The “early service” on Sundays, feels different, for me.  It seems a bit more holy.  I am not sure why.  The same choir, sings the same songs.  The sun is just as generous as it was on any given Tuesday and rain too falls when it will.    .still there is “Something About A Sunday”.

Maybe, growing up in the “Bible Belt”  has something to do with this notion of mine.  I did have perfect attendance in the Sunday School, the first ten years of my life.  I think the chicken pox ruined that for me.  On Sundays, we got still and said “thank you” . . and it just seemed right, to do so.

What a big production, Sundays were.  I slept in curlers, for no apparent reason, as my hair was”straight as a stick”  by ten am.  Delores had perfect curls all day long.  No amount of prayer, ensured curls in my hair.   We dressed in our best attire, which meant lace and patent leathers.  There was some rule that you wore black patent leathers after Labor day til Easter, when you switched to white.  It mattered little if you had a growth spurt during a season, we each got one pair a season.  The shoes were especially pretty and would shine, but you had to be careful not to scuff them.  Even the under garments were fancy.  Everything had lace-that itched awfully bad.  It is no wonder, we were able to sit still for the longest hour of the week-the sermon.

Even with tight shoes and scratchy dresses, I loved Sunday School. We sang sweet little songs and memorized Bible verses. We were told a  Bible story and then colored a picture about it.  I loved the teachers, and thought the sweetest women in the church got selected to teach.  I just taught Lyla a song that I remember learning in the three year old class, from “Miss Jo”.   By the time, you were in the four and five year olds, “Miss Linda” was the teacher and I learned “This Little Light of Mine”.   We memorized the books of the Bible and the “Ten Commandments”. Later, there was “Miss Tillie”and “Miss Faye”.  All beloved, to this day.   I am not sorry for one minute of Sunday School, for many times now, in hours of need, one of those verses or songs, will spring in my head at just the right moment.

Sundays were observed fully, in my childhood. You best not lose a button on Sunday-if you did you had to put it up in a safe place til Monday.  No one would have sewn on a Sunday.  Likewise, the washing machine sat silently, as did the fields.  it was considered sinful, to farm on Sundays.  I do remember, once, my older cousin Harvey did not get dressed for Church, for he had decided to plow.  My Aunt Agnes was horribly shocked and threatened him the God would surely withhold rain because of it.  Harvey told Aunt Agnes she needed to read her Bible.  He said “the rainfalls on the just and the unjust.”    I did not laugh then as I was expecting lightening to strike Harvey-what with plowing on Sunday and sassing too. . .now I laugh at this memory, whole heartedly.  That was a quiet drive to Church that day. 

I do not know why  cooking was allowed on Sunday, but  I m glad it was.  All stores and restaurants were closed., maybe that is why.  Grandmama took to staying home from Church, just to cook Sunday dinner for the rest of us.  I bet it was the only way she could get a moment of peace.  We none dared criticize  her as she made things like chicken & pastry, and banana pudding.

In warm seasons, Pop made homemade ice cream.  Aunt Christine and Uncle Gene would come.  My cousins  and I would make quite a ruckus til it was ready.  We were accused of “disturbing the peace” often and “God help you” if you ran through where the adults were sitting.  If a ball found its’ way there, the bravest one would sneak in “like a thief in the night” to retrieve it.  We were also expected to settle our own disputes.  Tattling was frowned upon, unless it involved someone being hurt-or property damage.  Occasionally, there was property damage.

Those memories are old now, but their impression has served me as a “favor” , all of my life.  I knew my people . . . and they knew me.  That alone has meant the world,  in life.  I think of those days, now as the ham is cooked and the potato salad is chilling.  Ham tastes better on Sundays . . . and so does cornbread.  There is just “Something About A Sunday”.

The birds sang at the “early service” this morning-not just the steadfast mocking bird, but all of them, that call the rabbit patch, “home”.  What an occasion, it turned out to be.  The air was mild and had a sweet fragrance, known only to spring.  The breeze was slight and just enough to stir the tiny, new leaves of the sycamores. . .and in the meantime, the gentle light of the morning sun rose over the old barn.  I lingered a while, sorting through my thoughts .  . . sifting out the unfavorable ones.  Depending on the day, this can take a while.  

A clear conscience is invaluable.  I find, that the older I get,  the more I realise this.  It may be the most significant thing to strive for, after all.  Of course, “letting your conscience be your guide”  demands that we examine our heart, first and foremost.  It is a vexing mystery sometimes, without proper dedication.  I have sifted out some less than honorable notions, from my own  heart and been utterly surprised to  have housed  such things.  It is one of the reasons, I attend the “early service” and walk by rivers . . .and frequent fields and woodlands.  These institutions do not allow me “to put on airs” nor harbor falsehoods, but instead seem to wield the sword of truth, somehow lovingly.  For this reason I “take to the woods” frequently, like a “repeat offender”, ought to.

