formed much of a plan, but that will make itself known, at some point.  The shock, of it all has dulled, to the point that I no longer feel curious about why this happened.  I think we are all so used to having a sensible explanation for things.  Not every answer is clear cut, though.  Not every predicament will ever make total sense.  This earthly journey has many a twist and many a turns, and sometimes we are in a blind spot.  

We also, live at a time, that we are used to getting what we want, mostly quickly.  I can not even imagine that my Mama waited til Christmas to get oranges, as a child.  “Waiting”  has become a lost art, but even in our modern world, sometimes we must just wait.  I will be the first to say, that waiting is difficult and must be handled delicately.  I wish that things had gone smoothly and as planned.  So, I am also reminded, that we are not going to “like” all of the outcomes. 

There I was on the brink of a new way to live, one I desired highly and the whole thing crashed like a fragile house of cards, all at once.  (There is so much more to this story, besides a house sale, not going through. ) I really had tried to to do things right and make every accommodation, when needs arose and yet, it all happened anyway.  I  have muddled through all of this and have found myself quite juvenile.  My daddy used to say “You are old enough to know better!”  when I had committed some childish crime- or behaved poorly, when  I didn’t get what I wanted.  Those words ring true today, right now.  I am old enough to know better. 

So, in light of all this, I will wait with all of the grace, I can muster. The seventy-five boxes lurking here and there do not mock me, but instead implore me to have hope.  Besides, my collection of treasure increases in abundance with each day that passes, with each step of the journey.  My children have surrounded me and filled the wellsprings of my heart.  . . friends have tended to me with diligence and loyalty, for I have no “fair weather” friends.  My parents are as dependable as they were in my childhood.  How can one complain, under such circumstances?  I came across a mere “bump n the road” and needn’t be gloomy, which is really not a bit of fun.   . . and it is Christmas. . . . and by golly . . . . it snowed!

 

  

Sometimes one day turns into another, in an ordinary fashion.  I strive to have as many of those as I can.  I take great pains to live a mostly leisure life, where things like supper , are the occasion of the day.  I love a “quiet and peaceable” life.   . . None of that happened this week.

First of all, it was the week of the “Holiday Concert” at school.  This is a busy and exciting week, for all of us.  The classes learned winter songs from ten different countries.  Then, there were the violinists, at least one hundred of them, played carols.  The older students, also decorated the campus with lights and served hot chocolate, cotton candy and cookies.  It was all lovely and everything turned out beautifully, but it was an incredibly busy week.

For eighteen years, my mom, sisters and I have gathered the first week of December for a shopping trip.  We have been joined by my nieces, Hayley and Dana, since they grew up, too.  This year, we changed things up.  We did not want daddy alone, for that long of a day and Mama who takes great pride in her decorations, had not even really started, save the mantel.  This year, we all met early, at their house for breakfast and plans to decorate.  Dana and I decorated the tree.  Connie and Hayley, worked on the porch and Delores created Christmas scenes throughout the house.  By noon, I was frying the cornbread, that Delores loves.  A large pot of brunswick stew was simmering and everyone took a turn, chopping the slaw, for that will wear you out.  Connie brought her home made barbecue, for the main dish.  Since Delores and Hayley had December birthdays, Mama made a chocolate cake from scratch for Delores and a lemon meringue pie, for Hayley.  It was quite a feast.  Brant came for the meal, which thrilled me.  He carried stew and some of the left over sweet potato pancakes, from breakfast, with him when he left. 

Dana sketched, and was good company as I cleaned the kitchen.  Dana had cleaned up after breakfast and  since she is quite an artist, and always has a sketch pad, I asked her to draw a rabbit.  It was adorable and I remain impressed with her ability.    What sweet memories she and I made this day, decorating the tree together, and spending time together, in a kitchen.

Connie, being known as a hard worker, rallied us to tackle the yard, next.  Hayley, like me does not like to rake leaves, but agreed, it was better, in good company.  When we left, the whole place was orderly and little lights twinkled.  Ribbons and garland , and wreaths proclaimed Christmas in the clean yard, too.

