Somehow, the week passed until it, at last it is Saturday.  During the summer, one day is much like another.  They feel the same, with the exception of  a Sunday -Sunday always feels like Sunday.  Today feels like a Saturday. 

I woke naturally,  which is early, but I had no reason to make haste about anything.  I had my coffee outside, in the midst of a cool and still morning.  The birds must know it is the latter days of summer, for they are a quiet lot, as of lately.  Now and then, I would hear a leaf fall from the old sycamore and at long last, the mockingbird sang . . . not with the exuberance he had in June- but he filled the air up for a while  with a cheerful celebration, to herald the new day.

 I spent some time collecting my thoughts and gathering the beauty, of the morning glory blooms.  These days, I must muster fortitude, to live in the moment, for I feel like I am between two worlds, and I do not even know what lies beyond the shadow.  Now truthfully, none of us know the fortune of our next day, but I have never been prone to dwell on that, as I do now.  There is so much yet to be done -so I finally decided a course of action and went back in, mostly satisfied . 

I put on a pot of soup to simmer as I went along.   I can share some with Mama and Daddy –  and clear out the refrigerator freezer, all at once.  Then, I started packing.  I decided books could be stored, though I left out about thirty, just in case, things continue at the steady “snails’ pace” thus far.  These books will join the other boxes of books, already packed.  Next I packed a box and labeled it “birds, rabbits and candlesticks”.   Well, this is how it went for a while.  I packed up Kyles’ green depression glass, collected for several decades and his Christmas ornaments, collected for just as long. 

By noon, I had about ten boxes packed, and really had not even made a dent in the overall task.  I am well aware, that theses boxes may sit a good while, but I can at least say, there is less than there was, to do.  I can also say, I had under estimated the size of this job.  I felt thankful, I had started.

Packing is hard on a sentimental heart.  While cleaning out the china closet, I came across, Aunt Josies’ glass pickle dish.  I am not partial to pickles, but that dish made me cry.  Then there were the salt and pepper shakers, that Aunt Agnes brought back from Holland.  That trip was the “talk of the town” as in those days, country folks did not travel, as people do now.  I remember Grandma dropped the pepper shaker, and of course, it broke.  I regret that I was annoyed, and the fine little crack, shamed me all over again, though I never even mentioned it, to anyone, except Mama – and so I cried about that.  Brants’ little silver cup,  Tres’s baby toy, which happened to be a little rabbit, pulling a cart . . all stung my eyes, til I just wanted to cry for a while. I consoled myself, that a little remembrance of those loved ones and those seasons were going with me  and to take comfort in that . . .but I was so relieved to finish that china closet.

By mid afternoon, I wondered why, I had started this task with such hesitation.  Clearly, even with my huge decluttering effort, packing up the rabbit patch would require a tremendous effort and a lot of time.  I did decide to part with some old glass dishes, that were once used for baby and wedding showers. My dear friend, Janets’  voice rang in my ear,  saying, to “let someone else know the joy of having them”,( if I did not need or love them).  Somehow, I can let the dishes go, in light of that thought.

Janet and I have been friends for three decades, and I often go to her for  sound advice.  She can clear up a problem, I have mulled over for days,  in a matter of minutes.  Janet,  never fails to put things in perspective and therefore is a great source of comfort.  To have met her when I was  young , has  proven to be  such a blessing, time and time again. 

I did not intend to, but I packed all day.  Now, I did not touch the kitchen nor our bedrooms.  Those rooms will remain as they are, til further notice.  There is at least two more boxes of books, that could be packed . . .I do hope the next rabbit patch has book shelves.

I had things tidy, by the time the day was slipping away.  I especially love twilight.  I love that time when folks come home . . and then there is the evening meal, that I call supper . . . and then there is the time after supper, when we are gathered with those we belong to. 

Sometimes, that means for me, a loyal dog and a sweet cat.   . .but they are good company.  It is quite satisfying to see the two of them lying together and I am quite dependent on a good  guard dog.  On my worst days, Cash would still alert me to any thing suspicious.  . .and Christopher Robin would still purr, at the sight of me.  They are a dependable pair and I am glad for them – especially in the hours after supper.

  

The last day of my summer, was beautiful-if only it had not been the last day!  The morning dawned fair and bright.  Will (my son in heart) and I drank coffee on the front porch.  The laughing river was a  subtle shade of lavender, I noticed .   The sky was silver and a pair of doves had,  as I far as I could see, all  of it to themselves. I suspected the rest of the early birds, were hiding in the bracken around Miss Thelmas’ front porch”, waiting for their breakfast. 

Mary Carolyn”, one of Jennys’ oldest friends drove up, from her home, an hour away.  It was the day of the brunch, honoring the arrival of Jennys’ new daughter, after all.  Mary Carolyn does make up professionally, and so she was bound and determined to give Jenny  the “royal treatment ” on her special day.

Now, the brunch was lovely and Jenny was beautiful, with happiness.  Sarah hosted the event in her especially stately home.  Mandy who owns Pansy & Ivy made floral arrangements, as only she can – and baked her famous pound cake.  Jessica and Michele, who are both good cooks, to be so young, brought their specialty dishes and there was fancy tea too.  How good it felt to know that Jenny has such dear and genuine friends.  We all love our children, but there is great comfort, in knowing we are not the only ones who love them.  

I left the brunch quite early, as I had to get back to the rabbit patch.  I had been gone almost two weeks, and school started the next day  . .regular readers know . . .”that changes everything.”

 I did not want to leave the world of summer. . .but I had missed Kyle and Christian – and my animals.   Besides, some day the appraiser is coming, and there is that.   My ear ached the whole way home. Thankfully, the drive was uneventful, otherwise.

I  pulled in the drive and the grass at the rabbit patch, was so high, that it robbed the territory of its’ charm.  It was about shameful as all of “Farm Life” is  such a tidy community.  I made a mental note to hire somebody immediately to preserve our dignity. 

Oh, the reunion with my sons and dog – and cat,was sweet.  Christian had just scrubbed floors, so the house was tidy.  This may have been to soften the news that the dryer had quit working.  The clothes line is a wonderful alternative, but showers pop up daily  and without warning.  I can not hang clothes on the line and go to work . . so I need to tend to that immediately too.  For now, the ladder has become a drying rack. 

I decided to make a pitcher of ice tea.  Surely that would put things right.  Kyle came in as  the tea was seeping.  I was surveying the progress of  the “autumn joy” flowers through the kitchen window.  Kyle said “Mom, there are ants in the sugar.”   -and there were.  It was  a new bag and had not been opened -but there were ants, as Kyle had said.  

Well, I thought,  we are all well and safe, we are all together –  and  the autumn joy flowers are full of young buds.

I woke to a soft and cool rain, on Monday.  Now, this is certainly the best conditions for sleeping, but it was the first day of the new school year, for me.  I did not dilly-dally, but went straight-a-way, to preparing for the day.  I like to get to work early, and that is the only place I know of, I can say that about.