I am at the rabbitpatch this weekend.  This means housekeeping-which includes the territory-and Sunday dinner.  For me, this is a delightful agenda.  I may try to find some more geraniums for the porch, but circumstances (like weeds and laundry) may not allow such an indulgence.  I always have “high hopes” in the morning, however.

Later in the Day . . .

It will not come as any surprise to loyal readers, that I ended up painting.  First, I painted the “welcome lantern” at the back door and then a birdhouse.  I remembered how dingy a small cabinet, in the den was looking, so I moved it out from the corner, to work on that.  The cabinet is especially dear to me, because it was a gift from Julie-a dear friend.  It had belonged to her grandmother and was used in the kitchen.  I use it as a book cabinet.  When I moved it, I was greeted with cobwebs and dust.  I set out to remedy that and ended up on a ladder.  One thing of turns into another at the rabbit patch-but it feels good that the den is at least cleaner and brighter than it was yesterday.  

While the paint dried,  I worked a bit in the “Quiet Garden”.  The rabbit patch is starting to come in to its’ glory, I noticed.  The roses are laden with new leaves and the young dogwood, that bloomed for the first time, the day Lyla was born, is full of promises.  I tied a new ribbon on the lamp post, and there by the lamp,  a single pale pink tulip was blooming.  After a very long winter, suddenly it is spring!

It seems “time really does fly, when you are having fun”.  It is a mystery to me how an entire week has already passed, in what seems like three days.  

A lot of good things happened.  I whiled away some time by the river.  I smelled the fragrant flowers at the “Nobles’ house” and watched a robin build his nest.  Lyla and I sat on the flat rock, by the little bridge and the cherry trees bloomed in the village.    We dined out-and we cooked in.  I had several good visits with Miss Thelma .  I  may  have heard Lylas’ first prayer, on Wednesday. 

I was up early as usual . . .at the early service.  Lyla often finds me there in the back yard.  She joined me and after a moment, she said “Honeybee, you need to go in the house.” I asked if she wanted to be by herself and she answered “yes”.  I walked in the back door, but kept it ajar and listened.  She said  “I love girls and I love my baby sister.  You need to find her and hurry.  I am big sister Lyla.”  Well, I was struck in awe and could barely say anything when she waltzed in just seconds later. Mere words still fail to describe what I felt, but an overwhelming sense of peace  seemed to settle in my bones . . . all was well, I thought.

I cooked honey cakes for her birthday breakfast, on Thursday. We sang “Happy Birthday” through out the day and Lyla painted on her first canvas.  I could not wait to give Lyla her present.  It seemed I had been waiting her entire three years and so I made quite a ceremony about the whole thing.  I gave Lyla a violin.

It is a real instrument and tiny enough to be just her size.  I have been enticing her since birth, by playing for her.   Oh, how happy I felt to see her happiness and eagerness to get started.  I remembered her own mother -who did not want to start with “Twinkle, Twinkle”, but an allegro, her brother was playing, many years ago. Right after Lylas’ first lesson, Will’s dad drove up.  He lives five hours away .  There was a lot to celebrate in those moments.

On Friday, there was an “art walk” in Elizabeth City.  This is a monthly event in warm seasons, that is held downtown, featuring artists of all sorts. Mandy, of Pansy & Ivy,   is recognized for her flower arrangements, at the “art walks.”    Wills’s dad, Bill Thompson is a bonafide author. He has published a sizable collection of books and is also a public speaker.  He was the featured artist at the local bookstore, making us all feel honored and proud.  A young musician played his guitar and sang outside  . . .and I  missed my son, Christian. 

 Saturday started with a big breakfast for “Grandaddy Bill” to be sent off properly.  He left with good memories . . .and biscuits.  Will and Jenny had a birthday party for Lyla, after lunch, at a local facililty used for such gatherings.  It was a sweet affair and a very busy time.

I woke up Sunday in disbelief at the date.  Surely, one more day would make such a difference, but tomorrow was Monday, and that  would change everything.  Just after the breakfast dishes were put away, I started “Sunday Dinner”.  I did not invite Lyla to help with making the pastry for the pot of chicken that was beginning to simmer.  She was tired from all of the weeks’ ruckus-and I was too.  Miss Claudia came and I fixed a pineapple cheesecake because of it.  When the kitchen was at last, tidy again, Lyla climbed in my lap and went soundly to sleep. 

