It is a quiet afternoon at the rabbit patch-an unfamiliar kind of quiet.  There was no “Sunday Dinner” as daddy did not feel well this morning.  Kyle and Christian are with friends.  Cash and Christopher Robin are sleeping.  The last  of the cotton is being picked in a field, just “across the way”.   The drone of the combine acts like a lullaby as it drifts through the open window, by the “morning table”.  

It seems, I am  “left to my own devices”.  I am liberated from  housekeeping duties, as I cleaned yesterday,  well into the night.  I did manage to find a task or two in the afternoon-and since there are no”left-overs” from dinner, I will cook a good supper.   What a good time it would be to practice the cello, except I am only borrowing one now and I do not yet take it home.

  I listened to several enlightening lessons-  all focused on proper living.  The resounding message was to love yourself and others- and to be grateful.  The business of loving yourself really , is to remind ourselves that we truly are “beautifully and wonderfully made”.  The business of loving others, to me, could be summed up by doing our best to “understand the heart ” of others.  Certainly, my account is a “watered down” version of this ancient lesson-and pales in comparison to the beautiful presentation  by the ninety-three year old sage, I was listening to, but I was inspired all over again, to deepen my love for others.

I called a dear friend about mid afternoon.  Her name is Julie and I have known her since I was a young girl, but we happened to become neighbors, a score of years ago,  and that is when we developed a friendship, that bound us mightily.  I have laughed more with Julie than I have with most people. We do not have to “bar subjects”, but are free to discuss anything, as we please.  . . somehow we always end up talking about God.  Julie is well studied and quite “sharp”, so she provides interesting conversations, you don’t soon forget.

Julie has  a fair amount of ailments, which all  stemmed from high blood pressure.  A  stroke blinded her for a little while, but thankfully she recovered and regained her vision.  Her kidneys, did not recover.  She has been on dialysis a few years.  This summer, Julie had to have both of her legs amputated.  Julie is my age–fifty-eight.

Do not think Julie is in “dire straights” . . .or  feels pitiful for herself.  You would be mistaken. . .for Julie has the heart of a warrior, with her battles-and an iron clad faith.  Julie is thankful that the surgery relieved  her of pain.  She  is grateful to be liberated from the pain medicine she had to rely on, at one time.  Julie, unaware, inspired me, a second time  this day.  She had convinced me that living a life of gratitude was not only joyful-but peaceful and powerful too. 

By the time we hung up, I needed to turn a lamp on.  I sat for a short while, thinking that the day had passed with such generosity- as if it were my birthday.  I sat in the twilight, and I hoped and prayed to do better.  I wished better-for the whole world . . . until, the first stars came out . . . and  supper was ready  . . .and the boys were on the way home.  

 Dear Diary,  I want to love more . . and there is so much to love.  I must remember to be grateful too,   for there is so much to be grateful for . . friends are surely one of them. 

 

    

 

November has come to the rabbit patch in a friendly fashion.  Days are born slowly with fog and make the territory look enchanted, for a while.  The sky has been shades of lavender and pink-and the sun a very bright tangerine color at dawn. By mid morning ,  the November sky is a soft blue and the air is mild.  The woodlands are only hinting of autumn now , but daily, I see the leaves brightening. Fresh plowed fields are littered now with autumn leaves in colors like gold and ruby.  Last night, Christian and I watched a silver moon rise over a field.  I was thinking how beautiful it was to stand with my son, now a young man, by a field, in the twilight hour.  We have done it a hundred times before, but this does not spoil the effect in the least. Sometimes, one of the older children will call and say “Mom, have you seen the moon ?” .   . .and I know they remember.

Saturday

It is a pleasant thing to wake up as you please.  Christopher Robin, my cat, was having cream at seven.  Cash, my boxer, had returned to his station . . beside me for more sleep.  I was having coffee.  Oh, everything is changing at the rabbit patch.  The young woods have flashes of yellow and apricot.  The earth is spangled with leaves in all sorts of autumn hues.  I love the way it looks, but my Mama would not.  Mama will not have a dozen leaves in her yard, on any given day.  She is the same way over pine straw and the hateful pine cones, that prick your hands without mercy.  It does not matter the season, Mama’s yard is tidy. . . to think it used to be a pasture.

I remember Daddy digging trees up from the woods, and bringing them to the yard to plant.  He had selected dogwood, sycamore, long leaf pine and oak.  I doubt the average person could do so now.  It was probably second nature to daddy.  The sycamores were planted for quick shade.  The dogwoods were planted-because they were dogwoods.  Now daddy has apple trees (some he grafted), pear, blueberries and a huge grapevine.  Mama planted flowers.  The whole yard is full of azaleas, peonies and tulips.  Mama has spider lilies, from her mother and a hydrangea too. In the spring, folks slow down on that country road, when they are going by the house.

