I was quiet on the way back from Wilmington.  Lyla was fast asleep and when Jenny and I did talk, our voices were hushed.  I have never ended a visit with my children without a few sentimental tears.  For years, I have waved and smiled-said cheerful things-and when they were out of sight, cried like a baby!  It is a ridiculous habit and I realize that. I am making good progress though.

In spite of a gloomy departure, I did look forward to seeing my younger sons-and Cash and Christopher Robin-and the rabbit patch, itself.  I took great pains to remind myself that going home was a joyful event-and it was. I tried not to think about  saying good-bye to Jenny and Lyla and took great comfort that they are but an hour away.  Thank goodness, I can make that drive easily.  

As usual, the animals were the first to greet me. Cash, my boxer, is as sentimental as I am.  He put on quite a show, jumping around and spinning.  Christopher Robin, however, looked on from a distance.  He seemed a bit disgusted that Cash would forgive me so readily for my abandonment.  I wondered what he had broken, while I was away.  He was still giving me the “cold shoulder” hours later when I poured him a small bowl of cream, though he drank it in a greedy fashion. He did not even say thank you, either.

Kyle and Christian had survived my leaving.  They had not starved as I had feared and they had kept the house quite tidy.  They are the last of my “little men” and I had missed them. While, I was away, I stored up great thoughts to talk to them about, the first chance I get.

Not long after settling in, I took a walk around the rabbit patch.  Rain had fallen often and the garden is in poor shape.  A storm, the night before, littered the grounds with all sorts of debris and as usual, my lilies were blooming but were laying over.  The wind does this every year and I am used to it. My rose of Sharons are in full bloom and the quiet garden is especially somber as the roses seem on a holiday of their own.  Kyle had mowed, but had not finished.  The apples are scarce this year and small-and the pear tree shows no sign that it is a pear tree.  The same can be said of the young fig trees.  The ice of late spring put a halt to preserving fruit this year. The ginger lilies are a favorite of mine and look good for the wear and tear of the odd weather this year.  Mine bloom in August and when they do-the neighbors know about it as they perfume the air with a sweetness that only the ginger lily can claim.

I had a bit of trouble sleeping and so I went out a second time-I often do , to say good night to the rabbit patch and the world, in general.  I think feeling a lot of sad and a lot of happy all in one day had taken its’ toll.  There were a million stars out and I could see every one of them.  Only the country affords this view. I stood in starlight for a long while.  I started asking hard questions as I looked up at the wonder overhead.  I felt ashamed that the peace and strength that the ocean had given me was already faltering. I felt fickle.  I realised that the ocean had not given me any answers , but instead such a great sense of peace, that I no longer had questions. At that moment, a star streaked across the sky.  

This really happened.  I am not a fiction writer, I assure you.  I am a human with more faults than I care to count, but the Source of my writing is pure and generous and does not lie.  I have heard that some people have never seen a miracle and others see them everyday.  I guess it all depends on what one deems a miracle. 

I woke up feeling restored and I am having coffee in a china cup , at the “morning table”.  Christopher Robin is as grumpy as he was last night, so the shooting star did not effect him in the least.  The sunlight seems muted coming in the old farmhouse windows. The only sound is the slight breeze blowing through the sycamores and a few song birds  in the distant patch of young woods.  Sunday dinner will be later today.  I plan to fry chicken and green tomatoes- and make another cucumber salad.  If I can scrape up enough apples, we will have a cobbler.  I will gather some lilies  for a vase  and celebrate my homecoming in that simple rabbit patch way- and  I will remember to be thankful for the millions of stars I saw last night- and most especially for the one that flew across the sky and told me plainly and in a divine nature that “All is well”.

Tonight is my last night in Wilmington.  We have a nice dinner out planned and maybe a breakfast in the morning.  I have said good bye to the ancient oak and to the splashing fountain that sings to me while I write.  They have become familiar and I will miss them, but leaving my boys,  that grew and flew-now that’s another story.

The truth is they are but a few hours away and we will visit more this summer.  Some more truth is I got used to being with them again on a daily basis and it felt wonderful.  I love having a good meal ready when they get home.  I love when we sleep under the same roof.  I love waiting for them to get home, even!  