The ride home was peaceful.  Dogwoods bloomed in most every yard and along the edges of fields.  Azaleas paired with  dogwoods is is a sight to behold  The last mile to the rabbit patch was streaked with the bright yellow buttercups, along the ditch banks.  It would have been the perfect route for a parade, I thought.  The woods are donning new leaves in pale shades of green that remind me of water colors.

I was glad to see Kyle and Christian.  Cash, my boxer and Christopher Robin, my gray cat, made quite a big production of my arrival.  Christopher Robin did not even “put on airs” as he often does after I am gone a long while. 

I noticed the grass was greener, than it was a week ago,  and  so was the peach tree. The house was tidy, and the boys did not starve, after all. 

The Easter dinner on Sunday was lovely.  Mama and Daddy came a little later than usual, because of all days . . .I over slept.  This is not a good thing, when you are cooking a turkey.  I felt the same dreadful way as I do when it is a work day.  I do not like to start any day in a hurry, but this day demanded I did so.  The first thirty minutes are  like a blur now, that resulted in the turkey being put in the oven, and a cake being mixed to be topped with strawberries , later.  I did not linger over coffee, but drank it in gulps .  Some time or another, I ate a piece of buttered toast.  By the time I was peeling potatoes and turnips, I  realised it was not going to be as late  as I had expected . . . .and so I whipped the cream with a bit of strawberry extract, with a lighter heart.

By mid afternoon, I was on the way to Elizabeth City, for a week. . .something I have looked forward to for a while.

Monday

The morning was mild and Lyla and I were on the porch by eight am. We sat in the swing  in our pajamas, and sang morning songs.   What a lovely feeling washed over me.  The day was unfolding and it belonged  to us.  We came in and I hastened to complete a few chores .  Jenny had to log some hours with her internship and Will had gone to work.   . .so we set off the “laughing river”.   The beautiful  Pasquotank river bank is less than five minutes from Jennys’ back door. . .of course we took the long way.  When we turned the first corner, the street was lined with dog tooth violets.  Lyla and I both sighed aloud at the sight.  It was like walking through a sea of flowers.  Buttercups came up where they could, but the violets were thick and left little room for things like buttercups.  There were trees blooming in shades of lavender and white to complete a fairy like landscape.  This was my idea of spring and it filled my heart with hope and joy.  Lyla wanted flowers for her mama, so we collected a small bouquet, which she clutched in her little hand as we went along.  

We arrived at edge of the river shortly after.  The banks were green and dotted with dandelions.  Lyla did not want any dandelions in her bouquet, which amused me.  We did make a good deal of wishes.  We took turns, and I realised my wishes are little prayers.  Lyla listened intently and followed suit.  After the “Sweet Hour of Prayer”,  Lyla began her “balancing act” on the railway ties, meant to mark the parking area.  Thankfully, there is hrdly ever any one parking. Mostof the visitors are pushing strollers, walking dogs or biking.  Lyla walked the ties for close to an hour, with only a few mishaps.  Meanwhile the river rolled along merrily and the sun shone bright, lighting up the dandelions til they seemed to glow. To sit by a river, is a wonderful thing.   Somehow, you end up tossing “what ails you” in the water without thinking about it.  

On the way home, things changed.  The wind was cool enough to make me hurry and it fell on us in spurts of heavy gusts.  By evening, it was cold.  The way of spring, I thought.  To me it was just the sort of day I loved.

Tuesday

I expected the “early service” to be cold, based on the chill in the night, but it was not.  It was a somber service, in the absence of sunlight, but pleasant enough.  The birds were as busy as ever.  The squirrels were too.  The air carried the faint smell of young blossoms.  I love the peace of mornings.

Lyla and I were soon off for a picnic by the river, which was as “quiet as a church mouse”, on this day.  It looked like a sheet of glass and made both Lyla and I get quiet too.  We ate and then blew bubbles.  how lovely the bubbles looked floating over the river.  At long last the sun came out strong enough to cast  dappled shadows.  We decided to head for the playground, in the opposite direction.  We passed the house of the Nobles family, on the way and stopped to smell a large bed of hyacinths and lily of the valley flowers.  I remembered them from last year and had intended to visit them, this week.  The playground was not too busy and Lyla had the place to herself at intervals.  I sat on the bench and felt overwhelmed with a feeling of contentment.  What a grand life, I thought.