Flowers that are passed between loving hands are somehow different from the ones bought at a garden center. Most every southern home has something “from a mamas’ yard” or a great aunt or grandmother.  Of course, at the rabbit patch, I have “Miss Susie” flowers-which are really tanseys-and  “Miss  Sylvia” irises that are a watery shade of blue-besides the family heirlooms.   . . The three generation spider lilies, Grandmamas’  “running periwinkle”  and a cape jasmine my parents rooted.  I have to mention the purple loosestrife from Mama, again.  She gave them to me from her own yard because they bloom too late in the season, to suit her.  Already, I am plotting how to transfer these flowers to the next rabbit patch, with a smaller house and yard.  . .on some day.

By mid morning today, the light was still dim.  If the wind subsides the least bit , I may burn the garden- then again, Kyle would be disappointed to miss the annual fire.   Besides, Christian smells rain.  So instead,  I will tend to the housekeeping and browse through the “Christmas Closet”. 

I have always fared better to shop through out the year.  In this way, I remain sensible about the budget and most importantly,  preserve the beautiful Spirit of Christmas.  A gift of  a fine soap suits me and the boys ask for socks without fail.  Brant likes books and Christian will want guitar strings, paint and sketch pads.  Such things satisfy us-they always have- Hence,  today, I will take an inventory of the “secrets” in the Christmas closet.

  I put the windows up as  I went about my chores. Christopher Robin slept through the whole process.  The Farm Life community was quiet.  Combines and tractors sat idle under shelters.  Dogs here do not bark without reason.  They are too well cared for, for such nonsense.  Not one dog had any reason today, to bark.  The only sound to hear was the light breeze stirring through the trees , which helped my floors dry quickly.  In no time, the fragrances of rosemary and peppermint soaps spurred me on to complete more tasks until it was late in the afternoon.

I do not mind the time change, as most do.  What I wish, is that we would stop altering those dreadful clocks altogether.  The sun itself is the only authority on time, after all.  It is much more pleasant to measure time by lengthening shadows.  Morning comes when the sun rises, and the clock has no say in the matter.  I also do not believe that a day in July should last til nine pm.  It all seems quite  an unnatural affair to me.  It is the same with seasons -they come and go as they please, no matter how we call them.

Still, I will abide by the rules and if I can find a clock that works at the rabbit patch, I will restore it to the correct time.

Dear Rabbit Patch Diary,  I am glad for parents that provided a loving and beautiful home.   . .for a daddy that walked in the woods so he could plant trees . .and a mother that planted flowers.  I am glad for the sun that does not tell the time with “bells and whistles” but gently chides us through the days with changing light-and I am glad that sometimes my children ask me “Have you seen the moon?”

 

This day has been nothing short of glorious.  The cold wind and rain have passed and were replaced with warm golden light that lit the trees up.  Today, I saw shades of amber creeping into the landscape.  In a few weeks the lowly sweetgum will be one of the loveliest sights in the countryside.  

I came home yesterday and thankfully the drive was as pleasant as I expected.  I left  in the later afternoon.  Jenny, Lyla and I had a delightful visit with Wills’ mom, Miss Claudia.  We carried a huge basket full of things like fried chicken and candy.  She was especially thrilled with her very own peach cobbler.  Miss Claudia is very partial to peaches.  

I also got to visit with Miss Thelma.  Miss Thelma lives in the riverside village with her husband, Mr. Ellis.  They are both in their nineties.  Mr. Ellis is a  decorated hero from World War II and Miss Thelma never lets me forget it.  She remains very proud of his service.  He was the only survivor of a plane crash at Normandy.  Their conversation with one another is so loving, it makes me cry.  Mr. Ellis always says “Isn’t my wife beautiful?”  -and she is.  Miss Thelma said Mr. Ellis was handsome and  she had pictures to prove it.  Miss Thelma writes letters to her nieces and nephews.  Her penmanship is as elegant as any I have seen.  The letters are quite elaborate and look like art.  Miss Thelma attended college on a scholarship for piano and voice.  Eventually, she became a teacher.  Students, she taught forty years ago still keep in touch.  That is some legacy.    She tells me stories about a friend she had for many years, named Edith  and makes me love someone, I never knew. 

On Tuesday, I went back to work.  Tuesday was as beautiful as  Monday.  October was an especially nice time and I will miss it.  Now, it is November and with it comes one of my favorite holidays-Thanksgiving.  The time to gather for the sake of expressing gratitude, together.  As much as I love Christmas, I do not like to rush through Thanksgiving.   Thanksgiving comes suddenly enough.  It is but weeks away and that is hard to believe . Our menu for the dinner has little variation from year to year.  I always ask everyone what they want and they say “what we had last year”  without fail.  Sometimes, there is a new dessert, but Jenny always wants cheesecake and Mama wants cranberries.  They all want the “biscuit stuffing” that Grandmama told me how to make.  Daddy does not like turkey at all, so  I usually have a ham or barbecued chicken as well.  Breakfast is scant, that morning, so we are all especially hungry by noon.  

In some way, November fills me full of hope.  It is the month to recount our blessings, collectively-to remember what is good  -and to consider how we can give back.  At times, “a word fitly  spoken” is needed for someone.  We can extend grace, and we can pray for one another. Even the “shoe string budget “of the rabbit patch affords such beautiful gifts, . . for the heart of the rabbit patch is a storehouse of wealth,  collected from the generosity of others.    I remember that, always . . .but especially in November.