Monday night,I made a canister of summer oats with the wild blueberries, I love.  I plan to make the veggie burgers, this week end.  I keep the refrigerator at school, stocked, with such things, along with peanut butter, cheese and crackers, as lunch breaks are seldom more than twenty minutes. 

My clothes are laid out the night before, as I can not think sensibly, upon waking. 

This morning, (Wednesday), a phone call woke me.  It was Mama and I knew right off, something was wrong.  Daddy needed to go the emergency room.  He had suffered all night – so had Mama -with pain.  Thankfully, it was not life, threatening-but it demanded attention.  It does me good to write, all is well, now.

I came home to a new dryer, and that was good news too, for it rains every day, still.

What an eventful week, thus far!  . . .and  what a far cry from the watery interlude of summer.   Each season has its’ own rhythm.    . . Now as I drive past fields, and woods, and quiet pastures, I take in the beauty – just as I did on the banks of the laughing river, in June.  While the tulips rest, the loosetrife blooms,  when the berries are spent, young pumpkins  abide and the corn, gilded in gold, awaits harvest. So beauty does not forsake us, but instead takes on new forms.  The world is always adorned in some spectacular fashion.  . .and I am more keenly aware of this, now that I am older.  Growing up in the countryside, did not hurt one bit, either.  . . and especially in the particular times, when I was a child. 

I grew up, before televisions were on all day, before children were allowed to chat on telephones and before, we became attached to gadgets. Children made their own toys, mostly – out of what was at hand and ball games were organised by the children too, without rosters and uniforms.  We were bound to notice the landscape and roam in wild places.  

Autumn is less than a fortnight away, so many changes are yet to come.  “Monday” did change a lot of things, but life has a rhythm too – and  while, we must adjust steadily (and occasionally,  rapidly) .  . .  The moon will climb the sky as it always does and the pines will whisper, as they always do. . .  for nature is not only beautiful, it is also full of mercy.

How quiet an early service in August is.  There is no “hustle and bustle” of  wings.  There are no squabbles over territory and the frantic searches for food have lulled, amongst the birds.  Only the squirrels have any measure of haste, and they ought to, for the dogwood is laden with an abundance of pale green berries, now.

Very rarely, does Lyla miss the early service.  Lyla has the uncanny knack  of rising within minutes of my waking.  It does not matter the day, nor the hour, it is always the same.  I hear her light, “kitten- like” steps on the stairs as I am making coffee.  She enters the kitchen so quietly.She smiles and says softly,  “Good morning Honeybee.”   . .and so the days start sweetly.

Jenny and I always tackle housekeeping in the morning time.  We have all of the little baby dresses washed and hung.  Today we will go to the local fire department, to have the infant car seat installed properly.  There are a good many rules and regulations with these contraptions and your baby can not leave the hospital til you get it right!

Some of Jennys’ friends are hosting a brunch for her on Sunday.  Today, Jenny went through her closet and began the task of finding the dress she will wear on that occasion.  Lyla and I watched her parade about in each one.  Motherhood is especially becoming and Jenny is proof of that.  My heart welled up like a  bubbly fountain just seeing my daughter in such a blessed state.  Later, I thought, “why, she was six, just yesterday!”  Time is slyer than any fox, I know of.

August is full of zinnias.  When other flowers have faded, the stalwart zinnias, are in their glory.  If you see a patch of them, it is bound to do you good, for they are as bright and cheerful as any flower I know of.  Jennys’ neighbor, has a butterfly bush, a few sunflowers and zinnias in a corner of his yard.  I love the color combination of pink, lavender and yellow blossoms and intend to do something like that at the next rabbit patch.

August is full of dragonflies too.  They are out in great numbers.  In the sunlight, they are blue, yellow, green and lavender (almost).  Dragonflies are a busy lot, dashing and darting, hither and yonder.  When I was very young, now a long time ago, my “Pop” would tie a long string to an unsuspecting dragonfly, for me to hold, as the adults “housed tobacco”.  It was like a live kite and  it was quite thrilling for a young child. We were careful to never hurt the dragonfly, though I am sure the experience did not improve his mentality.  Now, as I watch the dragonflies, I remember that time, more than a half century ago.

On Wednesday morning, I made pancakes – or “honeycakes”, as Lyla calls them.  I made a lot of them,  We had them for breakfast, and then I packaged a dozen bags of them, to freeze for Lylas’ breakfasts in September.  Of course, these are not ordinary pancakes, for they have a powdered  concoction of vegetables and berries in them.  It gives them a slight berry flavor which Lyla does not mind – and it is the only way I know of to get carrots and greens in her diet.

Jenny had a doctors’ appointment, on this morning.  It was determined all was well, thankfully.  Of all the things that I am waiting for, it is the new baby, that “takes front and center”.  All else, fades in comparison.

Lyla does not understand this waiting time.  She thinks we should just pick up a baby at the grocery store.  A few weeks ago, we visited  a woman with a young baby.  Lyla was very disappointed that we left empty handed as she was sure, we were there to get her little sister.  I heard her tell,her stuffed bunny, “well, we didn’t get a baby there.”

Miss Claudia came for supper on Wednesday.  Lyla and I made a lemon dump cake as Jenny has really favored anything lemon, lately.  I am not a fan of making dump cakes, for as their name implies, it is really just a matter of “dumping” ingredients together and baking it.  There is not a bit of mystery to it and the process is mighty quick.   It seems very “instant” to me, but Jenny liked the cake (we all did) – and that is what matters. . .besides, Lyla found making a dump cake, to be a delightful affair. . .and that matters, too.

On Thursday, my youngest sister, Connie and niece, Hayley came for a visit.  Connie lives between two homes, one is on  lake, and the other is on an island. I think it is safe to say, that Connie loves water.   I was eleven years old, when Connie was born.  She was one of the lovliest children I have ever seen. She had blonde silky hair, with soft curls and crystal blue eyes, which were in sharp contrast to my auburn hair and freckles.  Connie was bright then, and remains so, today.  Hayley, now twenty, patiently played with Lyla, as if she too were a very young child.  It was a nice visit and in some way  it seemed liked a part of the grand finale of my summer. 

 My liberty is waning and I am sorry for it.  To console myself, I say “at least, I had some liberty” and I think of all the gifts it afforded.  There were books read – and fresh peaches  picked, in the mist of a early morning.  I did a lot of meandering by familiar places and saw new places.  I sat by the sea and on  my Mamas’ front porch. I remember the fireflies and the young robin in June.   There was a  picnic by the lake and a wedding.  I saw a falling star, one night and a raccoon came to visit, on a morning in June.

There was a lot of work and a  lot of play.  The process of selling the rabbit, was at least started and that dreadful ear ache is all but over.    

Oh the contents of a summer, can warm you like a bright fire, on a winter night. . . long after the irises have bloomed, . . and the last apple is picked . . . and gardens   lie barren .  A season never leaves , without imparting gifts and this summer was surely generous.  . .and I am better for it.