I have thoroughly enjoyed my visit.  I am not in the habit of  going out much-but I have done so this week.  I can not convince my children that I am “pleased as punch” just staying at home.  I wear comfortable clothing and watch old black and white movies.  I love reading and writing.  I have taken a lot of walks about the village.  I have met some nice folks and some friendly dogs.  I am older now, and I am quite content with such things.

You would think, that by this age, a person would know something-but as it turns out, a lot of what I have learned has changed up.  The tools are different.  From washing machines to coffee makers- I need a manual to know what all those flashing lights are about. Car keys are odd looking and using a phone can be a nightmare.  The televisions have three remotes and that’s a nightmare too.  My generation grew up without microwaves, without cable and cell phones-so a lot has changed. It is no wonder, I am content at home peeling potatoes-the same way my grandmama did, because I know how. It is often said that the older generation is “set in their ways” and that they don’t like change.  The truth is, we are the experts at change.  We have done it all of our lives- and honestly, it is tiring.  I miss those days when the kids were little and I really did know how to make coffee.  Well, I just miss those days in general.

I have missed the rabbit patch too with its’ country air and song birds flying.  I am sure that my younger boys missed me like I missed them.  Cash and Christopher Robin have probably been pining away-and I bet Christopher Robin broke something while I was gone. The tomatoes will be ripe and the grass will need mowing.  The rabbit patch is very “set in it’s ways”  and demands a fair amount of attention on any given day.  I will take a walk  around when I get back to see what is blooming.  I will go the “Quiet Garden”and I will be glad for  my time by the sea, with my  children who “grew and flew” in a most delightful way.  . . and the world is a better place because of it.

 

Longfellow’s account of an ocean, is my favorite.  It sounds like music when read . I never see the ocean that I don’t  think of “The Song  of Hiawatha”.  We were there on Wednesday, by that ” shining big sea water” and I remembered again that Longfellow was right.

Wrightsville Beach is about ten minutes from Brant’s house.  The sand is white and feels like powder, there.  The water is especially clear and  on that day, a cool wind blew acrossed it.   I watched Lyla play where the waves rolled up  and became gentle, for a long while . Later I took a long walk.  A little girl was collecting purple shells and I gathered a good many for her as I strolled along .  

I loved hearing the sounds of children laughing and playing in that big sea water.  I saw older couples walking hand in hand and young men on surf boards riding the waves in with the confidence that youth affords. It was beautiful.  People are friendly at the beach and though it isn’t organized, we all watch out for the children-and help them find shells.

It is a humbling experience to walk by an ocean.  I felt small, but not insignificant.  An ocean is a mighty force, but I did not feel weak.  Instead, I felt a great sense of comfort knowing that the Spirit that makes the moon rise over the ocean, also makes it rise over the rabbit patch-and over Africa and every place in-between.  The crashing waves, splashing fountains and the still, hidden  ponds in the woodlands are born by the same Hand and somehow, fear can not abide  in me when I consider that -so the stroll does me good.  

I returned to our “camp” with my pocket full of purple shells, to find Lyla in deep concentration, staring intensely  at the shining big sea water.  She was  still and silent-quite a contrast  to the liveliness around her. I have noticed this is a habit of very young children.  They will stop in their tracks when they see a thing of beauty.  Their heart recognizes authenticity -whether it be an army of ants , a feather or a pretty rock-things than man can not take credit for and I vow to never rush Lyla when she discovers such treasures. 

The little girl with the bucket of purple shells was happy with my own collection.  She pointed out how many different “kinds” of purple there were-and she was right.  

When we left, the sand was so hot you couldn’t bear to move at a normal pace, even with shoes on.  Still, I noticed the “Joe-bell” flowers blooming in spite of the harsh sun and there were some lavender flowers doing the same.  We came home and finally finished the left-overs.  Will, my son -in-law and heart, left as his vacation was now over.  Brant went to work and Jenny had plans for dinner with friends.  Lyla and I took a walk as the wind was unusually cool for July.   Usually, Lyla rides in a stroller, but I thought she might enjoy walking as we had the time.  She found every leaf and twig along the way.  She examined them and then held them up for me to see too.  We watched a pair of doves for a while and I showed her the moon.

I am realising more and more, that the universe does not “hide” it’s secrets of happiness.  There is no great hunt rewarding only a favored sect of the human race. One does not have to  be a warrior  nor the swiftest  to win the prize.  The treasure is not buried in a remote corner of the earth  with a secret map,but is strewn about, in rocks and hills, in trees and sky and on the shore by the shining big sea water- and it may sometimes look like little shells in various shades of purple.