It is  Sunday and almost late afternoon.  It was raining before sunrise,and it is still raining now.  The rain is falling steadily, as it has all day.  No one in these parts ought to complain as it has been a long while since we have had a rainy day-and besides, rain makes the loveliest sound.  

I remember the older folks saying that when “rain fell straight. it was set in”-it  always  rings true, it seems.  I knew early  on, that I would cook today.  I went  to the grocery as everyone agreed with my decision.   Of course, we started out with Lylas’ favorite “honey cakes”-which are pancakes with a good dose of vanilla, served with honey.   I am cooking a peach cobbler now in the oven.  Wills’ mom, Miss Claudia loves peaches and so she will have her peaches tonight in a golden crust, dusted with brown sugar.   Turnips and potatoes are simmering in a pot, to be creamed later, then smothered in gravy.  Peas and stringbeans are cooking as well.  Later, I will fry chicken.  I have always cooked on rainy days.

To country dwellers, rain means rest.  When I first moved to the rabbit patch, we worked from dawn til dusk.  We did not have a TV  for a while and it didn’t matter one iota, as we wouldn’t have had the fortitude to watch it .  We moved just before summer vacation, and there was a lot to do.  The first day, we gathered fallen limbs and burned all day long.  Then there were scattered bricks, tires and tin piles made.  We started a collection of batteries.  On and on it went til the territory could be mowed.  It was a hard summer, and I went back to school with scratches and bites that year.  It did not rain  but an hour or so here and there.   . .not enough to rest  the weary.

In the autumn, there were leaves-a lot of leaves.  Ten years ago, we raked-most every day, in the autumn.  I would come home, sit my pocketbook on a stump near the drive, and we raked til dark.  . .unless it rained.   Now, the stump is gone and we mulch the leaves with the mower.

Growing up, in the country on a small farm, the event of rain changed things.  Men would take to the tractor  shelter to fix things.  It is hard for me to know, just what went on, as I avoided the place like a plague.  Nothing good ever came from me visiting that place.  I was likely to knock something over or the dogs would.  Several times, we children were blamed for losing a bolt or screw, that must have been the last one left in the world like it.  We were bound to lose the farm on account of it-and there was always the grime that dependably got on shoes to be tracked in the house or ruin a perfectly   good outfit.  The tractor shelter, best remain a mystery, I thought.  Besides, Mama and Grandmama did much more pleasant things when it rained.  Often, they cooked a cake or pie.  They also opened the chest in the “front bedroom” which was full of discarded clothes, shoes and pocketbooks.  Delores and I played for hours pretending we were all grown up . . with children.  Our dolls were sick, naughty and had birthdays, depending on our agenda.  We went through the button box and sorted them.  Back then, buttons were shaped like roses  and violets-or they looked like real pearls.  There was a lot of  variety in the details and so I understand what “cute as a button” means.  There was an old photograph box to go through  and catalogs from places like Sears & Roebuck and Spiegel.  . .and the  World Book Encyclopedias, my favorites.   If the rains lasted a few days, Grandmama made up stories to tell-many were tragedies that somehow ended miraculously, well.  Mama, who is a very clear soprano, taught us songs. . .and I still remember them, today.  It is no wonder, that I love rain.

Lyla watched it rain yesterday, from the porch.  She painted pictures, til she needed a bath.  We watched several ballet classes for three year olds, which Lyla loved.  She did a fairly good job of mimicking-and eventually donned a tutu and held a wand, while she did so.

It was still raining at supper time, and with more force.  It was windy and the temperature dropped til it was almost cold.  Lyla fell asleep early.

Monday Morning

Lyla was up before the morning broke.  When the sun came up, it shone brilliantly over the village by the river.  Today, for the first time in a long while, it is cold.  What a clamor came from the yard!  Robins and blue jays were every where and ever so often,  a squirrel would scamper through with a large acorn in its’ mouth.  It was a fantastic show and Lyla loved it!  

After Lyla had her “honey cakes” we all gathered our warm clothing.  We plan to visit Miss Claudia and will probably take a “Halloween Eve” stroll.  I hope to see Miss Thelma and then I will return to the “rabbit patch” . . . over three rivers  and past wood and field, through  several small towns . . .under a very blue sky, while a cold wind blows.

 

I have at long last, attended another “early service”.  Week days do not afford such luxury.  There is too much commotion on days like Tuesday, at the rabbit patch.  Animals need to go out and then fed-and everybody has somewhere to be.  Alarms ring out warnings and coffee is brewing.  No matter how early I rise, at some point, it comes down to a commotion.

This morning was a sharp contrast to all of that-at least for me.  I am in Elizabeth City, for the first time in three weeks-yes, I have counted the days.  The “early service”, I attended this morning, was in Jennys’ backyard.  My morning came peacefully, but I witnessed all sorts of frantic activity under the oldest tree in the yard.  Some doves were grazing peacefully and did not seem to have a bit of quarrel in them-til the squirrels showed up.  The doves took off in great haste crying out in distress.  This is the habit of doves-they always are “quiet as church mice” til they take to the air.  Many a dove has startled me on my walks by field and wood.  The squirrels took no notice but went straight away to the business of  the task at hand-gathering nuts and acorns, to hoard up for the barren days of winter.  Some robins were curious about the racket and came to join in.  It made me wonder if the first frost is not so far away.