On Wednesday, I received a message that the sale of the rabbit patch, was not going through.  Even, as I write this, now days later,  I am still shocked. The message was short and final, and I felt a great many emotions, all at once.  I still do not know what happened – or why.  Instead of concentrating on the missing information, I decided to to think about what is next and trusted  that “next” would surely be better.  Still, I had the dreaded task, of telling my children.  I knew Brant and Tres would be terribly aggravated and that Jenny and Christian would be hurt.  Kyle would take it best, but he would be disappointed for me.  . . and truly, all of us would be terribly disappointed.  I worried for the people, I was buying the cottage from, and what this would mean for them.  But, I had to prepare myself quickly, for Christian was home, when I drove in the yard, that day . . . and somehow, there was a small Christmas tree shining through a window.

Mama and Delores, were quite concerned that I would not be decorating for the holidays, and like little Christmas fairies, had slipped in the farmhouse and placed a table top tree in the den.  Christian was happy for me, as they all know that I love Christmas, especially.  (My decorations are all packed up, as I was expecting to move during Christmas break.)  I decided to delay my news, as I could not spoil the goodness of the moment.  

That night, I thought a lot of things, in the light of the little tree.   I remembered the details of this six month ordeal.  I knew the blunders now, of my lack of “business” sense and declared not to repeat those same mistakes.  I was annoyed that it had taken six months and then fell apart in a day. I felt a sense of loss and yet not hopelessness, as so often accompanies an unrealised dream. I was not sorry, that I had dreamed.  I did not feel defeated, though I did feel weary. I simply could not feel angry, for I had prayed fervently, for the right thing to happen. I am not yet at liberty, to tell the whole story, but rest assured a lot of wonderful plans were dashed. So many thoughts were jumbling around, yet I managed to maintain a peace, though at times, it was shaky.  “Things work out for a reason” and “The best is yet to come”  and “God works in mysterious ways”  -all crossed my mind, in intervals, through the chaos of my thoughts.  Finally, I cried, not because, I did not believe any of that, but because, I was saddened.  I realised too, I was “sick and tired” of the harrowing last six months.  I was ready to put that behind me, after all.  Sometimes, “No” is the answer, to  a prayer.  

The task at hand, was to show my children what to do with disappointment, for I can not spare them of that.  Really, when I thought about it, I was disappointed because I had concocted a goal for myself, that apparently was not in my best interest, at this particular time.  Other than, my lack of business, I had exercised grace and fortitude .  Now, I had to show them recovery, which in this life should be a highly desired skill, for we all need that at times. I had to take that “blessed high road” again.  

When at last, I did bear the news, things turned out as I expected.  Jenny was sad and Christian was too.  The boys were highly disturbed and Mama cried. It was awful and in some way, I felt  guilty of creating this calamity. 

I have no clue, how I will afford to make repairs to this old house nor how I will maintain the land and barns.  These are very real concerns for me nearing the age of sixty.  “Starting over”  on your own, lacks the luster, it has in youth.   Just finding a job, at this age is a predicament, in itself.  Against the odds,  I still believe that it will work out.   I have not unpacked a single thing. Against all odds, I still entertain lofty notions though,  I am waiting, again, this time for clarity, about how to proceed. 

I have a beautiful life, right now today.  First and foremost, a little King was born and became my own, and I declare now, that “He does work in mysterious ways!”  I have the dearest family, a heart could ever hope for.    I have loving and loyal friends –  and on and on I could go  . .  and so, it is hard to be downcast, for long. Instead, I await for something more, than I could have hoped for and until then, I will live my beautiful life, and make repairs as I can. 

I will love the winter twilight and the stark beauty of bare trees,  I will watch the moon rise over the old barn and the sun set over a resting field, turning it a coppery , gold in the process.  In the mornings, frost will shine silver and sparkle in the first light.  I will bide my time, listening to the pines whisper and the blackbirds chatter -and watch for that silver lining, in good faith.

