The fourth of July passed here, without much fanfare.  Christian had to work, and besides that, our family was gathering  the next day, as that was when we could all do so.  Tres had spent the night, so while most folks were preparing for cook outs and fireworks, I was cooking a hearty brunch, for the two of us.  That suited me fine.

Tres and I drank coffee in late morning light.  Our plates were heaped with fried potatoes, grits, eggs and bacon and as always a stimulating conversation flowed.  There is no such thing as a dull conversation, when Tres is around. 

We talked about the environment and specifically how the beef industry effects it.  I had never thought about that, but it intrigued me greatly.  It takes a lot of  fields to just feed the animals – fields that could feed people.  There is also the issue of the methane produced . . well it is an interesting topic to research. 

We talked as always about religion, spawned by the recent practice of  the church my parents attend  (a Church of Christ)_. . of “shunning” .  The thing has shocked the community, me especially.  It happened, this way . . .Two services were held each Sunday-one traditional, and one contemporary.  The traditional minister, moved, and was not replaced.  The “elders” who are about half the ages of the “traditional” seniors -decided to do away with the traditional service and “unite” the church with the contemporary service.  The seniors did not agree and took to having their traditional service with paid  traditional,speakers, hence, the “shunning” , for they “disobeyed the elders”.  The seniors are just  deemed too sinful, for communication. My parents, former Sunday school teachers, elders deacons and steadfast members (for many, half a century)-are to  be treated, as if they do not exist.  This has impacted the community, neighbors and families. 

The whole thing has been nothing but “another thorn in the side”  for me.  . .  for it has hurt my parents. Four of our generations have served that Church in some capacity, so what an especially heartbreaking, affair.    

Tres said, “I don’t suppose, the church has a prison ministry.”

Not all of our conversations were spent on “doom and gloom” topics, for we talked about Lyla and Brynn-and the impending birth of Brant and Sydneys’ son. 

Tres left around mid afternoon and took the lively conversations with him.  The rest of the holiday was was a quiet  at the rabbitpatch, as Christian was still at work  -and the the boxer slept.

 Some of the country folks did some fireworks, in the evening and I watched the colorful lights explode over the tree tops in the distant fields.

Our family gathered on the fifth, as this was when the majority could attend.  We had a noonday meal at my parents’ home.  Will, had to work, or else we would have had a perfect attendance!  The table was laden with chicken, corn on the cob, potatoes, peas, cornbread and two desserts.  We all adored little Brynn as she sat in the very old high chair, with the rest of us.  Lyla sang and danced as her Uncle Christian played the piano.  After the meal, I watched the uncles taking walks with their nieces and helping Lyla care for her doll.   Jenny and I sat on the porch with Sydney fairly glowing “with child” and listened to her dreams for her little son. It was a lovely day, altogether.

Finally, my sleep has regulated to the point of being sensible.  To prove the point, I was in bed before midnight and rose early on Saturday.  At long last, mornings aren’t as cool as they were a few weeks ago and the days are downright hot. I smelled corn growing last night in the sultry air, but the  fragrance of the mimosa blossoms claimed the morning air, today.

The southern heat slows everything down.  Even the birds do not hurry about as they did in May.  The roses produce occasionally, only. Many of the flowers weep for water, now.   The corn in the fields is tasseled out, but the stalks are much slighter  in stature than usual, for we haven’t had a rainy day, in a long while.  Now, the air conditioner roars away, disturbing the peace, but it really is unbearable without it.  Southerners have a strong constitution for heat, but I find yards are empty and porch rockers are still . . and vacant,  by mid day.  

In the evenings, the rabbits come out, just before the stars.  Country rabbits are skittish , compared to their city cousins.  The boxer has always been discouraged from hindering small creatures, but he watches the rabbits with alertness and glances at me, every few seconds, just in case, I change my mind . . .but I never do.

    

I woke on Sunday to a fair morning.  The air was cool and the sky was bright. What a pleasant surprise June has been.  The hateful, southern humidity has been reduced enough to make the month mock the time of early spring. 

I had arrived in Elizabeth City, the evening before.  Now, there was the unpacking to do, from the week of vacation.  Jenny would have  extra laundry, in addition, to the regular demand.  Of course, I was all set to hear  their adventures by the sea.

 Straight  away, I found out that Lyla had built a fair amount of sand castles and had seen lots of pink clouds.  She had not seen a starfish, which had disappointed her, but   she had brought a sea shell  back, to give  to Miss Thelma .  Lyla was sure that the shell was “the fairest of all shells.”

With school closed, I have done an even worse job of keeping up with time, and the days of the week. One day turned into the next, filled with all sorts of tasks. There was always laundry, Brynn needed rocking and  there were meals to be cooked, on any given day.  Stories were told everyday and Lylas’ dolls needed fresh dresses.  Brynn practiced her walking and blowing kisses.  Will went back to work.  He kept track of the time. 

One day, Lyla and I went to the grocery.  Another day, we made a banana pudding, a few days later, we made brownies.  We read Black Beauty again, for the book is just the first chapter – and we started a new poem.  One afternoon, we all visited with “Aunt J”.  Aunt J is Miss Claudias’ sister.  Oh, how Aunt J misses her sister!  Her eyes well up, at the mention of the memories.  They were sisters, neighbors and friends, after all. 