Jenny had a late morning appointment and Will took Lyla out, so I put on a pot of chicken and broccoli soup.  I busied myself with some light housekeeping and writing, while they were away.  The chatter in the back yard had been settled by the time I went out again-and just in time to see a small flock of blackbirds peppering up the sky in a poetic fashion.  Thick white clouds filtered the light allowing slight shadows.  One day I will have a good camera and capture such moments.  I was sorry when the blackbirds left-they are so very lovely.  Blackbirds flying trigger a memory for me, that I hope to always remember.

I was much younger then.  I had been left alone-stranded, it felt.  My young husband had died.  I was hurt and very scared.  I was also so very disappointed as I had prayed fervently for a miracle.  What I wanted seemed best for everybody.  I made a meager income, intended to supplement the household.  I had five precious children to raise-and one morning,  I told God how I felt about it.  I was out behind a garden shed, right about this time of year.  I pleaded my case and concluded that everything I had hoped for was lost.  Surely I would not find any beauty to life again-God had taken from me, I thought . . .just about that time, a very large flock of blackbirds flew overhead.  They swirled in to one pattern after another and I stopped complaining as I watched them.  I thought how beautiful they were-and suddenly I laughed .  I do not worry that the moment may seem insignificant-for me it was not.  I never see a flock of blackbirds, that I do not remember that morning, now many years ago, when blackbirds were on the wing.

By noon, all had safely gathered in.  The soup was ready and we all thought it was especially good.  The thick clouds of the morning parted and sunlight dappled in the little lane beside the house.  The patches of sky that the clouds revealed, were a brilliant shade of blue-the shade only seen in October.  It was the perfect day for a long walk.

I took Lyla  the longest way around the village, before ending up at the river.  On the way, we collected yellow leaves and red ones too.  We found a confederate jasmine blooming like it was June, and so we  picked a few blossoms.  We also took a sprig from a cedar tree, because it smelled like Christmas.  We came across some elaborate  Halloween decorations.  Lyla said the ghosts, which were swaying in the light breeze, were spooky.  There was a life size witch in one yard and Lyla did not want to tarry near there.  Lyla did like the bright jack-o-lanterns with friendly faces  that we met on the way.

The river was as blue as I have ever seen it.  The sun was almost bright and the clouds were the cumulus kind.  They were a stark white and floated lazily above us.  Lyla was freed from the confinement of her stroller to run as she pleased on the large grassy lot by the “river that laughs”.  She walked on the wide timbers that are used to mark the parking area, for a good while.  She has certainly improved on her sense of balance, I noticed.  We met a friendly lady with a friendly dog, named “Boo”.  He looked like a toy.  We walked a short ways together until we reached the home of the friendly lady.  Lyla and I walked just a few minutes more and then we were back where we started.  We went in and Lyla wasted no time showing off our souvenirs.  Lyla told the story of our afternoon as she presented each one to Jenny.  

We are all collecting souvenirs, on our journey, I thought.  Sometimes they are things like leaves-sometimes they are the smell of hyacinths or wood smoke . . . and sometimes they are things like a sky full of blackbirds.

 

 

 

Of all the Octobers, I have ever  known, this one may be “the fairest of them all”.  The days have been mostly bright and the nights have been cool and very dark.  Of course, there was the beautiful “harvest moon” and since then the sky has been splattered with shining silver stars.  For a few nights, stars dashed across the sky, though I never saw one.   I have seen the “morning star”- and made wishes on it, too.

The countryside fairly glows in the light of October.  The air is crisp and sweet and makes it feel sinful, not to take notice.  Fields are silent places,  for now the soil gets a well deserved rest.  I grew up on a small farm.  Sadly, small farms are “few and far between” now.  My maternal grandfather, known as “Pop”  had a few tractors and a huge barn.  There were shelters for the tractors and tools.  He had a smokehouse and pastures, too.  Along with the fields and woods, this was my playground. . . with the exception of the  tractor shelter.  It was dirty and I could not so much as walk through it, without getting something on my clothes, which Mama   declared “would never come out”.  Another reason, I steered clear, was there was always a commotion of some sort, which I believe Pop would often start.  Something was always broken, it seemed.  Pop had a short fuse under such circumstances and was liable to cuss.  If my sister and I were underfoot, so were the dogs.   If Pop couldn’t find something, he was sure we had messed with it.  This was never true, as neither Delores nor I cared for the grime and grease of the tools.  We did use the vice to crack pecans and walnuts, occasionally-especially if Pop was on a tractor in a distant field.  We were long gone, if we heard the tractor coming.  October, was a different affair, though.