 

 

 

Another beautiful “early service” arrived this morning.  There was a cool breeze blowing, that delivered the sweet fragrance of early morning.  Besides myself, there was a squirrel gathering acorns and a female tanager.  I had seen a male tanager this year- only on one occasion.  The Tanagers are quite elusive birds, so any sighting is memorable.  The male is a cheerful red, and the female is  a buttery yellow.   They are a striking pair and I counted it a privilege to catch a glimpse of the golden flash of the bird this morning.  Otherwise, it was a most solitary service.

Lyla and I took a stroll around the village about mid morning.  It was already hot and the breeze barely whispered.  The river was quite blue and rolled gently by.  We spent some time on our rock.  A dragonfly joined us.   He flitted about skimming the water and  so we watched him for a while .  We did not tarry  too long for the southern heat was damp and I was sure we would wilt on the way back. 

On Friday morning, Lyla wanted to help cook “honey cakes” for breakfast.  This was before seven am.  Of course we did.  When breakfast was put away, Lyla and I made cookies.  She loves to “crack eggs”.  We listened to our music which Lyla has come to expect.  She always reminds me as she is getting the large bowl, to play our music.  She will not begin, til a violin melody rings sweetly in the kitchen. 

Lyla has improved greatly about the conclusion of the mixing, I noted . . and at long last, I have learned to bake good cookies.  

That was not the end our our cooking spree, for Miss Claudia, Wills’ mom and my dear friend, was coming for supper.  This warranted a dessert.  We made a cheesecake, which Lyla called ” a pie”.  We used wild blueberries, as I am convinced they are by far the most flavorful.    I will tell you the dessert was a big hit.

On Saturday morning, Will and Jenny worked on the nursery.  Their second daughter is expected in September.  Lyla, their first born, helped for a while and was very good natured about  the “big production”  . . until she saw the butterflies fluttering across the wall . . .and then the pastel lanterns . . .and the sparkling flowers.  This proved a bit much and so Lyla came downstairs with me to watch a show about the wild animals in Africa.

Jenny, being a thoughtful mother, had allowed Lyla to be in on the decoration purchases, and even bought a few new things for Lylas’ room, which the girls will share, eventually.  It all worked out fine and Lyla said she loved her little sister, after all.

I stayed out of the way for a bit, as I felt the preparing for new baby, was such a special event.  Out of curiosity,  I did have a peek after an hour or so.  What a beautiful and moving picture unfolded.  Will was hanging pretty things on the wall, and Jenny had a stack of dainty blankets .  The crib stood neatly with fresh linens beneath sparkling flowers.   Lyla was ransacking a collection of soft baby toys.  How sweet it was to behold young parents with their fresh, youthful faces full of aspiration and joyful anticipation, at the arrival of their new daughter.  The room nearly glowed and it made me want to dance . . a waltz.

Few things are as holy, on this earth as the birth of a child. Most things dull in comparison.  It is no wonder, we hold these memories tenderly until they are embedded in our heart.

I have not heard a word about the arrival of the appraiser.  Will, being a banker is well versed in this process and predicted it would take about two months for the conclusion of the sale.  It seems he was right.  It is most likely that the business of  . . selling the rabbit patch   – and hence moving to a place I do not know of yet . . .and the new school year starting . . and the birth of my second grandchild . . will all happen at once -sometime in September.

This is a lot of things to transpire and every one of them quite significant.  It will be a time of  great change and a lot of contemplation under the best of circumstances, especially for a simple, country woman, who spends her time watching dragonflies and sitting on a rock, for lengthy spells.

Since none of that is happening today, I will concentrate on a Sunday Supper, instead.  Miss Claudia is coming  and that makes the meal, an occasion.

Jenny and I will go through another parcel of baby clothes.  There is always laundry and stories to tell Lyla. . . and I will watch for the tanagers, and a yellow finch, I spied this morning. 

This is the last week of the summer break.  School starts for teachers, next Monday. I must mend my ways, especially the leisurely eating and sleeping patterns, I have developed, over the course of the season.  Breakfast can not be eaten at ten am, and midnight is not a suitable bed time. 

Of course the hardest part, will be not satisfying my whims, which I have grown quite accustomed to.  I will miss the rainy days, spent reading until my hearts’ content . . and making a cake on a Tuesday, if the notion struck me .  The sheets may not be sprinkled with lavender regularly and  I will miss such things, for I am domestic in heart, despite this modern age, that I live in.  

This week, I plan to do the things dearest to my heart.  I will spend a few more days, in Elizabeth City.  I will stroll the familiar path by the laughing river, with Lyla.  I will help Jenny with any loose ends. before the baby arrives . .  for what will Jenny do, when I go back to work?   . . . and oh, so very soon . . . it will be September!

 

Maybe summer, has saved the best for last, for the beauty  of this morning rivaled any summer morning, I have ever seen.  Sun had replaced rain, for the first time in weeks.  The cicadas were singing and a light breeze stirred the leaves on the old trees. A few “early birds” were out.  The birds went about their business, the frantic state of spring, now far behind them.

Late summer is a crossroads, of sorts.  It is a time to tie up loose ends.  Projects started with zeal, in spring, that were never fully completed and projects that were never started at all, seem to call to us now.  When the purple loosestrife starts to bloom, then we are in the twilight of summer . . .and the purple spikes of the loosestrife are beginning to bloom now, at the rabbitpatch.

Today, I am called to finish a project.  I am finishing the trim work in the living room.  This is long overdue, shamefully long overdue.  I had hoped my affair with the ladder was over, after the kitchen ceiling.   Why I do not have a girlish figure is beyond me, but alas I look as elderly as ever.  Apparently, ice cream and biscuits are not canceled out by hard work.  I will be so very thankful, when the appraisal is over and declare I will be lazy for a while afterwards.  If I start feeling overly sentimental about the selling the rabbitpatch, then will I remember the ladder – and the lawn mower, that is very  temperamental.

The little,   under an hour job, of painting the trim work, took all day.  I did not factor in that the doors would look so dingy under the stark white trim.  I did not expect a layer of dust and dirt beneath the sofas . . .I had just moved them a few months ago, to dust and scrub.   Then there were the windows!  They were awful I noticed. . .and so I had to clean them as well.  One thing always seems to lead to another.   

By late afternoon, a dreaded earache made its’ presence known.  I have them every once in a while, and they are miserable affairs.  It has been about a year, since I had one, but their memory remains clear.  Thankfully, I had clove oil.  I also drank as much water as I could stand with oregano oil.  I slept with an ice pack, right through the supper hour. 

I slept through the “early service” altogether.  I suspect things went well, anyway.  The nap threw me off and the night was uncomfortable.  Sleep was fitful but upon waking, I did feel better and realised I detest the taste of oregano oil . . .but plan to use it again today.

 When I did get up, I went straight away to cleaning the hall .  It has high ceilings  where  entire communities of spiders  go about their business – and the “Christmas Closet”  (filled now with secrets) was dusty.  I have a door to paint and floors to scrub.   I have two more rooms to clean after that and I have to pack . . for I am going to Elizabeth City tomorrow, where a laughing river tumbles by.