 

 

 

 

 

The first day of December has dawned, quietly and subtly.  The world simply got light . . and while it did a mockingbird sang.  I have not heard a mockingbird or any bird sing, in a while.  The chatter of blackbirds, while cheerful, does not “hold a candle” to the sweet melody of the mockingbird.  I stopped everything and listened.  With the air, being so mild today, it could have been a morning in April.  I do not know why, but tears filled my eyes.  I did not realise, until that moment, that I had missed the morning song of birds, so much.  I love the winter and welcome it with my whole heart.  I especially love December and Christmas time, but I did remember spring  while the mockingbird sang, and felt “homesick” for a spring morning.  

I couldn’t help but think of the poem, “I Heard a Bird Sing” by Oliver Herford.  I loved it the first time, I read it, and had the children  memorize it.  Today, I lived this verse.  My day was started with a little bit of wonder.

Housekeeping is on the agenda today.  You can not “run the roads” and do much of anything else.   I also plan to cook.  There are several long overdue tasks besides the usual chores.  The territory is an awful state and with rain in the forecast, today and tomorrow, it will remain so.   I am quite sure the neighbors have given up all hope of my recovery –  and with the community being full of such tidy folks . . . what a disappointment,  I must be just now.  Some day, I will redeem myself.

I put the windows up, though I am thinking that will  be a short-lived affair.  Still, I have always done so if the opportunity arises . . even in December.  On a leap of faith, I packed up my spring and summer clothes . . .just in case, I really am moving.  I am quite a minimalist, by nature and so, it didn’t take long.  

It was one of those timeless days. where the light does not change, as the hours pass.  It could have been anytime,when Christian came in-but it was only noon.  I  was washing linens and shared my lofty plans for the rest of the day, with him.

 I had mixed up a batch of shampoo for Cash and Christopher Robin and so I started on that project.  They were neither happy, but both tolerated  their bath, well.  I looked out the window by the “morning table” and noticed how still the countryside was.  It certainly seemed, that the weatherman was right about rain coming in.  It dawned on me, that this would be a good day to burn the garden -and so I did.  I am not good at starting fires, no matter what I have in my arsenal, but at last, I managed a small flame.  I burned til the rain came.  I at least, had a good start. I removed the autumn wreath from the back door, as I came in. 

The rain fell at a steady pace.  It was the perfect kind of day, to start a new book -and I had one.   . .“Elizabeth and Her German Garden” , so it was very tempting.  I knew if I started it though, that I would not accomplish another thing, for I get hopelessly drawn in to books and do not even want to stop to eat. (Mama is the same way.)  I laid the book aside, and placed a stack of bills, on top of it.  That would keep me on task, as it is time to pay bills . . and I dread it.  I am on a shoe string budget, first of all and sometimes, I think, I  have spent  a good deal of life , just trying to keep the lights on!

 I was putting away laundry and it was suddenly dark.  It was still raining, too.  I was too tired to face the bills, hence, I did not start my new book.  I went to bed early, after a supper of left overs, for  I am cleaning out the freezer . . .just in case.

I was up long before the sun, on Sunday.  The rain had tapered off to a mere drizzle.  I made coffee – and opened the bills.  After  calculating my predicament, I was very thankful, that most of my Christmas shopping was done.  Recently, all sorts of things outside of the budget had arisen.  There was a hefty fee for extending the contract on the cottage and then I took the car for an oil change and ended up having two new tires put on.  One of the tires was in such awful shape that I cringed when I saw it.  I must pay better attention, I decided.  

Now every month, for most all of my adult life, somehow, I have “kept the lights on”.  Sometimes, I have dreamed of winning the lottery, but chances are mighty slim, as I do not play.  Sometimes, I think, I have won a lottery, of sorts, for I am rich, when it comes to loved ones and wealthy when it comes to contentment. . . and I have “kept the lights on”, after all.  Still, I can not deny that having some money is appealing.  