We walked back under canopies of white, pink and lavender flowers-and amidst wild flowers springing up along the side walk.  Lyla asked me to pick a few more for her bouquet.  She pointed out several robins and called them by name.  I am confident now that she can identify the cardinal and the robin by sight,-and the mockingbird by song.  I did have the chance to introduce her to some noisy crows who spent the afternoon quarreling with some sea gulls, at the park.

Jenny cooked supper on the grill and we ate outside.  Such a nice conclusion to a happy day.  It did not seem the least bit odd to hum the words of “Joy to the World” . . .even if it is April.

Today is the first day, of spring break.  Beyond me lies a whole week to meander through and do what I deem fit.  I pray there are no surprises, unless they are pleasant, to hinder my lofty notions.  Today, I want to tidy the rabbit patch .  I am already painting a chandelier and intend to wash curtains next.  The territory will get some attention too and I suspect, I will find more wild violets when I do so.  Tomorrow, I am cooking a turkey and all that goes with it.  I will have a strawberry cake . . .and I will not put ice cream on Mamas’.  After Easter dinner, I will leave for Elizabeth City .

My notions remain lofty,  for the week.  If the weather is fair, as is predicted, then you will most likely find me and Lyla, picnicing on the shores of the “laughing river”-or strolling through the  Riverside village.  We could be at “The Flour Girls’ Bakery”  or at Miss Claudias’. We could be on the flat rock , we have claimed, by the little bridge, sitting in silence.  The truth is we could be anywhere and doing just what we please . . . if all goes well. 

Lyla has a birthday on Thursday-her third.  It is a “red letter day” on the rabbit patch calendar. Lyla, for now, is my only grandchild and thankfully, lives but an hour away.  This will be our fifth celebration in less than a fortnight.  To me, birthdays are holy days.  . . though, I do not see a bit of harm in having cake, as well.

The Eve of Easter, in the Afternoon

Just after the noon hour, I went out and gathered more sticks for the burn pile.  It is still too breezy, to have a fire now and besides Kyle would be so disappointed if we had a fire, without him.  I noticed some areas of the yard could use a mowing . . but alas, the mower was “dead” and out of gas.  Mowers and water hoses plague me in the warm seasons.     Instead, I went around the yard and checked on the azaleas.  One of them had little blossoms burned by the cold.  The gardenias (cape Jasmines) are all  in awful shape.  I have heard, that I should wait til June for the verdict on whether or not to remove them.  All of the roses are alive and well and the tulips are up.  The running vinca is slowly recovering and may bloom after all.  I made a pile of pine cones.  They are hateful things to gather, but the best thing I know of to start a fire.

  I came in and saw that the little chandelier had dried to the perfect shade of a very pale, blue lilac.  It looks quite dainty over the white kitchen table in the mostly white kitchen.   The whole farm house is mostly white- with splashes of pastels in the lightest shades of pink, lavender and aqua in various rooms.  The exception is Kyles’ and Christians’ bedrooms which are ivory and without pastels.

Inspired by my success with the chandelier, I painted some candlesticks for the mantle . . and then a flower pot.  Christian hung the curtains while I cut fresh strawberries.  I recited “Lovliest of Trees”  by Housman, as I do every year, at Easter.  I am especially nostalgic in the spring.  Out of the kitchen window, I saw the sky blue flowers of”thrift” blooming and remembered my Aunt Agnes.  As the sun sank low, I remembered playing with my cousins, Christine and Ruby, late into spring evenings  that looked very much like this one.  I thought of the dog tooth violets that bloom in the town, where I work and remembered how they seem to glow in moonlight.  . .in months like April.  Thankfully, the air at the kitchen window became chilled and I was thrust back to the “here and now” and the “tasks at hand”.   I do not know why, spring makes me remember, but it never fails to do so.

By the time, the moon had risen over the field, my thoughts had shifted.  I stood in the cool night air, full of gladness for what is yet to come . . .the season when new life is  celebrated  . . .  the time when “flowers appear on the earth” and robins nest-and the soil gives up  its’ secrets .  Children will search for brightly colored eggs  in tufts of tender grass. . .and kittens will be found in garden sheds. Every pasture will be full of new offspring who are likely to kick their heels, at the “drop of a hat”.   . . 

“For behold, the winter is past . . .and the voice of the turtledove, is heard in our land.”

It is almost April and still, we wait for tulips.  The evenings in March still warrant a blanket and frost blankets the fields of winter wheat, in the first hours, of the day.  Though dogwoods and azaleas ought to bloom for Easter Sunday, the ones  at the rabbit patch, do not seem inclined to do so this year.  .  .and Easter eggs are likely to be found amongst sticks and old leaves, instead of tufts of tender grass.  The forecast does indicate fair weather in the near future.