At noon or shortly after, I took a break.  The spiders had been evacuated and that ladder put away.  I was far from finished, but had made progress.  My ear did not ache, but I drank a glass of water with a drop of the oregano oil, for good measure.  

Cash slept close by, pouting a bit at my lack of attention.  Ever so often, he looked up as if to accuse me of not loving him anymore.  I would remind him he was the best dog in the world and he seemed to take it to heart, for he perked up at those moments and then buried his velvet nose in his  paws, again.  . . content with my declaration.

I love dogs.  I especially love boxers. Their faces are full of expression.  Their heart is worn on their sleeve.  They are highly trainable, but require dedicated owners, as they are known as “eternal puppies”.  An untrained boxer, could make your life miserable.

I enjoy the company of Cash.  He is never far from me when I am at home.  I am also very dependent on him, for he is alert and protective.  Dogs never lie.  If he says “we have company”, then we do whether I heard it or not.  

He will be quite forlorn, when I bring the suitcase out, to pack.  When I come home, he will gallop around the yard at full speed  After our reunion, he will want to eat and he does so greedily .  It is the same every time.

Ironically, the first dog that ever bit me was a boxer.  A friend of mine who prefers german shepherds, says the first dog that bit him was a shepherd.

By four o’clock, I had lost my gumption.  There was a floor to be scrubbed, supper to be cooked and I had not packed.  I opted to cook supper first as Kyle and Christian will survive on cereal, scrambled eggs and sandwiches, while I am gone.  

As usual, I caught a second wind and started packing, after supper.  I was also determined to scrub the floor in the laundry room.  I like to leave the house clean, and the boys are good at maintaining the house, while I am gone, for I make all sorts of threats.

It has not rained for two days.  If the weather holds out, I plan to meander by that laughing river with Lyla.  I do hope it will be cool enough for a picnic . . and maybe we will sit on the old rock again as we did when summer was young and the loosestrife , was just beginning to sprout.

 

 

The rabbit patch was blanketed in fog this morning.  Fog, like its’ cousin “snow” quiets the world.  While there is fog, the world seems hushed, as if it is harboring a secret.  The air is as still as it has ever been, rendering the pines living,  silvery statues.  How elegant the lowly pine looks in fog.

When I was young, the event of fog, was the time to play “hide and seek”.  We did not tarry long at the breakfast table, on those days.  I can still remember the ghostly appearance of my little sister dashing from one place to another.  I was very liable to dance in the fog, during the game of course.  I did my best to mock the most graceful ballerinas.  I concocted music in my head and twirled around with very elaborate arm movements, which really spoiled the game for the ones hiding.  At some point, someone would whistle and I would snap back to the task at hand, of finding the restless children.

Yesterday, I had a change of pace.  I attended the wedding of my first cousin, Genas’ daughter.  My sister, Delores and niece, Dana came from Raleigh.  Mama loaded us all up, and off we went.

What a lovely occasion.  The flowers were the palest pink you could imagine and white.  Tiny lights were woven in like a twinkling ribbon.  My aunt Christine, the grandmother, of the bride, wore a powdery pink dress, which was becoming .  She and Mama are the only two left of their original family.  Aunt Christine glowed nearly as much as my cousin Gena did.  This is the first of Genas’ children to marry.  I wondered how she felt, for I knew her heart was full of all sorts of things.  The heart of a mother is so very complex and constantly jumbled up with a variety of things all at once, on any given day.

The ceremony was sweet, to say the least.  The groom was nearly beaming.  The bride came in, and there was the look on his face, of sheer adoration.  The bride wafted in like a good fairy.  How beautifully she  wore her joy.

There they were declaring their love before all of the world.  They were the picture of hope and dreams.  It touched me deeply to see them, in such a state of bliss.  Oh, how I wished good things for them!

Gena was not always the mother of the bride.  One time, she was “the baby in the family”.    She was a lovely child with sparkling blue eyes and soft honey colored curls.  She was always clean and wore pretty little flocks.  I was sure she was a doll, It was my first experience with such a little cousin and  I remember talking quietly in her presence and having to tame some of my wildness, that came on me in spurts, as a child. 

 I do not know when Gena grew up but yesterday, she appeared in a dress the color of twilight, her sparkling eyes now, dewy .   Somehow, the sight of Gena sleeping in a white bassinet with  an airy fabric flowing, has stayed with me all of my life. . .and I remembered it again yesterday.  

With today being Sunday,  my stove is earning its’ keep.  All of the burners and the oven is  full of simmering pots.  Potatoes, turnips and carrots are at a mad boiling, to be creamed later. Green beans and brunswick stew are cooking now while a wild blueberry cobbler bakes.   Chicken and cornbread wait to be fried.  The table will be full today, for Delores and Dana will be here .  Delores loves cornbread and blueberries especially, hence the heavy menu.   Of course, I am “happy as a lark” , though I worry the  paint supplies in the corner may spoil the charm of it all.  There is also a ladder in the hall.

Somehow, by noon everything was ready.  We ate and no one complained about a thing.  It is impossible to moan and groan when you are eating a good meal in the company of loved ones, I think.  I will say that the cobbler made from wild blueberries was as good as any as I have ever had.  

We talked about the wedding.  We talked about dogs.  We talked about a “fairy ring” in the yard .  Dana was especially interested and wanted a picture of it. I was her only supporter in the quest, but when everyone was leaving, all took pictures of it.

Delores and Dana left to go to their home on an island, a few hours south  of the rabbit patch.  Delores has a son who is college bound in a few shot weeks.  It is his first year and what a lot of things to do, to prepare for that.  I know that Delores, like cousin Gena, will need to  bear the milestone, of a child leaving the nest, as best she can.   . .as all mothers do.  The summer is not the only the season that is changing.

The afternoon hours were void of obligations and things like boiling pots.  Supper is what is left from noon.   What nice things the last few days held.  What tender moments and lively ones too. .  This was no ordinary week end.

 

 

The time we call August has begun . . .and the rain has still not stopped.  Most of the towns have some flooding, but so far, and as always, there isn’t a puddle on the rabbit patch.  The earth is soggy and just a trek to the car is messy.  The sun comes out in brief intervals and when it does, the grass glistens.

All of my life seems suspended in time just now.  The last of the summer season is upon us and  yet the beginning of the new school year lurks around the corner.  Even how a day passes is mysterious without the sunlight .  It can be nine am or three pm, for the hours look the same.  I struggle with time under the best conditions, and so this is quite disorienting, but in some odd way, it has been peaceful. 

The first summer I lived here, we did not even use clocks.  We did not have a tv either.  We never knew the official time, but we watched the sun and  became quite astute, in the art of telling time by the sun.  We still are. People who are “clock watchers” wondered how we knew when to eat or go to bed.  It was simple, we ate when we were hungry and slept when we were tired.  Cable has been out for the week and I do not use a microwave.  There are no clocks now either, save  one I find pretty, but without a battery –  so I am reminded of that first summer, now.