The garden was plowed up and the pantry was full, in October.  The tobacco had been sold at the warehouse.  School had started back and so I had to act civilized on a regular basis.  I wore dresses with matching sweaters and shoes not fit to climb in.  After school, while Mama was cooking  supper, I would visit with Pop and Grandmama.  School seemed a very artificial life compared to my “home-life.”  I was homesick every day.  Grandmama looked at magazines in October-and Pop “piddled”.  He was most often in what we called “the lot”.  The lot was the territory  encircled by all the barns and shelters.  A small grove of silver maples grew in the center of it and the  edge of the pastures ran around it. While the tractor engines were cold,  Pop sharpened axes and fixed kitchen table chairs.  He had a burn pile to burn limbs.  Pop did not show any signs of a temper- in October.

Pop was born in October-on the twenty-sixth in 1913.  He was one of ten children.  He went to school til sixth grade, which wasn’t all that unusual for a farmers’ child, in those days.  He did all sorts of complicated math “in his head” and was always quicker than those who used paper.  I remember him calculating how much fertilizer he needed per acre  quickly.  He read the “Progressive Farmer” faithfully and listened to country music by  people like Patsy Cline and Hank Williams.  He ate “gingersnaps”  and dropped peanuts in cokes.  He rode spirited horses and had a guitar he played around with.  He was proud of that guitar and didn’t allow me to hardly touch it. . .but I did every chance I got.  

Pop lived long enough to see my first three children.  He was in his seventies.  Grandmama had passed  more than a decade earlier.   He died on a frosty morning in March.  . . He was in his yard . . .just piddling.  In October, when the dogwoods turn shades of red and fields are quiet . . . I always remember Pop.

 

 

 

Sunday is another time I love-especially the morning, when “Sunday Dinner” is cooking.  I did not plan to write in the diary this morning, but when I had put the ham in the oven and stringbeans on the stove, all sorts of thoughts came to me.  I realised it is just second nature for me, to write while I am cooking.  Of course, it must be slow cooked food.  I dare not cook bacon or  biscuits, as such things are liable to burn, while I am “finding my words”.  Christian has learned to keep vigil over the stove, if I am writing.  It is the same with music.  Once, I was learning a new piece on the violin while supper cooked.  My husband came in with a look of sheer panic.  The house was filled with smoke and I had not even noticed!  After that, he always said I would “fiddle, while Rome burned. ”   Jamie died in his thirties.  Had he lived, there would have never been loose tin on the barns at the rabbit patch.

I waited to fry the cornbread til Mama called and said they were on the way.  Cornbread does not keep.  I was putting it on the table when they came in.  I made the pineapple dessert I had eaten at “Homecoming”.   I had guessed at the recipe, and it turned out anyway.  

Mama and Daddy left to go listen to music, played in a barn.  One day,  am going, too-but today, I cleared the table and decided I would mow.  The grass has dramatically slowed down, but the weather was perfect and when I heard a neighbor  start their mower, well that  cinched it.  

 When I  went out, I would have sworn it was late March.  The grass was tender and so green, beneath the leaves.  The air was a little  damp and cool.  I saw a patch of clover by the stable and then caught a whiff of something familiar, but out of place.  It was the wild honeysuckle. A few blossomed here and there- and I felt young again and drank the scent in, as if I was perished.  I was really surprised to see a few apple blossoms, when I mowed in the little orchard – It seemed that there was quite a masquerade, on this day, at the rabbit patch.

The french mulberry is dull now with muted berries and the autumn joy has stopped boasting altogether.  I frightened the rabbit community when I took to mowing the wooded path.  They scattered hither and yonder .  How they run straight away into briers and bracken, at break neck speed  is beyond me.  The country rabbits are not friendly like their  cousins in Elizabeth City, I thought

I made good time  mowing today.  At last, a belt came off, and being almost finished, I didn’t even try to repair it.   As Cash and I walked back to the house, I made mental notes of things to be done before cold weather sets in.  This is a lovely place I thought, as I looked around.  It is hard not to feel a great affection, for a place you have tended for more than a decade.  It is some sort of relationship.  Is it because I have worked the soil- and I know where the wild violets will grow?   The trees that give shade for the weary in July, are like old friends, now.  The land has fed us too,  and that makes a difference.  Whatever was on my mind, the garden knew about it-and the “Quiet Garden” knows my secrets.

Cash was so glad I was finished and he was “off duty”.   No rabbit got me this day! He ran and jumped around.  I loved him for being so loyal, all over again.

Tomorrow is Monday and that changes everything.   I will drive past pasture and field, through the woods and into the small town, where I work.  . .and at the end of the day,  I will go back to the place I call home-an old house in the country, where rabbits run wild  and an apple tree blooms out of season.  

It is morning and the sun is proclaiming it brightly.  I love weekend mornings for they are born without haste.  I do not consult the clock on days like Saturday.  I like these moments when time does not try to “escape” from me and  I live as I please, for a while.  For now, I am content to drink coffee at the morning table while Cash and Christopher Robin doze.  I listen to a bird sing,  and though I listen intently, I cannot identify the species  . .  and I plan Sunday dinner.  I think about Christmas.   . .and I wonder about a lot of things-and before I know it, I realize I ought to turn the lamp off.