The gathering on Sunday, in honor of a trio of birthdays, was  a happy affair.  Daddy and Christian had a chocolate eclair cake-and Mama had bought Lyla her very own little chocolate cake.  I think we all expected Lyla to grab two handfuls of cake, at the first chance she got, but Lyla picked up a little plastic fork, and cut herself a slice, very neatly.  

Tres had to leave early, as he had to go to work that afternoon.  Jenny had a biology test-on Sunday!  (I remember when stores and restaurants too, all closed on Sunday.)  When all was cleaned up, and there was no trace a party had taken place, I came back to the rabbit patch, which now, seemed especially quiet.

Next week is spring break and so schools will close for a week.  I do hope to restore some order to the territory  around the rabbit patch, before I leave for Elizabeth City.  The place looks shabby and I blame the March winds, that have been relentless this year.  It saddens me to say, that the beloved cape jasmine bushes haven’t a sprig of green yet, so I fear that week of sub zero temperatures, may have been fatal for my favorite bushes.  The dandelions are alive and well, though. . .and so are the wild violets.

On the way to school, I sometimes follow a school bus, no matter what time I leave.  It is hardly light as I drive past fields and pastures.  This morning, the bus in front of me started its’ flashing lights in front of a house , that set a good ways back from the road.  There waiting in the driveway, in the last shadow of night, stood a tiny little boy.  Honestly, it bothered me that he was alone  . . .but then I saw that he was in good company, after all.  A dog was on either side of him.  One was a medium size and the other was a smaller one .  Both of the dogs walked the boy to the bus, and paused til he was safely aboard.  Then they turned around and pranced quite proudly back to the drive and waited til the bus pulled away, before returning to the house.   I just love dogs.

Today was mild and absent of brutal winds  It felt like the first day of spring.  I noticed the wisteria is just beginning to bloom in the woodlands.  Here and there little lavender blossoms appear to float in the woodlands, otherwise the woodlands still  portray a winter landscape.  I suspect within a week the wild wisteria vines will make their presence known and act as lovely garlands for oaks, still not convinced of the season.  The woodlands around the rabbit patch are abundant with the fragrant vines.  Wisteria is zealous and not everyone counts them beloved, because of that.  I  think of my friend “Sweet Anne”, who does battle with a wisteria in her yard every year.   (I think she is losing.) 

At last,  I think, it is safe to put the geraniums on the porch .  I washed the heaviest blankets last night, to be put away.  I even moved the warmest sweaters to the back of the closet , in good faith . . .that  “the time of the singing of birds has come” . . .and young rabbits will soon be seen in the twilight ,amongst those patches of wild violets.  

It is the hour just after the “early service”, (which happens no matter where I am) .  . . . and I am as “happy as a lark”.  My Tres is home!  He slept under my roof and will eat at my table.   . . Moments I treasure, above most, are when the children come home.

Tomorrow is another “holiday” for my family.  We are gathering to celebrate almost recent and  in the  near future birthdays. We will honor Christian, Daddy and Lyla.  Daddy and Christian had March birthdays-and Lyla has the “in the near future” birthday.  Her third birthday is April fifth-and rest assured you will hear more about that.  

Tres and my son Brant,  both live in Wilmington, about three hours from the rabbit patch. Brant is working this weekend or else, it would be a true “homecoming’.  I did not know that Tres was coming til he called, in route.  Linens were washing and a large pot of beef and vegetable soup was  simmering within the hour of the good news.  I had come home tired after work , but the prospect of Tres’ arrival acted as a tonic on me.  I set about collecting things to be put away .  I lit the “welcome home” lantern at the back door and tied a spring pink ribbon on it, when all was done. Tres came in to a tidy house with a big pot of piping hot soup, ready to eat.

I sat for a while this morning, before breakfast, feeling quite pleased with the current state of affairs.  Later,  I felt happy to be peeling potatoes for hashbrowns and brewing coffee.  I looked forward to having a leisure breakfast with my sons, more so than I would have to a “breakfast at Tiffanys’ “. 

After breakfast, we talked.  We talked about small things and things not so small.  We talked about Lyla, and a trip Tres has planned for Montana.  He told stories about his cats, “Hank and Jolene” and I told him about a cat that  I knew thirty years ago.  If it came up, we said it, without a bit of hurry.  For a while, we abandoned the complexity of the world and told our stories.  How rare such conversations have become, I realised.  I remembered, when they were not.