The sun came up  this morning with all its’ shine and crept in to the windows of a quiet house.  The fanfare of the last four days is over and I already miss it.  Today is just any other Tuesday.

For some odd reason, Tuesday is one of my favorite days.  I nor any of my children were born on a Tuesday, and very rarely does any holiday fall on a Tuesday.  There is no rhyme or reason for my affection for this ordinary day- but this particular Tuesday is the day after a sweet time with my oldest children and that day always requires a recovery period.

It was a grand time.  We shared wonderful meals and enjoyed the time spent in a leisure fashion.  Lyla was the center of attention throughout the holiday.  I get so much happiness just watching the way they all carry on. When Tres left last night to return to Charleston, the road  downhill began for me.  We are staying with Brant-and he had to go back to work today.  Jenny and her family are spending time with Will’s family in a neighboring town today-so this Tuesday seems especially quiet.  The refrigerator is full of left-overs, just like my heart.

When you have five children, you spend a lot of your life raising them up-to become independent  of course.  When it happens, it comes as a shock!  Sometimes, you may feel great liberty and sometimes you may feel stranded. It is quite complicated and nothing short of mysterious.

I often think of the women  before me that sent their children in to unknown territories with the hope of a few letters here and there that told of their circumstances.  Their Grand children were born and not seen for years.  When I do, I am apt to stop whining.

Growing up on a farm, family stayed closed by.  Young couples were given a tract of land, or bought adjoining land.  I had great-aunts and uncles besides the grandparents and first, second , third and fourth cousins, though we didn’t count the difference, close by. This was most inconvenient at times.  Very rarely did a child get by with anything remotely naughty.  I understand the concept that “it takes a village to raise a child”.  Eventually,  small farms got replaced by huge farms.  Young would be farmers started working in factories-often shift work.  Life changed and by the time I was a teenager, the farm was a memory and factories too, mostly.   Still, I got used to family being next door or right down the road-and me being sentimental, well, as I said, I got used to it.

I am sitting by the splashing fountain thinking great thoughts and watching redbirds fly carelessly by.  The water along the shady banks is dark til the fountain draws it in . The fountain makes the water look like silver pearls when they cascade back down to their source. Then they become little glass bubbles gliding back out to the shady banks. The water keeps changing from one beautiful way into another.  A mother has to do the same thing, I remember on this Tuesday.  Life may look different. Farms get sold and children grow up- but love looks the same.. . today and on any other Tuesday.

 

 

 

July is here with it’s fireworks and picnics. People take to the beaches in groves in July.  The yard needs mowing weekly and sweet corn is in abundance. Geraniums are blooming on porches. Hopes and wishes in July are  “midsummer dreams”  and may have a good chance of coming true.

I am in Wilmington now sitting by the splashing fountain and breathing in more salty air.  We are going to have “Sunday dinner” on Sunday this week.  Of course, I am planning the fourth of July menu as well.  Ours’ will be a simple fare with a fancy cake. It has been a while since a holiday occurred giving everyone an excuse not to work-and a while before it happens again.

When I was growing up, the fourth of July often meant the first day of harvesting-and shucking corn.  Corn does not allow you much time to work with it.  It quickly loses its’ softness after being pulled- and do not think I am talking about enough corn for a meal or two.  I have shucked a small pick up load of corn  in a day, with help.  It takes a crew of folks to put up corn. I can remember  as a child, the men shucking the corn and cutting the ends off with a hatchet outside in the shade.  The women would be in the kitchen taking the corn off the cob with sharp knives.  Some would be blanching the kernels, and then some would pack it in freezer bags and  start filling up the “deep freeze” with bags of gold to feed the family in the winter.  It was a big mess to say the least and a noisy event.  I wonder how many problems got solved in the kitchen that day, amongst the women- and how many deals were made in the shade of the oaks while the men  shucked corn. 

Fruits and vegetables, home-grown and harvested just after picking them, have an entirely different flavor than the ones found in a freezer section at a grocery store.  Maybe, it is the touch of the human hand in the process.  Maybe it is the laughter or the shade of old oaks .  Whatever it is, it shows up on the table-and  the memory of those long ago Julys  remain alive and well, with me.