I never did rush one iota.  Breakfast time passed, so we had a brunch, instead. I went about my tasks as”if I had all day”, because for “once in a blue moon”,  had come,- and I did.   Clothes washed while I swept floors.  I like housekeeping and derive great satisfaction from clean floors and fresh linens.  It is a lot more pleasant to do chores without the desperation that so often accompanies them.    

The farmhouse seems so much bigger now than it did when I bought it.  I scrubbed the bedroom that was my grandmothers.  Mostly,the room is vacant except for the holidays.  I tried to work quickly as I am so prone to becoming overly sentimental. The room  is now a cheerful shade of periwinkle, with an adorable white sleigh bed. I battled cobwebs and dust while Christopher Robin slept peacefully,  in  the den.  At  random intervals, I had coffee laced with cinnamon and table cream.  Through the windows I saw a leaf flutter by occasionally.  Not one was in any sort of hurry, so we had that in common.  On top of everything else, I noticed the windows needed washing.

By later in the afternoon, I was washing the blankets and bedding for the animals.  Christian took a few pictures for the realtor, as each room was tidied.  Supper would be light tonight, but I would make up for that with Sunday dinner.

As daylight faded, I was pleased with what had been accomplished.  Tonight, I plan to make sense of the Christmas Closet, and record an account of what has been  bought thus far.  I think waiting for Christmas and Thanksgiving, is half the fun.

At long last, I turned the lamp on  as evening had turned to night.  In the absence of moonlight, the countryside is “pitch dark”.   If it were a tad cooler, I would be tempted to start a small fire in the little fireplace, in the den.  Instead, I will wait til the weather warrants a cheerful fire.  

It has been a good day, I think. I have not solved a mystery, nor made any grand discovery .  It was just an ordinary day, full of ordinary events. .. but it is nothing less than  beautiful to be able to write, that “all is well at the rabbit patch.”

Dear Diary,  I am glad for unfamiliar bird songs sung at first light.  I am glad for the beauty of ordinary days and the  soft way they  fade, until at last they become  dark,  autumn nights  . . .and a little light burning, makes all the difference. 

 

 

These are the kind of days that made October famous.  From the early hours til dusk, it has just been lovely.  Typically, October is a flashy month, by all accounts.  Not yet has it reached its’ peak here, but today my faith in October was restored.  Last night, was especially cool-so much that I put the windows down. . .and the fan was put back in the closet.  I kept a substantial sweater on all day, though remember , I have spent my life in the south-and the sixties are chilly, to me.

The  arrival of the first frost remains a mystery, but we are nearer to it than we were just a short while ago.  When the frost comes, it fades the rose and puts a halt on tender sprouts.  Frost tames the wild  southern vines, which does not make me sorry.  Frost also gives the countryside a sparkle-and makes me want to build a fire in the garden. When the time comes to burn a small fire, I will call Rae, as she loves a fire so.   While, I am waiting for frost, I will gather roses.

As autumn chills the territory around the rabbit patch, my thoughts turn to home and hearth.  The old farmhouse is hardly a glamorous dwelling, but its’ charm “covers a multitude of sins”.  . . and especially in October.  Books and china teacups grace the morning table.  Soft blankets are draped on chairs and sofas-and lamps are turned on before supper.  Sauces simmer, that will smother foods like slow roasted chicken.  Pots of dried beans and hearty chowders are staples at the rabbit patch, starting in October.   I know of few things better, than coming in from the cold, to a warm  kitchen  that smells like supper.

The sky reflects the season, along with the  field and woodland.  Stars are sparsely scattered, now and the constellations make their presence known. They are unhindered by   the millions of stars, the sky hosts in the summer.  Before sunrise, now,  Venus is directly below the crescent moon.  It is as bright as I have ever seen it and truly, even out stages the moon.

Brant is Home!

Brant came home today!  This made Thursday, a holiday for me.  He and Sydney are on the way to a wedding in Virginia.  Mama and Daddys’ house is almost “on the way” and so we all met up at my parents for an evening meal.  Afterwards, Christian played the piano, Sydney worked on a portrait of Lyla, she is drawing and I wrote a bit in the diary.  We  sat in the living room while we we worked on our “art” and hardly spoke, but  later agreed  we had loved those moments.   Sidney and I eventually sang along with Christian as he played .  Kyle and Christian left after the singing, but I spent the night, again, where I grew up. . .and I was  late for work, the next morning.

First, I woke up late.  The room I slept in did not allow the light of morning to stream through the window, heralding the new day. The house was silent as no one was going anywhere-and there wasn’t a cat or dog, that needed to go out.  All seemed fine, til I looked at a clock.  . .full of judgement, I add. I could not find my hairbrush nor my keys.  I just quit rushing.  Late is late, and so what did it matter if it were ten minutes or twenty?  Besides, the time with my family would not allow me  any regrets.  I was with my children, and I saw my parents happy . . . I must remember, from here on out, that October is a lovely time for a “holiday “.  The weather is lovely and the landscape seems set to celebrate, on any given day.