Porch rockers were not so idle, once upon time- and served a purpose beyond adornment.  It baffles me, that with all of our modern conveniences, that we have less time for meandering and less time to wonder where the robin nests.  . . as the generations before us did.  Modern communication keeps us aware of catastrophes and world wide sorrows, yet we know not the plight of our next door neighbors.  We get instant answers and spend little time just being curious .  I am not denying the many advantages we are afforded today, but sometimes, it feels like we lost something, beautiful. . .

 I am as likely, as anyone to carry “the weight of the world” on my shoulders as if it were meant just for me.  It is for this very reason, that I read poetry and count butterflies-and have coffee with my sons while telling a story about a cat who stole anything not nailed down, many years ago . . .and feel “happy as lark” doing so.

The drive to Elizabeth City, on Friday was a pleasant one.  The three  rivers , I  cross, were full of shining, peaceful waters and the sky above them was a friendly shade of blue.  The sunlight fell gently casting faint shadows.

Lyla was napping when I arrived.  I sat on the porch admiring the day.  I watched the “laughing river” tumbling happily by.  Moments later, Miss Claudia (Wills’ mom and my friend) came in.  Will and Jenny were going out for dinner and so Lyla had both of her grandmothers at her “beck and call”.  Things were going along nicely til Lylas’ program went off and the remote proved to be quite a challenge.  Lyla  did not take this well, which did not help at all.   Somehow, we either bought or rented a movie-we are still not sure, which happened.  It was a Christmas movie and Lyla quieted down-and so all was well, when Will and Jenny came home.

Saturday dawned and right off, I thought the sky looked suspicious.  The air was damp,and cooler than the day before. It seemed quite fitting conditions for Saint Patricks’ Day.  Jenny and I got started early, sorting through all of Lylas’ clothes.  Warm weather clothing replaced bulky coats.  Little cardigans with tulips and butterflies hung where the heavy coats used too.  The pale pink “Easter dress” was hung last.  Piles of clothes lined the walls . . .some to be returned to the friends that lent them, some to lend and some to be packed away.  We couldn’t help but wonder aloud about the baby, Jenny will have in September.

Lyla and I spent a good deal of time in the kitchen, that afternoon.  We made fifty cheese biscuits for the gathering, hosted by the “Donahues”.  If you can imagine a toddler and a five pound bag of flour, in the same vicinity, you can also imagine what sort of things unfolded in the kitchen.  The angelic sound of the “The Flower Duet”- and flour dust filled the air, creating  a heavenly look . . and I laughed aloud.  When the first batch was ready, I gave Lyla the smallest biscuit and she ate it standing in a small heap of flour, in her chair.

That night, a terrific storm descended on the  “Riverside” village .  There was thunder and lightening with heavy downpours and I was so grateful, that Will and Jenny were home “safe and sound”.  Some things never change.

On Sunday, Lyla and I watched robins and redbirds prepare for their day.  They were a busy lot for a long while.  When they flew away, Lyla wished them well and waved good bye. . . then we went back to the kitchen.  We were on another mission.

Miss Claudia had mentioned a coconut cake, on Friday night.  The “Flour Girls Bakery” had posted a picture of an elaborate coconut  cake.  Miss Claudia seemed to take quite a fancy to that picture and so I devised a plan then and there to bake a coconut cake, before I left.  In the meanwhile, Jenny decided she wanted a cheesecake. This kept Lyla and I busy  for a while.  As usual, Lyla did not like the mixing to end and complained when the batter was poured to bake.  She took some comfort that we needed to make icing, next.  When we made the cheesecake,  Lyla could not understand why it looked like a pie.

I carried Miss Thelma a few biscuits and still warm coconut cake, an hour later. She was sitting in the sun, on her porch and so we visited there. Her silver locks became her, so did her smile.   She ate a biscuit and told me she had a birthday recently and  had turned ninety four.  Miss Thelma, has a story, and I want to hear it.  

Jenny was not feeling well when I returned.  In that case, I decided to delay leaving.  It was almost six o’clock, when I thought to ask the time.  I was alarmed and worried about having to drive in the dark.  I had everything loaded in the car, or else, I may would have spent the night.  I needed to take Miss Claudia her cake and I needed gas, too.  I left hurriedly and Miss Claudia met me at the door.  (She knows I do not like to drive at night.)  Without ceremony, I handed her the cake but Miss Claudia had something for me too.  She had made a beautiful spring wreath and gave it to me.  I was so touched, I wanted to cry.  It was perfect for a “rabbit patch”-colorful and whimsical . . . What a cheerful wreath!  Now, that was the “icing on my cake”.