School has been out a few weeks now, and the feeling of  that has finally settled in.  I do not think there is a clock that is working on the rabbit patch.  Their batteries need replacing and I refuse to do so in July.  We will eat Sunday dinner when it’s ready and go to bed, when we are tired. I will do all things as I do with my writing-“when the spirit moves me”.

July is a time to listen to mockingbirds showing off-and they always do.  I heard one a few summers back, that could even sing like a purple martin, which is no small feat.  The purple martins are a long time favorite of mine.  My daddy  has faithfully had “martin boxes” for as long as I remember.  The descendants return to the house they were hatched in, to raise their own and they bring their song with them, learned in South America, where they winter.  It is a distinctly tropical sound and a mockingbird shows quite a bit of skill to copy it.

The crepe myrtles are in full bloom in July.  I like their colorful spikes  that are shades of pink, lavender and white. I was not too fond of them as a child. Their trunks are “slick as glass”,  making them about impossible to climb.  They are small trees that grow upright, so to a small child they appear quite useless. Now, I find them lovely, especially when a mockingbird is perched there and bragging on a midsummer evening.

July is a noisy, busy month with fireworks and evening thunderstorms.  It starts with a holiday that brings us together.  I was thinking recently, that this holiday is quite remarkable in that it belongs to all of us that call this nation home  and also the whole planet in some way.  We are a country formed, by residents of many countries and cultures.  People who came together and shared the soil.  People who were able to unite regardless of external factors.  I am grateful for the many cultures that have contributed from “sea to shining sea” .  They came bearing gifts.  My hope is that we will all remember how we came about and that every nation on the planet had something to do with it. My own midsummer dream is that we will all be grateful for the people that built our home and to remember- there were many.

I don’t know of a tree that I don’t like.  I especially love old trees.  I don’t see an old tree without being glad for who ever planted it, be it man or God.  I love  the flowering varieties, from the elegant magnolia to the mimosas on the ditchbanks.  When in bloom, they fill the air up with sweetness so unselfishly.  The fruit trees -well, they do it all and I love them for it.. .There is also a tree that whispers.

The long leaf pine is scattered around the rabbit patch.  They of course, are evergreens.  I  always cut branches of pine at Christmas and decorate the old house with them.  They are a simple sight to behold in vases and wreaths with some holly and a bow-but I like the pine.  It smells like Christmas, even in July.  When the wind blows through a pine, it does not rustle, but whispers in a hushed way.  No other tree can sing like a long-leaf pine.  The pine sings a lullaby.

Not everyone is a fan of the pine tree.  They are likely to topple over in severe weather and they drop cones steadily-but the song of the pine “covers a multitude of sins”  for me.  I heard the whisper when I was a very young child.  That was a long time ago and  the world was a lot quieter then.

In those days, we could hear a car coming a mile away.  The men could listen and say who it was.  Daddy knew when they needed to change the spark plugs.  If it was a stranger, the men would say “somebody in a Ford is coming.”  There was an old church not too far away and I remember my sister and I sitting outside listening to them sing.  I don’t know what kind of Church it was, but when you hear hymns coming across a field it’s so beautiful you will never forget it.  I always woke up to tractors in distant fields  as a child  and to this day, I love to hear that far away rumble. It reminds me of home. We knew the songs of the birds when we were so little and I doubt that is considered important now, but it was then.  It was just as important as nursery rhymes and Bible verses and I am glad , because when I remember a nursery rhyme, I remember the voice that taught me.

I suppose my cousins and I made the  the only racket on those peaceful farms.  We played hard after supper, while the adults shelled beans or peas.  We played til we were really tired and always ended up sitting  on the ground and talking til it got dark. We would share the secrets we learned about from the adults when they were unaware.  We would call truce on any disputes that had arisen.  No one was allowed to stay mad because it made it hard on the rest of us.  The night breeze would stir the pines up and we would listen to the whispering .  You can see the stars  shine through pine needles.  We would all get real quiet though we didn’t plan on it.  At some point, we would hear clanging buckets and then our names shouted out frantically by several adults who seemed to just be remembering they had children.  We ran like our lives depended on it, because in some way-it did.

If you sit by a pine in the daytime, you are liable to see a redbird.  Redbirds love the whispering pine.  If you sit by a pine in the evening, when a soft breeze blows, you are liable to hear their song and rest assured, it will be a lullaby.  No other tree  sings like the pine.