Since it continues  to rain, I am mostly left to my own devices.  There is some housekeeping, a bit of laundry daily and supper, but this is a light agenda for me.  I have felt like a lady of leisure, spending my time reading and working on my Christmas list.  Usually in August, I am canning tomatoes, in several different forms, for days.  My pantry is now storage for large pots and pans – and food for the animals  . 

Before Lyla was born, I tended a garden every year.  The boys and I took a section of yard and dug it up with shovels.  We did not have a tractor.  It was back breaking work.  The rows were crooked and uneven, but we had a garden.  Everything was done by hand, and so the boys declared it was an “Amish garden” for a machine was never used.  

The Farm Life community is full of good folks and after that year, several kind neighbors with tractors plowed us a proper garden.  One year, our garden drowned.  My friend, Julie was staying with me as she recovered from a surgery, that year. One morning, we heard a tractor.  I looked out and a neighbor was leaving a small trailer full of tomatoes!  Julie was dumbfounded and the look on her face was a mixture  – of surprise and horror!  It is etched in my memory to this day.

For the next three days, I was in the kitchen.  There were batches of  tomatoes for soups and stews, marinara and salsa. Julie recovered in spite of the commotion in the kitchen, but remained dazed by the whole affair.

This was not a new experience for me.  In the first weeks, of living here, the boys and I slept on mattresses in the living room.  The bathroom and kitchen were our priorities, naturally.  We worked hard and at night would plan the next day out.  The day we were going to tackle their bedroom, we found a bushel of cucumbers on the porch.  To this day, I do not know who shared them with us  . . .but I do know, we did not paint that day.

Another day, that same year, I was telling the boys what tools to gather, when I saw a truck pull up loaded with corn freshly pulled from his field.  I told the boys, “never mind, we are working with corn now.”  Corn does not wait.  It must be shucked and dealt with almost immediately.  Later, I did learn to freeze it in the husk, but I did not have a freezer, that day, anyway.

That was a hard year, in many ways.  It was also beautiful.  We were strangers, yet our neighbors fed us like we were family. . . and right off!  For all the years, I have lived here, that kindness  has remained.

Left to my own devices, I work as I can, I try to learn something and I gather some of the beauty of the day.  I also reminisce, for there are so many beautiful things to remember.

 

At the risk of sounding redundant , I will say again . . .it is raining at the rabbit patch. I am sure some record has been broken in the meteorology department, but how would I know, as cable does not work in the rain here?  It is just as well, for I have other “fish to fry” these days.  With Kyle and Christian absent in the daytime, I have been studying great works – and done some light reading to preserve at least a portion of my sanity.  I have removed the relentless cobwebs from the far corners of the house, again .   I have pulled grass and small trees up, between showers.  . .and made cookies.   Today I am scrubbing floors. . . and paying bills.  I must find something to occupy my time as the present state of limbo abides. . . which means, waiting for an appraiser.

The school year begins in a few weeks.  I had so hoped the whole business of selling and moving would have been sorted out before school started.   Now, I can see, that was “wishful thinking” .  I have come to terms with that.  There is an art to waiting, properly.  It is not a passive state at all, for it takes  great effort to forge ahead in a sensible manner, when you are trudging in the dense shadow of providence. 

I am reminded of being thirteen again, which may be the worst age of all.  At thirteen or fourteen, we are really still children, but we aren’t suppose to be childish.  The world seems to have changed in a flash.  Our looks are changing and we have new feelings.  Sometimes we still want to play, other times we are far beyond it.  The familiarity of life has vanished and with it, our confidence.  We are too old to behave as we did and not old enough to proceed, in  any other fashion, but awkward.  Nobody, ever says, “I wish I was thirteen again!”  

Now this is not really as dire a time, as all that.  Life can have a good many seasons.  To me, it is  like I am embarking on a new adventure .  The itinerary  isn’t known, just yet, though.  All I need is faith “the size of a mustard seed” and I admit, sometimes even that is  hard to come by.  Those are the gloomy days.  At those times, I will pray and walk among the ancient oaks .  I will gaze at the steadfast field and look up at the sky, and soon regret my faltering.   “How can I be fearful?” , I will ask myself, for it is fear that lies at the root of  most dreary thoughts.  The whole world seems in cahoots to restore my Faith and fear just can not abide, under such circumstances .  In no time,  I “go on my merry way”  with renewed vigor, and glad for mercy.  The whole thing passes like a fever.

Summer is waning,  so say the morning glories.  Little, tangled masses are hither and yonder on the rabbit patch.  I try to let them be, but they are an unwelcome sight, next to a rose bush.  No amount of gentle persuasion  works on a morning glory.  They look too delicate to choke the life out of something . . .but they will. 

The corn is tattling about the time, too.  Golden tassels crown the stalks, now. The fields lie golden in August, because of that.

I see “Back to School” ads everywhere, trying to convince parents that their children need everything under the sun or they will surely fail their grade.  My own school supplies were things like “sturdy” shoes.  They were never cute.  I swore they were “boy” shoes.  I got a new coat and  the “book bag”  that was also “sturdy” and looked like something a boy would carry.  I did not go to kindergarten and I am sorry to say, if it had been up to me, I wouldn’t have gone to first grade.  

I had an especially sweet teacher, and I loved every child in the class, but the cafeteria food smelled strange and I could not bear it most days.  I do  not mean to sound arrogant, but I was horrified that some students did not know their colors.  I disliked the worksheets with simple tasks like “circling seven ducks” and “See Jane run!” was dull compared to my beloved  “World Book Encyclopedias”, that were on the bookcase, in Grandmas‘ “front room”.  Of course, there were water fountains and slides which were new to me, but best of all was the library.  The librarian was grouchy, but she was Grandmamas’ friend.  She went to our church and it seems like we were “kin” to her someway.  She had a pretty white, brick house with a lot of flowers.   I often wondered how a person with so many books and flowers could be so grouchy. . . Honestly, I still do.

 

The apples at the rabbit patch ripen in August.  There is a spicy aroma in the air that never fails to remind me of my maternal grandmother.  Her kitchen always smelled delicious in August.  Big pots of applesauce simmered perpetually and there was apple pie for dessert most every evening. Apple ‘scraps” went to the pasture.  The ponies and goats galloped to the fence, when they saw me coming.  I remember being careful that all of them got something, as there was clearly a pecking order.  If a pony was shy, he was apt to go hungry.

Nellie, was the ruler of the herd of goats.  She was the color of sand and quite bossy.  She even bossed the ponies!  She ruled the herd in a cold hearted way.  It was no wonder to me she was so fat she waddled , for she was quite selfish  I quarreled with Nellie daily, about her “unchristian behavior”  and threw the apples to her “subjects” as best as I could, at six.  Nellie got her fair share too.  Every spring, Nellie would have twin kids-and once triplets, and I forgave her for everything, on account of that. 