I remember a Christmas eve, a few years back.  I had a bit more than the usual amount left over, after the bills were paid.  In haste, I went out to buy a few extra gifts for my children.  Please know, my children always got socks, bedroom shoes and a book-guitar strings for Christian and art supplies.  It was always the same. . .so this particular Christmas, I could splurge, if just a little.  I was so happy and decided to bring supper home, as well-another indulgence.  I called the boys, to tell them I was almost home and had supper, too.  The minute I hung up, the car died.  I mean it cut off on the highway altogether.  I barely got it off the road.  The engine would not even try to start!  The lights were out and I was immediately in a state of panic.   I called Kyle, who got a posse of local men and my daddy, to come get me.  Daddy being a mechanic went about diagnosing the problem, but it was pitch dark and so he could really only guess.  Everything he imagined, seemed to cost about five hundred dollars, which I did not have.  I felt punished for having bought things like chocolate . . .and supper!  I was ashamed of abandoning my good senses and on and on I went.  Finally, when I was weary from lamenting, I pulled myself together.  I was on Christmas break, and wouldn’t need the car for another ten days.  I could come up with some plan, surely in that time. . .and it was Christmas eve, after all.

The next morning, Daddy called.  He had awaken at first light, to look at the car.  The whole problem was a loose wire!  A simple and very free solution to my catastrophe.  He would be bringing my twenty year old car, “home” to me , safe and sound.  Well, I laughed and cried, when we hung up -at the same time!  Such relief flooded over me.  When I collected my thoughts, I told God, that I should have known not to fret, for He always has provided for me faithfully.  I told Him, I regretted my foolishness , in thinking otherwise.  I told Him, while I knew I can always depend on Him for everything, including money, I just wished He would  let me write it down in my bank account!  

This is a very true story, and it is not that old, either.  The old car was replaced just a few years ago, with another used car, gifted to me by Tres.  Christian still gets guitar strings and art supplies for Christmas-and the boys still ask for socks, too.  

Today, as I start paying the bills, I remember that time and countless others, that turned out the same.  I remain responsible but I do not fear being generous.  I do not harbor shame, if I am doing my best and I expect things to work out., even in light of my mistakes.   What liberty, I know now, when unhindered by my own limitations of my Father.

My dear friend Rae, lost her job and and a husband within a six month period.  It was an awful season for her.  I asked her once, how she was financially and she replied “fine, I never worry about money, for I trust God, to care for me.”  She was not left with much of an inheritance, and so I was stunned at her bravery and faith.  Moments later, I was laughing.  Now Rae was stunned and asked me” what was funny?”  I told her that she trusted God like He had all the money in the world-and I acted like He had ten dollars to spare!  She laughed too.

Now, when I need new tires, I can say “its’ just money” for it is.   . .and it is just God, that makes the difference. . . .now at the first of December . . .and always.

 

 

 

 

The last few days have been cold.  Nights are below freezing and in the day, we southeners, now don our “winter coats”.  I walk to the car, in the morning on frozen ground.  I do not mind the cold weather unless there is wind.  A cold wind is about unbearable.  I have always heard that “New Englanders were a sturdy lot-and I suppose they are, for I can not imagine day after day of these conditions.  Of course they have snow too- a lot of snow.  When it does snow here, the least bit, southeners  hunker down and no one is going anywhere!  Instead, we are home cooking hearty dishes like stews or beans . . .in warm, comfortable “house clothes”.  In the absence of snow, it has been business as usual.  

With December, just a few days away, many of us are thinking about Christmas.  I  confess now, that I think about Christmas all year.  Farm Life puts on quite a production at Christmas.  Houses, barns and sheds are covered in lights.  Reindeer graze on the lawns and wreaths are hung on doors and fences.  Bows adorn lamp posts and the affect is charming.  

I moved to the Farm Life Community, more than a decade ago, in May.  I met my first friend, here just a few days later.  “Miss Sylvia” came and presented me a cook book, of recipes compiled by the local women.  It was a “welcome” gift, and it is my favorite cook book.   The recipes do not  start with a can of soup or instant pudding.  These women cook from” scratch” and their dishes have stood the test of time.  