 

 

 

Today, I am back at the rabbit patch,  where the air smells sweet, wild rabbits run about and the green grass grows all around.  The only thing that went wrong, while I was gone is that  Christopher Robin broke a cute little bird that sat on a pile of books and had been doing so a long while.  The last time  I was gone, he broke a favorite rabbit of mine-Christopher Robin does not like for me to leave the rabbit patch.

My youngest sons, Kyle and Christian, had held the fort down, other than the broken bird.  They are good housekeepers too. Cash was especially glad to see me. Christopher Robin was too and showed no trace of guilt.

I am only here a short while as I return to Wilmington with Jenny and her family for a week on Friday.  I have a lot to do while I am here.  I wish the garden  would grow in the same way the grass grows.  The yard here is about five acres and shows no mercy for me or my plans.  It’s a good thing I  like to mow .  It is a good time to think lofty thoughts or have a pipe dream.  I do both.  I know I will downsize one day, but I need a yard of some sort, when I do.  I need something to tend.  I need a place to grow roses and “Sweet Williams”.

Every season has something to boast about-the summer is passing with swagger, and rightfully so. The summer garden is hard to beat. A tomato in January, can not hold a candle to the ones picked in July, with zinnias growing around them.  It is a good thing to pick tomatoes in the evening when fireflies are flashing and honeysuckle is blooming.  Such conditions will make you linger and remember the summers past. 

The kitchen smells like summer just now.  A kind neighbor brought me about eight pounds of cucumbers.  He is generous like that and has been every year, as long as I have known him.  It is refreshing to have such a  neighbor.   The community around the rabbit patch is made up of nice folks.  He threw in a good “mess” of sweet corn too-sweet corn is one of the best things about summer.  We are in “high cotton” for supper tonight with sweet corn and cucumber salad.

There is something so pure about rural life.  It’s a shame there are so few farming communities left.  Mowing , gardening and preserving your own food gives one an understanding .  Last year, one of my dearest friends was going through a “rough patch”.  I listened to her predicament-it was heartbreaking. She was heart-broken.  She paused a bit and then declared “I think I am just going to make pickles today!”  She did.  It is a long process to make pickles. We laugh about it now, but I suppose it was as good a thing to do as any-and she did end up with twelve quarts of pickles.

Hanging clothes on a line works like a  charm to calm a weary heart.  I plan supper when I am doing so.  My daughter hangs cloth diapers on her line and it’s a lovely sight. When a shower pops up-there is a mad dash.  On those days, I am thankful for a dryer.

I am writing this entry in front of a window fan-another thing I love about summer.  Cash and Christopher Robin station themselves right in front of it.  It is as good as a slow rain to sleep by .

Summer time means a lot of things depending on where you live.  It is a celebrated season no matter what place you call “Home”.  At the rabbit patch, it means clotheslines and window fans.  It is the time when a kind neighbor shows up with cucumbers and sweet corn, and makes me glad that I live on this rabbit patch all over again with its’ old trees. . .  and the green grass that grows all around it.

The days in Wilmington pass in the same fashion as they do at the rabbit patch-without the help of a clock.  I watch the way shadows fall at the rabbit patch . I  see shade claiming the corner of the garden-and I know it’s time to start supper. In Wilmington, time is just ribbons of sunlight on the Atlantic that dance with a cheerful shine  and when they slow to a waltz, it’s time to go home.

My son, Tres came in last night from Charleston.  He lives in Wilmington, but his job sent him to Charleston for a while this summer.    Tres coming home, was the icing on my cake! We had “Sunday dinner” on Saturday at four o’clock.  It didn’t seem to be the least bit odd.   I am as happy as a lark  when I am in a kitchen ,on any given day .

I watched the boys walking back and forth to the pool  while I was cooking and saw once again, that they weren’t  boys   and hadn’t been for a long while.  It has been many years ago, that Tres pushed bright yellow trucks filled with rocks and sticks-and longer still since Brant combed every inch of the woods behind the house , naming the trees as he went.  He would bring back leaves in his pockets for me and we would press them in heavy books .  Mothers  set great store by such memories and  will think about them while they peel potatoes .

I  took my own sweet time cooking dinner- I have done everything all week in the same manner.   The boys ate and declared it was just perfect, so all was right in my world-and it felt good.  We planned on a breakfast for Sunday morning-that is also the day Tres goes back to Charleston and I go back to the rabbit patch. I have missed my two youngest sons. I have missed Cash and Christopher Robin, too. I have even missed the smell of dirt and the way  the wind smells that has blown through the woods.