Dear Diary,   I am glad for bright days and dark,  cool evenings when stars are sparsely scattered.  I am glad for times when loved ones gather.  . . to share a meal-and then to sing.   I am especially glad that Brant came home.

 

 

 

Sunday dawned fair. I was driving to the grocery store, not long after the day was born. I was having company for breakfast!  Will and Jenny stopped by on the their way home, after being out of town for several days.  I had stayed up til two am, finishing that floor and of course cleaning up the mess I had strewn in the process.  I had almost enough eggs, almost enough bacon,no milk and no juice.  So armed with a coffee, I drove to the nearest town and shopped in record time-at least for me.  

Somehow, breakfast was ready and the house was mostly tidy,  when they got here.  Lyla was so glad to see me, and I was certainly glad to see her.  I had not seen her in two weeks .   I am convinced that painting that floor had kept me just busy enough, not to cry about it.  Growing up on a farm, you get used to having family close by.  I grew up with first, second, third and fourth cousins, all within a few miles.  Of course, there were all the “great” grandmothers, aunts and uncles too.  You could go anywhere, and you were “home”  back then.  There were no “play-dates” -you played with your cousins.  You wore their “hand-me-downs” and knew their secrets. If you got sick at school, any of them could show up to get you. Many times,  we cousins, would take off to the woods and play for hours , uninterrupted.  We had forts complete with governments and trials .  We could tell suppertime by the shadows and you can best believe we went home, when the sunlight slanted at some certain degree.   No one worried about getting kidnapped . . with the exception of attending the county fair. We had to stick close at the fair, as apparently Grandmama had heard of such a thing.  It was a different  and beautiful time to grow up in.  I am thankful that Will has all sorts of family in Elizabeth City-and I am not that far away, either.  When Jenny told me that they were moving to Elizabeth City, now three years back, I knew Will had some family there.  Then I found out not only his mom, but aunts and uncles-and a slew of cousins, too-well, I knew right then that Jenny had an army of folks behind her and I did not worry in the least.  As it turns out, I was right.

After breakfast, we all went out and strolled around the rabbit patch.  We usually get our first frost about this time, but this year we are still at eighty degrees most days, and  so it was muggy out.  When a slight breeze loosed some leaves, Lyla said “look, Honeybee!  It’s raining leaves!”  She smelled all the flowers and said “I love flowers.”  , in such a soft voice.  I told Lyla, that her great grandmother did too . . and so did I.  You tell the family stories, in moments like these.  My own mama was always good at that.  She told us things about those before us, til I could have sworn I knew them, though they had passed long before my  birth.

Sunday afternoon slipped by like a lullaby-soft and easy.  I did take a nap, but I managed to clean the car out and put away laundry, also.  The Farmlife community is a quiet one, but on Sunday it is about silent.  When you can hear a leaf fall- you are in a peaceful place.  

Dear Diary, I am so glad for slight wind that loosens autumn leaves and wildflowers growing, where tomatoes used to.  I am glad for quiet afternoons and  most of all . . .Sunday mornings that begin with my loved ones sitting at the same table.

 

 

It is early evening on Friday the thirteenth, at the rabbit patch.  Will and Jenny are out of town, so I am staying home for the second weekend.  There is no shortage of things to occupy my time, though I miss Lyla already.  I did get the chair from the barn, painted.  Tomorrow, I will pot a few chrysanthemums.  It will soon be cool enough to place pumpkins on the porch, without fear of them spoiling.  Today was much cooler than the past few.  The first hours were especially cool and fog was well settled over the countryside.  It made leaving the rabbit patch especially difficult.  Then, I thought, spring mornings have the same effect on me . . and so do winter mornings  when the pines are laden with ice.  

Though, it was the thirteenth on a Friday, I had a good day.  Tonight,  it feels good to have a light blanket.  It is very dark at the rabbit patch, as there isn’t a single star to wish on.  I love a quiet night.  It is a good time to sort things out.  Peace and quiet are conducive to restoration, also.  

Saturday

I did not rise as early as is my usual custom.  The morning light was faint and it could have been anytime when I awoke.  Cash and Christopher Robin were curled up together on their bed.  During the week, they are both up when I am rushing about.  They follow me from one room to another, til finally we all end up at the back door.  Cash did  stir, when I went to the closet.  When he saw the bucket of paint, he went back to his bed.

There is a mist like rain falling, but I painted a lamp post anyway, before eight o’clock.  When it dries, I will add some autumn leaves and a bow.  When the chrysanthemums are potted and on the porch, only pumpkins will be left to add to the autumn celebration.  Even the old oaks are doing their part, casting off their leaves and scattering them hither and yonder over the territory.