Miss Sylvia had deep roots in Farm Life and it seemed she was “kin” to most everybody, or else went to school with them.  She was glad to see that the old farm house would be occupied.  Every room needed painting and the yard was full of debris.  I was an awful mess, when she showed up.  I was telling her all that I was doing, and without a moments hesitation, she asked me if I decorated for Christmas?  I was a bit stunned at her question, but she went on and told me that the community placed great stock in good decorating.  I assured her that I did, and she seemed very relieved.  

As it turned out, Miss Sylvia used to work at a florist shop.  She made bows, and had earned herself quite a reputation.  She offered to make bows for me and so I took her up on it, each year, in early December.  One year, particularly stands out in my memory and I never fail to remember it, this time of the year.  It was the year that I used the red bows with small white polka dots.

I had the idea that the ribbon would be just perfect for a country home and I searched high and low for months, for it.  At long last I found just the right look and presented it to Miss Sylvia, as soon as I got home.  Miss Sylvia examined it thoroughly, and said at last, that “it was ugly!”  She went on to say, it wouldn’t hold up, and said again “and it is ugly, too”.  Being she was an elder, I sheepishly asked her to make them anyway.  A day or so later, she called and said the” bows were ready – and just as she predicted, they were ugly”.  Well, I hung them and I loved them!  I still laugh remembering that.  I always miss my dear,  Miss Sylvia, but most especially at Christmas.

Now, this year, all of my decorations are packed up and I may not even decorate at all!  It all depends on  what unfolds in the very next few weeks in what has become certainly,  a saga. . .selling the rabbit patch.  Either way,  if there is a sprig of pine on the mantel – or a wreath hung, it will be a last minute attempt to mark the grand occasion of my beloved Christmas.  Maybe this year, I will carry on the tradition of “Old Christmas”.  . .another thing I remember about Miss Sylvia, for she always marked the visit of the wise men, to the Christ child, with a party. 

Work is especially busy, just now.  The violinists-over two hundred of them – are practicing  fervently and the children are also learning songs in various languages for the annual Holiday Concert.  I never tire of Christmas music.  I especially like the old music.  The old songs never fail to spark my own childhood memories. . .one being the year, that Grandmama got a tree in a box.

I do not know what I was expecting . . .but it was not what I saw.  I remember clearly the shock of seeing my first “aluminum tree”.  It was silver with blue ornaments. . . a far cry from the usual, little cedars, cut from a ditch bank.  Grandmama was so very proud of it and said, the folks in Florida, were using them regularly now.  To me, Florida must have been another country altogether and they musn’t have had. a single patch of woods anywhere.  Grandmama was “happy as a lark” with her modern tree.  I was speechless.  In my wildest childhood dreams, I could not have imagined an “aluminum tree”.  Thankfully, “Dean Martin” was singing on the record player, as usual, so at least something, made sense.

Every thing seems to evoke memories, this time of the year.  Of course, I am prone to being sentimental, on a regular basis, but I realise especially at Christmas, that I have quite a  storehouse of beautiful memories in my collection.  . .and I do not want to forget a one of them.  In some way, it seems that remembering, is like a “housekeeping of the heart”.  I sort things out, and tidy up any tattered fragments. It is odd that I do not remember but a few gifts that I received.  Instead,  I remember clearly, things like the tinsel that Mama saved each year.  Putting it on the tree, was slow and tedious work . . .taking it off was worse.  Mama was very particular about her tinsel, and how it was placed on the tree.  The task was not going quickly.  . .and that is all there was to it.  After the initial complaining and protests, for no one wanted to hang single strands of tinsel, a hush would fall on us.  It was as if we were in a trance brought on by the dangling silver. When the heat came  on, or the door was opened-the tinsel  would sway and flutter as if it had a life of its’own.  I was so happy when Mama traded the tinsel for a garland-yet now, over fifty years later, I remember the tinsel.

As we bid November farewell, with its’ scarlet and golden woodlands  and with the blackbirds flying,  we know it did not leave us empty-handed.  November gives us a quiet, steady dose of  gentle beauty that stirs thoughts of home and hearth  – and makes us remember the most beautiful things.