I will not leave Wilmington empty-handed but instead with a pocket full of sweet memories . I will remember the blue heron that visits the pond every morning and walks stealthily  around the banks  .  There is also a pair of geese, I have spent a fair amount of time watching glide around the water.  It was a sight full of such peace, that it made me drowsy on several occasions .  I got to know some cardinals that live in the wisteria vines at the edge of the woods.  It took them a while to realize there was no harm in me, but when they did, they were quite friendly.   I read some poetry-Longfellow, Frost and Yeats-always Yeats. I didn’t write as much as I had expected, but instead stared “through the looking glass” on the pond for somewhere between twenty minutes and twenty years,  watching the clouds pass by.  I will remember that my boys cast the shadow of young men-and that they walk with confidence-those were golden moments.  There was so much to do with my liberty and I was determined to use it wisely.  

 My account of the last five days may sound “sleepy”.  There are no crimes or politics to read about nor any heartbreaking going on, the diary of the rabbit patch is not intended for such purposes-but I know some of the secrets of the pond and woods out back and I have seen diamonds without measure.  Ones without price ,that shimmer with a shine not found in any store.  You do not need fame or fortune to bear witness to their dazzle. These diamonds give no honor to worldly ranking . No man can bury them and no one can steal them, yet they are there for the taking.   They abide on lazy rivers, lowly ponds and on the vast Atlantic ocean.  I have seen them . . .in little ribbons of sunlight that fall on the waters in a generous manner-and I am better because of it. 

 

 

I am away from the rabbit patch, right now.  I am by the sea-and in the absence of fields.  I am just a few hours away from my country dwelling, but it is a different place altogether with it’s streets full of cars , air full of salt and  its’ “big shining water”.  My niece Hayley and I are visiting my first -born, Brant for a few days. 

Wilmington is a fancy place -especially when compared to the rabbit patch. It  has historical significance and the charm that goes with it.  It is  rich in cultural arts. The residents come from everywhere and they come bearing  their unique gifts .  It is a friendly place by the sea and I like that.  Still, I think my Brant, is the best thing that Wilmington has going for it.

I expect to spend my days here writing and cooking-two of my favorite things.  The yard at Brant’s townhouse is well-manicured and tended by a staff.  There is not a garden on the premises either.  It seems I am left to my own devices as I am the only one without an agenda.  I brought a few books along as there is a pool to read by and the grounds are a lovely place to take a walk.   I think that the chances of a neighbor showing up with a bushel of stringbeans or cucumbers are pretty slim too, so I must resort to a life of leisure for a while.

I do not drive while in Wilmington.  Thank goodness that Hayley is not hindered in the least by all of the activity in the street.  The best I can tell. ..  everybody is late for something and think they have nine lives.  It is most unpleasant for me to even ride along in such chaos.  Hayley, however sings along with the radio and takes great notice of the shops as we are zipping along-unless it says “ice-cream” I am unaware.  I come back alittle shattered and am convinced that I am an old lady, after all! My commute to work is fifteen minutes through fields and horse farms-and I am very glad about it.

I am a firm believer that isolation is a missing factor in most of our lives.  I make it a priority to have some of it daily, but several days  of writing without interruption and reading til I simply don’t want to anymore, is a happy, but inconceivable notion. I will wonder about a lot of things during my “holiday”. I will call old friends  and write pretty cards.  I will write in Lyla’s journal-and in my own too.  I will visit the ancient oak on one of my walks, which is surely sacred and grows  just a bit away from Brant’s front door. I will cook a “Sunday dinner” on a Wednesday, and make a cake too. 

Best of all, I will have conversations with Brant on late evenings.  We will sit by a pond , with a splashing fountain, outside of his back door.  There is also a small patch of woods with wisteria still blooming!  I will listen to his dreams and he will hear mine.  We will talk about our yesterdays and  the hope of times yet to come.  I will look at this beautiful human,  generous and kind in spirit-a lover of all living things-and  who has enough charm to brag about, and be glad he is my own son.

These are the kinds of things I wish to tuck deep in my heart, for a cold day in January -and again, when ice is falling on the rabbit patch on the longest night of the year and the earth is sleeping through it.  . . I will remember  my time well-spent in early summer away from the rabbit patch and

in the absence of fields.