Time has marched on at an alarming rate, since then.  Many ways have marched away, right along with it.  Oh, how long ago, those beautiful summers were!   I  am glad that  fields still lay golden and that apples  still ripen, now . . . for this is how  I remember August

 

 

 

I did not miss the early service this morning.  I was picking peaches in a light morning rain, when day came to the rabbitpatch. It is Sunday, after all  and it would not be right if I did not have a peach cobbler for dessert.  I did get about a half dozen of the white peaches to mix in with the yellow.  I do not know much, but I do know that picking fruit and vegetables -and flowers has got to be good for you.  What a far cry this work is from the high stress of most kinds of employment.  Peach trees do not not quarrel with you or demand more . . .or else.  It is hard to think of anything, but the task at hand, during the moments you are collecting  bounty from nature. It is such a  lovely thing to gather fruit and flowers, in the morning.  As it turns out, I am not an expert at anything, but I do know that, while I was picking the peaches, all was well in my world.

I decided on lasagna for our main course.  July remains surprisingly, cool enough to have such a dish.  I had the sauce simmering not long after I came back with the peaches.  Peeling fruit is not the same as picking it is, for me. Maybe because there is no chance a robin will fly by, or that a butterfly  will land on the counter,  but for some reason I sort out all kinds of things as I am peeling anything.  I practically knew how to raise my children because I peeled potatoes, regularly.  

The rabbit patch kitchen was an especially happy place on this Sunday.  Mama and Daddy came.   . .and so did Jenny  and Lyla.  Kyle was home this Sunday too.  Lyla was content to stay at the table as she has yet to warm up to Cash, my boxer.  Cash is completely unaware of this predicament.  Lyla sang songs for us and then played with ribbons, while we talked. 

By the time everyone left,  the familiar humidity of every July, I have ever known, settled over the territory.  When I gathered a bouquet, this morning, I noticed the wicked vines had taken full advantage of my two week holiday.  In light of the humidity, I opted to  do battle with the vines . . .tomorrow.

By late afternoon, thunder rumbled a warning in the distance.  I had to turn a lamp on by five o’clock.  Not long after , it started to rain.   The yard is a mess, though the rabbitpatch is “on high ground”  Hardly ever does water stand in this yard.  On the few occasions, it has, a hard rain had fallen    – and quickly.  We have had hot dry summers here.  About five years ago, not a drop fell, the whole summer.  It was hard to grow tomatoes, that year. 

If I had an umbrella, I would keep it handy . . for it was raining again at the early service this Monday. . . and rain is in the forecast for tomorrow as well.  July is masquerading as if it were May!   Under such conditions, I must do housekeeping . . .again.   I am down to three small junk drawers to clean out.  . .and I have been  working steadily on the freezer . . just in case the sell of the rabbit does come to fruition.  The yard remains in an awful and forlorn shape.  It  looks as sad as it does in February.  It seems I may have to resort to donning a raincoat to change that .

I pulled the first drawer out, which is really my own collection of things that just do not seem to belong anywhere.  There are also the things I happened to be holding when a pot was boiling over.  The most of the trinkets were pens and pencils, spare reading glasses, a few ribbons and notepads.  There was a key that goes to one of the doors, to be figured out, later.  I found a drivers’ license, now twenty years old. . . and then I found the seeds. 

They were packaged in little envelopes, with hand written explanations of their contents.  There were two varieties of holly hocks and delphiniums too .  The friend that gave these to me died suddenly last summer, in her sleep.  There were no warnings of any health concerns.  She just died  and was about my age.    We had been friends over a decade.  In the time I knew her, she had given me gifts  on a regular basis.  The gifts were seeds and cuttings often.  Sometimes I got a book- I have a nice collection to prove it, but most often she gave me verses, quotes and poetry written on index cards.  Many times, the words fit my needs in an uncanny fashion.  I was always shocked at how the words rang true at the precise moment.  

She was one of the first that implored me to write.  She would not let it alone.  When at last I took the leap – and I was so very fearful – she declared the earth was applauding. 

Her wisdom was a quiet one, that ran deep.  This was undeniable, when you heard her speak, yet she spoke it as gently and humbly, as I have ever heard.  She was a very private and independent soul and eluded  any attention, as if it were a plague.  This is why I will not divulge her name, though it was a lovely one.

These seeds will be planted at the next rabbit patch, I thought, while I grieved her all over again.  Leave it to me to commence to crying, while cleaning out a junk drawer, but it is quite overwhelming to have brushed shoulders with such a remarkable human . . and to have called her “friend”.  I felt so incredibly blessed as I held the the little envelopes.  

Thankfully,  there was that freezer to tackle, and  surely this job, would not break,  my heart, for a second time today.  Within an hour, the food was transferred to the refrigerator freezer. I did leave a few items that really did not require freezing.  I am in the habit of buying things on sale.  I freeze  odd things like corn meal, peanut butter and chocolate chips, to name a few. I am quite diligent about not wasting food, as it seems sinful, to me, and so I took great satisfaction that not one parcel was wasted.  I turned the freezer to its’ lowest setting and decided to make cookies.  I can not help if it is pouring rain again hindering the yard work –  and  in some pleasant way, using the chips does aid my cause.

Kyle came in early, due to the rain.  The cookies lent a nice aroma to the kitchen and he noticed it right off.   As has been my habit as of lately, of cooking things “out of season” , I put on a pot of dried beans, for supper.  I have a little ham which will pair well with the beans.

I listened to a wonderful lecture about quantum physics (on a very elementary level) and then read how this could be applied to our spiritual life.  It made me think a lot.  I do not require science to believe in prayer, but I find it very interesting when an expert in science can link the two subjects.  We have all been conditioned to believe that science and spirituality are almost opposites – -or at least present conflict.  What if that were not so?    As much as I was intrigued, I was glad to get back in the kitchen and think about beans.

The rain may have kept me house bound, physically,  but work got done and I visited an old friend from a time now passed. . .who seemed to reach back to this world, with one more gift, to cheer me on.   I entertained some lofty notions that somehow propelled my thoughts and made me consider, more greatly, the wonder of God.

Dear Diary, These days are beautiful.

 

 

 

 

It was late in the evening when I drove up to the rabbit patch, yesterday.  The sun  looked like a  tangerine as it sunk behind the trees, blackened by its’ light. Everyone showed up for my homecoming.  Kyle and Christian helped unload the car while my boxer, Cash danced about playfully.  Christopher Robin, my cat trotted up with a cheerful greeting and I felt sorry I had expected far less from him.  Christopher Robin can be quite uppity, if I am gone too long to suit him.  I had missed everybody and “made no bones about it”.

I found the rabbit patch tidy, mostly. There was some questionable dishes in the refrigerator to sort out and some laundry, but I wasn’t about to tackle one task this day.  The grass needed mowing, but it had been two weeks, after all.  A big branch  from the pecan tree, fell shortly  before my arrival , blocking the driveway.  A sycamore tree followed suit  and  dropped another branch.  Mind you these are not the size of branches that make delightful little garden fires. But, I was home, safe and sound . . and  that  was what mattered  .