As it turns out, I made it home by twilight.  I called Jenny to let her know.  She was eating cheesecake, but said Lyla would not try one bite. (Lyla loves cake?)  Jenny asked her why and Lyla said . . . “I can’t eat pie-because Peters’ daddy was put in a pie, by Mrs. McGregor!” 

Today is no ordinary day at the rabbit patch-today is my fathers’  eighty third birthday.  People like to brag on their family, and I am no different. . .but believe me, I have every right to.  There is no need to exaggerate as the truth is sufficient and proves my point, that I come from nobility. He was born on March 15th, 1935.

Daddy grew up on “back roads.”  Money was scarce, which meant food and clothing were too.  His father was loved by all and handsome, but terribly undependable as a father.  Daddy does not hold it against him, and so I do not either. . .still this left it all up to Grandmama to raise her four children -and she did .  There were no government programs in those days and Grandmama did not not drive.  Somehow, she raised four children, and everyone of them are honorable people. Daddy has an older brother, a younger sister and a younger brother.  

He walked to school and carried his shoes,, so as not to wear them out.  Even as a young child, he worked on the farm performing tasks like a grown man. He made good grades in school and in high school, was urged to go to college and become a writer.  That was never an option for a very poor country boy.  Instead, he joined the army.  He excelled in sharp shooting and somehow mechanics, becoming a helicopter mechanic that tended the helicopters for President Eisenhower . I suppose hunting rabbits and keeping old tractors running paid off in the long run.

Daddy had high expectations for his children.  We were expected to be courteous and respectful.  We were to do our best in school. We learned to work and not to be wasteful . . .and we always had well made shoes.  He was a strict father and needless to say, saved me from a lot of foolishness when I was a teenager.  Daddy was dependable. . . and still is. 

I have a notebook, that I record the details of Daddys’ life in.  The collection of memories make me cry and yet fill my heart with pride, a few pages later.  

Next week, the family will gather to celebrate Daddy and Christians’ birthdays.  Today, my sister, Connie took him out to eat and treated him to a shopping trip.  I stopped by after work with a gift and treats.  

Of all the blessings this life affords, a loving family certainly trumps most.  Parents  teach us, care for us and sacrifice til it becomes habit.  My daddy has done all of that for me.  . .but above and beyond that, the “sermon he wears in his shoes” has been a mighty force in my life.  Throughout my childhood, Daddy helped me catch glimpses of  the Father by the way he lived -and the way he loved.  He took away some of the mystery of  the “Heavenly Father” day by day-and of all the things Daddy gave me . . .that has made the difference. 

Who  knew, that  deep inside, a poor little boy  walking on a back road, carrying his shoes-and probably hungry, lay the heart of a warrior? . . .a mind intelligent enough to overcome  the odds?  Who would have known, they were looking in the face of nobility ?  

Happy Birthday, Daddy! 

Last night, it snowed at the rabbit patch.  It was merely a dusting, but schools had a two hour delay on account of it.  A cold wind blew producing cracking and rattling noises, making me curious .  Peering out, did little good as it was pitch dark.  Today, what blossoms are left on the peach and pear trees are dingy and the sycamores dropped a few more branches.  Even so, the day faired off with bright sunshine, but the wind remained steady and gusted all day,  as is proper March weather.  The next two nights are expected to be below freezing, and so I will tend a small fire each night.  Soon enough, the luxury of gazing at a cheerful fire and thinking of nothing in particular will not be afforded, for country dwellers. 

Some day, the fierce wind will be tamed into a gentle breeze and we will all face the aftermath of winter.  Small fires will be lit in barren gardens to burn the many gathered branches. . .and we will all pray that the mower starts back up.  We will disturb young rabbits and find wild violets as we tidy up . . . and take notice where the songbirds are building their nests.  Such things await . . .but today the wind blows wildly and without a bit of mercy. . .and  so, to sit by a small fire is of great comfort.

This is also ideal circumstances to bake bread.  Having a great, great grandfather named Henderson McDuffy O’Leary, and “St. Patricks’ Day but a few days away, I made Irish soda bread tonight.  The bread paired well with the chili we had for supper, and it was good practice- as Jenny and I are to bake bread for the gathering on Saturday.  

I started dabbling in genealogy, while my  paternal grandmother was still alive. She was a tremendous help and filled in stories that official records could not.  She remembered her grandfather as  ” kind and jolly “.  It must have run in the family for the same could have been said about her.  Grandmama showed me where her grandfather was buried at a little church in the “Hollyneck” community just an hour from the rabbit patch.  I still remember that day.  There was an ancient oak tree that shaded his grave. Grandmama and I stood there a good while.  Years later, I found Hendersons’ brothers’ grave in a family cemetery , at the edge of a field just a few miles away.  I cried at the sight of it.  I had looked for it for so long.  Kyle and Christian were quite young and were tired of traipsing through the country that day.  When we located Uncle Enochs’ grave, they ran to collect wild flowers from the ditch to place on it.