I came back in and poured another cup of coffee with a heaping amount of table cream.  I moved the morning table and sofa, as I am painting the den floor.  It is an old wood floor that was painted when I bought the house.  I am painting it to look a weathered gray so it is a two tone job-really three, if you count the poly shine that comes last.  It all started, because I painted the chair, and noticed then how shabby the floor looked.  When I asked Christian to help me move the furniture, his face went to that familiar look of “here we go again”.  I reassured him that one day, I would have a little cottage, that didn’t require my life spent on doing such things-and we laughed.  Looking back. I do not know what I was thinking when I bought the rabbit patch.  I was a single woman with two young sons, still at home.  I had vision, but very little skill.  I saw the beautiful territory, and never once thought about mowing it and tending to vines and weeds.  I saw the big old rambling house, and did not consider the keep up or cleaning it!  I never thought about loose tins on the barns and doors that would just fall off!  I never even thought about the boys growing up, as the rest had done, before them!

At one time, the house was full.   Brant, Tres and my grandmother lived under one roof, with Kyle, Christian and I. The barns had chickens, miniature goats and horses-and a lot of rabbits.  It was a happy season and the rabbit patch served us well, in those days.   Grandmama passed, and the oldest boys left, first one, and then the other.  I mourned the end of that season in the years that followed. Thankfully, Lyla was born and with her came a new season.   

While the floor was drying, I started a pot of soup.  I decided on spinach and potato, as Kyle is not here.  He does not like spinach.

By early afternoon, I had potted the bright yellow chrysanthemums.  As always,  I regretted not buying more, for they brought such cheer to the rabbit patch. I cleaned out more beds of  spent flowers .  There are just enough leaves in the yard to proclaim, it is autumn.  The sun never did shine brightly today, but it did not feel gloomy in the least to me.  When light is faint, it brings a feeling of calmness and serenity in the countryside.   The little lamp on the morning table was a soft glow through the window, beckoning me to come in- still I continued working, determined to make the most of my time.  I liked the coolness of the very still air.  I liked watching Christopher Robin playing with a captured leaf.  I liked knowing the territory was drowsy, and soon to have a well-deserved rest  . . .and I remembered how much I like to plant flowers.

Dear Diary, I am glad for quiet times and soft light. I am glad  for work-and I am glad for rest.  I am glad for ” a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which has been planted”.   . . But,  I am more glad for a time to plant.

Slowly, but surely the prelude to autumn glory is making its’ presence known.  Even the ragweed is pretty enough to write about.  It fills the ditches  and acts like a garland around the woodlands.  Ragweed does not have a good reputation, as many folks are allergic to it and are apt to get headaches, because of it-but the bright, deep yellow plumes are truly beautiful.  I do not know of anyone who cultivates the ragweed.  Ragweed, like wild violets, grow where they please.  I have some uninvited ones in a corner of the “Quiet Garden” growing with the roses.  The two are unlikely companions, but they are a striking pair, so I haven’t the heart to disturb them.

The landscape is the only proof that it is autumn.  It is so hot at the rabbit patch,  that I drug the window fan back out of storage.  Thunderstorms form in the afternoons, just as they do in summer, and bring relief to the hot and very humid afternoons.  This morning, I left my sweater home.  

I am at last, catching a “second wind” in my plight to fix the old farmhouse up.  I have  a  long list of projects-most involve paint . . .and muscle.  Christian and I rearranged some furniture this past weekend and discarded a shabby daybed in the process.   I found a chair in my “barn collection” to bring in the house, too.  The chair needs painting and so if I am buying paint, I may as well make it worth my while.  It is hard to complete big projects, when you have a job and “run the roads” on the weekends, as my daddy always said.

 Daddy did not believe in “carrying on” in such ways, when I was young-and “could” “run the roads”.  How many times he accused me of “using the house as a hotel”.  I laugh at that now, as I never did that-he didn’t allow it.  I had the earliest curfews of any of my friends and excursions were limited to weekends.  Looking back, he saved me a lot of grief, in all likelihood.  I did a lot of complaining at my “pitiful lot” in life, back then.  Now, I thank God for it.  I truly was born “with a silver spoon in my mouth” on account of my parents. . .and their love for me has never wavered but abides today.

Another list, on my mind, as of lately is the “Christmas list”.  I have already bought several presents.  They are stored in the  trustworthy “Christmas Closet”  at the rabbit patch -which has never given up one secret.  I have always bought  “along the way” for Christmas.  It helps my budget and avoids a last minute quandary  in December.  I love to shop at Christmas, but not in desperation.  Thankfully, my children have never really ask for anything.  We are as ” as happy as larks” to drink fine coffee after a good meal.  We always watch “It’s a Wonderful Life” too.  I like to think about Christmas, when the house smells like pine.

I continue to work on the cello.  I lose all track of time when I am practicing.  At last, the cello feels at least, familiar to me  now.  I played a song for the kindergarten classes and they applauded . . . as if they had never heard “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”.  

Children spend a good deal of time celebrating, I thought.  They celebrate pretty rocks and dandelions quite naturally, without being taught to do so.  In October, children collect pretty leaves and share them with one another.   The youngest children live life authentically and do not waste precious moments “putting on airs”.  They are too busy gathering acorns and feathers . . .in October.    I hope I never get too sophisticated to do such things.  How dreary life would be, to lose all sense of wonder.

   Dear Diary,  I am glad for the early autumn landscape .  I am glad for the wisdom of those before me-and the ones after me too. . .and  I am glad for simple tunes and old chairs to rest in.