I only caught the “tail end” of the morning service, the next  day.  I am afraid I woke late, with a lot of thoughts, as well, which only hinder morning devotions.  Thankfully, the mimosa is still blooming and the  beautiful fragrance  snuffed out a portion of my complicated notions.  The song of the mockingbird didn’t hurt, either.  The pines whispered tenderly and slowly but surely, a sense of peace did abide.

By nature, I am quite level headed.  If there is a calamity, I usually have immediate clarity, though I may faint when it is all over.  I do not tend to worry –  now that I am older, as I did in my youth. . .but this is an odd season for me, for I am older.  I am selling the rabbit patch.  There is a sweet young buyer, who appreciates this beautiful country life and so I can rest assured the rabbit patch will be in good hands.  I am not concerned about down sizing, but instead welcome the chance. . .and truthfully I need this change.  I do not yet know where the next rabbit patch will be.  The new school year lurks just around the corner and Jenny is having a baby in September.  This is a lot of business.

Now any one of these things mentioned,  demands some thought.  I do not believe for one minute, that the path before me is not lovingly prepared, nor that I will walk it alone.  This brings me great comfort, . . . but I am convinced, that like “Thomas”  I too am blurting out, “Show me the scars!”  At least that is how I have felt recently.  I must sound quite trifling now.  I keep reminding myself of that verse . . .”We walk by faith and not by sight.” But goodness, I am more curious than any cat ever dared to be.  I must “practice what I preach” for I always say, things do not have to make sense.  God does not work as humans, with paper and pencil,  calculating the odds – and thankfully so.  The “odds” change dramatically, when God is present. 

As I have said before, I have never really planned anything, with much success.  I have been horribly shocked with things I did not see coming and immeasurably blessed by beauty I could not have seen in my wildest dreams.  

The truth is,  I never intended on becoming a violin teacher. . .yet that is what fed my children.  I bought a house, once, because I needed a car title notarized and happened to be in the right place at the right time.  I never even meant to buy the rabbit patch, in the first place, but one door after another opened for me, without any effort on my part.  Choosing “the road of least resistance”  has never been my strong point.  I thought about all of this in the shade of a sycamore tree, for a good while and then decided to go in and clean the stove.  Things will work out as they ought to, I told myself.

The peaches are ripening at the rabbit patch.  I have several things that I want to make – like tarts and cobblers.  I have two varieties of peach trees. One is a white peach.  The fruit never gets very large or soft, but they make the best cobblers.  It takes at least a peck of them to make a cobbler.  I have only seen the white peach trees on old homesteads, like the rabbit patch.   The first homestead , I lived  on had two of them and that is when I discovered a “white peach cobbler” was worth the time and trouble.

I did do a bit more cleaning out.  I am really down to the “short rows” now.  I used to hear this phrase a lot as a child.  When you re working in a field, there are the long rows in the middle and short rows along the edges.  When we were down to the “short rows” our spirits  were lifted, at the prospect of finishing .  Someone would always shout “we are down to the “short rows!”  I love remembering how my people talked.   

There are a few minor repairs left before the appraiser comes.  Will, my “son in heart” is a banker and does not expect the process to go so quickly.  Time will tell, as it always does.  

I have a dear friend, that was in the midst of a crisis, a few years ago.  She explained to me her quandary.  It was an awful mess and something she had no control over.  I asked her what she was going to do and she said, “I am going to make pickles.”  I was shocked and she explained that since pickles take a few days to process,  she would be quite busy.  By then, she hoped “things would be better.”  She had to make pickles on more than one occasion, but things did get better.  We still laugh about her reasoning, but I declare, there is some wisdom in her method.

In light of this, I plan to busy myself with peaches -and then apples .  . and Sunday Dinners. . . for I have never been able to make good pickles.

 

 

 

 

Rain continues to fall and there is “water, water everywhere”.  The streets are flooded on the corner by Jennys’ house, so much that folks  now resort to driving down the quiet lane, where the lilies grow.  The laughing river takes on a hue of lavender, when the sky is pewter . The landscape is doused with the muted colors  and is the epitome of tranquility.     

On these days, lamps shine through the windows of cottages and estate homes, as well.  It is a cozy and cheerful effect.  The air is cool enough to make me want to put a pot of soup on.  What an odd year of weather, it has been.  Never have I thought about soup in July!  As a matter of fact,  Jenny and I were talking yesterday,  about how our tastes change with the seasons.  I love gingerbread, but not until after the first hard frost, do I attempt to make it.  

By late afternoon, the city had sanctioned off the street in front of the house.  Will and Jennys’ property, is on high ground, but the sidewalk and the street were covered in a pool of river water.  Lyla asked to play in the rain, as children will do, so  Jenny got her the appropriate gear and off she went.  There is something about summer rain and children . . .there always has been.  I remember being allowed to play in rain, as long as it wasn’t thundering out.  We were told to stay away from the ditches, at all cost, though for we were likely to get the “ditch itch”.  I suspected then, there was no such thing, and “google ”  has confirmed it. The ditches were close to the road and of course did hold a substantial amount of water compared to the puddles in the yard.  The fear of the “ditch itch”  kept us cautious -and out of the country road.   My own children played in rain, if conditions were right.  They came in muddy and had to go  straight to the bath, for they were country children. . . but to them it was worth it.  As a young girl, I caught rainwater to rise my hair.  Rain water softens hair, I can state with certainty.  Now I catch rainwater for my house plants.

Lyla stood very still under an umbrella for the longest while, gazing in to the rain.  The rain fell in sheets around her, but she was as still as a statue, watching it fall.  It was a new experience for her and it it seemed very important.  I watched her absorbing the event of a torrential downpour. I wouldn’t have  interrupted her, for love or money, in those moments.  Children still love rain. . .hopefully, they always will.

The world looks different under such conditions, and it is the business  of  humans to understand their world.  We start in childhood, when the sense of wonder is ignited by things like rain.  If we do not take caution, we become  distracted  and detached from life in its’ purest forms. Then, we are just working to “keep the lights turned on”  or contemplating purchases.  We think of  such mundane things like status.  How very dull.  I think of the verse “become as little children”, as I watch Lyla twirling her umbrella and catching raindrops on her tongue.  Could it be that at least partially,   the meaning of this verse, might elude to our maintaining the natural curiosity we are born with . . . of things like rain?  It seems reasonable to me, for heaven made things  also, naturally provoke the heart to well up in gratitude.  . .and that can’t do a bit of harm.

 

It rained heavily most all afternoon.  I ended up making a pot of soup, after all.  It did make a suitable supper . . .even for July.

Thursday dawned, much like the days before it. . . with rain.  With the street in front of the house being flooded, the porch was a quiet place to sit.  There was a slight  commotion in Miss Thelmas’ yard.

Miss Thelma is Jennys’ 94 year old neighbor.  She and I became fast friends, not long after Will and Jenny moved to this house.  I was sitting on the porch, when a lovely lady with long silver hair made her way slowly across the street.  She brought a bag of chocolate and said she had just come to welcome her new neighbors.