Though, both brothers had settled in the south, they fought with the Union in the civil war.  Uncle Enoch was a captain, and his grave was marked with a Union stone, as proof.  Both brothers survived the war, and lived many years afterwards.

  Many of my ancestors were writers and musicians.  No one ever earned a living by these things, but one did publish songs she had written.   We embrace our Irish heritage on any given day.  Just a “drop of Irish blood”  and yet, we are especially apt to brag about it on the holiday.   I do not know why we think we can lord  the facts over anyone . . .for we all know that  . . . “Everyone is Irish, on St. Patricks, Day!” 

Night lifted and the day was born-that is how the “morning service” went today.  It was a silent affair, without a lot of fanfare-unless you take in to account, that a new day was born, and with it the chance to live it, to love more deeply and hopefully to understand something more.  

I grumble every year over the “changing of the clocks”, so as is my habit, I will do so again.  My regular readers know, I do not like clocks, in general.  In fact, I realised again today, that every clock in my house is wrong anyway, save the computer and cell phone.  The coffee maker and the stove flash out 12:00 in red light, yet that does not stir me.  The one chiming clock, says it is 12:00 too, as it has needed batteries for more than a year.  I suppose I will not waste moments changing the clocks.

   In the summer, time is irrelevant and somehow, I survive.  I guess, it all started when I was growing up on the farm.  The clock did not wake me -the smell of coffee and breakfast did.  The sound of rain meant, not to rush. The sound of a tractor, meant to hurry.  The sun felt hot by mid morning and we were hungry by “dinner time” roughly noon.  The school said I had to learn to tell time, with plastic clocks.  I remember feeling quite “grown up” when my parents gave me a watch, . . but it promptly became a bracelet.  Dogs know what time it is without such contraptions.  Cash is always on alert, when I drive up.  He and Christopher Robin (my cat) are always sitting side by side looking in the direction, I drive in from.  Somehow, they know when it is Saturday too.  They sleep later and accept breakfast later-but on week days they are up and whining as if they are starving.  I suspect they fear I will leave without feeding them- and it will be a long time til “a clock” says I can come home.  

Jenny called this morning to tell me about Lylas’ latest dream.  We have both, always encouraged Lyla to tell us about her dreams ,when she first wakes up.  Jenny asked Lyla today, if she had sweet dreams and Lyla said “No!”  Lyla went on to say, that she had taken a yellow letter from Mother Goose and then lost it.  Mother Goose was angry and pinched her.  Jenny told Lyla it was just a dream-and Lyla replied “well, that pinch hurt- and that goose is angry.”  Lyla is not yet three. 

Because birthdays are more than a day, at the rabbit patch, I fixed pancakes for breakfast.  Yesterday, Christian wanted cheese biscuits.  I also put on a pot of navy beans for tonight and a pot of chicken and quinoa soup.  Kyle is not likely to touch the quinoa, so I added mushrooms too, as Kyle will not eat those either.  The weather is cool and gray, so conditions are good for cooking such things.  While, the pots simmer, I am scrubbing the kitchen floor and cabinets-and listening to a sermon.  Whatever time it is, I am making good use of the hour.  

Wouldn’t you know the sermon was about dreams?  And . . wouldn’t you know I knocked that chiming clock off the wall, as I was cleaning?  It is a big, heavy clock and the only one I really like.  The chimes are low and soothing . . so I scrambled to catch it-and I did -with my shin.  I had to laugh, in spite of the aching shin.  I think the clock deserves a battery. ..and I ought to stop complaining.

The light was too weak, to cast even the faintest shadow all day.  I spent the whole day cleaning and somehow I came up with another box of items to donate.  I plan to put the house back on the market soon and there is so  much to do to prepare for that.  I am not going to even attempt cleaning the territory until the winds of  March subside.  

I have noticed patches of green grass here and there, in the yard, and every morning, a small flock of robins can be found in the herb garden. The remnants of winter are clearly upon us. 

Sometime, in April, the wisteria will act as a garland for every willing tree in the young woods and the scent of wild honeysuckle will be thick in the air.  Until then, I will celebrate the last days of winter . . .when the trees do not  yet keep secrets and wild violets lie just beneath the soil.   . .for no matter how I measure time, it always seems to slip away dreadfully fast.