She spoke eloquently with a gentle voice, as she told me her best friend, Edith had lived in this house for many years.  Not long after that day, I carried Miss Thelma some cookies and that was the beginning of our friendship.  Now I visit with her when I come to Elizabeth City.  I feel like I too, knew Edith now.   Miss Thelma and her husband live in a huge house, alone.  Mr. Ellis is 96 years old and bedridden.    Miss Thelma feeds the birds and that was what all the commotion was about this morning.

I suppose since, it was raining, Miss Thelma was late for “the breakfast”. Birds of all variety were swooping around her front door, for that is where she sits to ration out bread crumbs and fruit.  This morning a male cardinal stationed himself in the nearest branch to the porch.  A pair of doves, were beneath him, in the wet grass.  A small flock of sparrows fluttered back and forth, perpetually.  They were responsible for most of the commotion.  I do like an early morning ruckus, of this sort. 

Between showers, the day was sultry.  I planned to walk by the river, but showers sprung up at the “drop of a hat” and so it was better to stay in and tell stories.  We read books and Lyla built towers, when she wasn’t pretending to be somebody else.

For the first time in a week, the early serviced was bathed in a bright, golden sunshine.  There was a soft breeze blowing and the clouds  looked like a strand of of pearls, and very much out of reach.   The water covered streets were  reduced to mere puddles.  Folks were out walking their dogs again, and riding bikes.  Miss Thelma fed her birds on time and so the little village was back to its’ usual state of peacefulness.

Today, I return to the rabbit patch.  They say “All work and no play” didn’t do Jack a bit of good.  I suppose “all play” isn’t a virtue either and  I have done a good deal of playing.  I will leave with a storehouse of memories, though I do not expect Lyla to take my departure any better, because of it. On the other hand, her  youngest uncles  will be glad to see me.  Cash, my boxer, will gallop wildly around the territory and Christopher Robin, my sweet gray cat, will do his best to snub me, but his purring will give away his joy at seeing me. 

 Lyla joined me on the porch and in an attempt to soften the fact that I was leaving, I mentioned to her that I would leave this afternoon.  Her little eyes teared up and she got quiet.  After a brief silence, she said, “Before you go, shall we gather some leaves from the garden?”  oh . . “Parting  truly, is such sweet sorrow”.

 

 

 

 On Saturday, I woke to the sound of a friendly rain.  I love to wake on a silver morning with a gentle rain falling, especially, if I have no further obligation, than to listen to the watery song.  I always think of my friend Rae, when it rains, for she is every bit as fond of a rainy day, as I am.  Rain gives us permission to cancel  things like yard work and other bothersome tasks.  

There was a powdery mist over the laughing river today.  The water looked milky and I had not seen it look that way before.  It felt like a discovery of something  beautiful, that was new to me.  I always like seeing a new kind of beauty . . as much a I like a  familiar thing of beauty, too.  

All day, the air was wet in some form or fashion.  After the early morning showers, mist followed, then it would “sprinkle” and finally it would rain again. Lyla had her heart set on a picnic and the front porch just would not do on this day.  She wanted a “real” picnic in the grass.  Will tried to convince her that the grass and yard were soggy, but Lyla did not take it well.  Jenny resorted to calling Santa Clause.  Apparently there is  number to hear a recording when such an occasion arises.  Lyla stated her full name  and told him “just don’t come .  I don”t want to be good !”  

It would do us all good to remember that Lyla is but three years old.  Three year olds do not “put on airs”.  They act upon their feelings quite honestly.  The “high road” does not often appeal to three year olds . . .it does not always appeal to me either . . .at first sight. . .but rest assured, we will all do our best to lead Lyla to the “high road”, until it becomes a habit, hopefully.    

We ended the day with a good supper, while the rain was still falling.

I was late for the early service this Sunday morning.  The sun was shining brightly and cardinals were flying, by the time I went out.  As often happens, a verse  popped in my head. It  first came to me while we were on our holiday. It came up again as I greeted the day, when the sun was a blazing lemon drop.   It is a favorite of mine from Corinthians . . “For we walk by faith, not by sight.”   The verse stayed with me through breakfast and echoes now no matter what task is at hand.  

This has happened to me countless times.  Verses will come to me and it always turns out, some event arises, that demands some action. The verses ring true and supply exactly what is required to proceed.  Of course, being away from the sea, I have become human again, after all and with that, a looming sense of curiosity of the path before me.  It is time to return my focus to the rabbit patch, still in need of a few small repairs, and mean while the summer slips by  stealthily much like a “thief in the night”.   One thing, and maybe one of the few things, I am certain of , is that a “new season is on the horizon”.  How far off, I can not tell.  We can never know  all of the details of life.  That would not require an ounce of trust and how would our faith increase under such circumstances?  If all the answers were laid before us, what profit would that be?  If we could prepare accordingly to whatever may come up, then we would never need to rely on God, which would be dreadful, in the long run.  We would miss  out altogether on what may very well, be the intent of our earthly journey.  It seems whether or not we admit it, that we must all “Walk by faith and not be sight.”  

Not being an expert or a “master” of religion,  I can only, say these are some of my thoughts, as of lately. . . and I am not through thinking just yet, nor will  I ever be in this lifetime.

Lyla and I made strawberry brownies in the late morning.  We listened to the “Brandenburg concertos” as she mixed the chocolate batter and I sliced the strawberries.   Somewhere along the way, Lyla wanted to call Santa, for she’d had a change of heart .

The afternoon stole lazily away.  A stray shower  sprung up ever so often followed by a hot, bright  sunshine.  I talked to Kyle and Christian, who assured me that all was well at the rabbit patch.   My sons have not starved, as I always fear they will, when I am away.   At long last, the roof is finally and completely finished.  Cash, my boxer and Christopher Robin, my cat are fine.  I am sure by now, that Christopher Robin is holding a grudge.  He does not know that I saw a shell, on the shore, in soft shades of gray, and missed him, sorely.

In the evening I sat outside.  Thunder rumbled in the distance and the passing clouds seemed in a hurry.  A cool breeze was blowing and it felt like September.  I remembered my grandmother, for it was the anniversary of her death.  Grandmama died young, at the age of 52.  It has been 49 years since her passing.  I was ten years old, yet I remember her voice, even now.  She died one night suddenly and the shock of it remains to this day.  Christian asked me once, if I still missed her and I cried, for I have never quit missing her.  In ten years, she made an impression on me, that has lasted.  No one is ever going to talk about any “business” deal for 49 years nor are we likely to mourn the loss of any possession, no matter how extravagant, for a half century .  . .but love, never leaves us, and I am convinced it must become a part of us, maybe in a physical sense. 

I sat there, with the wind  blowing thinking, we ought to never under estimate  the power of our contribution to this world. . . and we are all contributing.  Maybe we do not realize that the mark we leave will ever matter.  I am certain my grandmother had no idea that I would remember my life with her on the little farm, years ago. . .but I do. . .and the memories occupy me and implore me to love as she did.   Grandmama left me “well off” . . .and that has made a difference.