The loss of a loved one, is a heavy burden to bear, I think. Few things in life rival the toll of that particular kind of loss.  Time may dull the hurt and render it more bearable, but today, I still miss my maternal grandmother . . . and she died fifty years ago.  I will say, the first years are always worse. than those to come. 

 I came home on Thursday, in order to attend a doctors’ appointment for Daddy.  It was to be a quick turn around, for I was cooking on Saturday, for a gathering, in Elizabeth City.  As it turned out, a crisis awaited .  . . Someone as dear to me as anyone else, had landed in a huge catastrophe.  Mama called in the midst of it all, to say Daddys’ appointment had been cancelled. 

It was midnight, before, I had calmed myself enough to sleep.

On Friday, around noon, “the dust had settled” just enough for me to collect myself and head back to Elizabeth City. The grass is growing everywhere . . .but under my feet.

Though, I had been away but  a full day, Lyla acted as if she hadn’t seen me since Christmas!  Even little Brynn danced in her moms’ arms and squealed in delight at the sight of me.  That gave me quite a bit of joy.  

The reason for my quick return, was  that gathering.   It was being held  for Mandy and her husband.  Mandy is the one, I have written of before, who started her own business, Pansy & Ivy.  She is a dear friend to Jenny, and dear to me as well.  Sadly, Mandy and her family are moving to Florida.   I had volunteered to make a main dish, for her “going away” party, hence, a good deal of Saturday, was spent in the kitchen. 

The event had been planned out carefully.  Sarah Noble, another dear one, was hosting it and never does anything small. . .so she didn’t this time either.  Jennys’ account of the party convinced me that Sarah had given Mandy  a beautiful “send off”.

The rest of my time in the “village by the river”, was spent helping with chores, cooking and best of all, spending time with my grandchildren.  There was a stroll with both girls in the double carriage.  There were songs sung softly while swinging on the front porch and the daily “stories” to be told.  Brynn crawled and clapped her little hands.   Lyla danced around the willow tree and so the days passed, sweetly.  

Such things provide a deep sense of contentment for me.  They are bright moments.  -and having the better part of a year,laden with disappointments and loss, those moments especially make all the difference.

 I have had quite a variety of seasons, in my sixty years.  Many, and most of them, have been joyful.  A few were not.  Some occasions, warranted emotional recovery . . .they have always warranted courage, as well.  My faith, supplied both.  Still,  I stumbled at times with clumsy, faltering steps.  Fear, was often the culprit and seemed to be lurking in every shadow.  The older, I grew, the more I realised that fear, disguises itself in a crafty fashion, always pretending to be something else.

Thank Goodness for grandchildren and a front porch swing.  . . and  that no matter the conditions, tiger lilies and laughing rivers abide.  There is something about their steadfastness, that is reassuring.  “The rock”, that Lyla and I linger upon, offers a deep sense of comfort. . .and so do the majestic magnolias, that live across the street.  There is just something about nature that affords a dependable – and powerful nurturing, for my spirit, for I do not feel that I am only in the presence of rocks and trees  and blooming things-but also in the Presence, of the Hand that created them.   . .and without fail . . . I am better for having gone their way.

 

 

 

 

 

I rose early on “Fathers’ Day”.  It was the first day, I had been at the rabbitpatch, since school had adjourned.  Will and Jenny were at the beach, Christian had to work, Brant was in the mountains . . .well everybody was somewhere else.  I was cooking a “Sunday dinner” and taking stock of what project to tackle, this week.  

The morning was quiet and unlike the mornings, I spent on the porch, at Jennys’. this past week.  No one walks a dog in the “Farm Life” community.  There are no joggers -or walkers, and certainly no skateboards going by the house.  I can not imagine living in a major city, for even a small town, perched on the banks of a river, offers a life of contrast.   I like both.  I used to spend part of the summer time in Wilmington, which is not a small town. Brant lived in a townhouse community.  The neighbors were a friendly lot and the place was full of old trees and flowers-and so tidy.  I took walks daily, but other than that, I was “housebound”.  Traffic there was a nightmare for me.  There is no courtesy amongst drivers, for it seems they are everyone late for something. Whenever, I got a ride to a grocery, I made it count.  

I cleaned the porch, while a load of laundry washed and a pot of green beans simmered.  I heard my grandmothers voice, reminding me to “season the water first, before adding the beans”.  I never understood this practice, but I practice it faithfully, because Grandmama did.  Besides, Grandmama was an exceptional cook.  She used  ingredients of quality and cooked with a tender spirit and a gentle hand.  She did not cook hurriedly, either.  My eyes still sting, at her memory.

I made JoDees’ barbecued chicken , for that takes the better of two hours and potato salad for Mama, as with it being “Fathers’ Day”, the dishes most all, centered around Daddy.  A cinnamon cake, chocked full of raisins, was baked for dessert.  When it was all finished, the dishes were packed up like a grand picnic parcel for today I was bringing “Sunday dinner” to them.

Of course, I am bound to sing the praises of my dad to today, especially.  When you are a child, and know no different, what a good father does, does not seem spectacular .  My own dad worked-long and hard hours.  Though we were taught to be thrifty and sensible, I was never made aware of any time there was a lack of money.  I never heard my parent argue.  “Sass” was not tolerated and “sass” included tone of voice and flippancy.  Mama taught us sterling manners-Daddy made sure, we “minded” Mama.  Daddy took  fatherhood seriously.  He was not the sort of man, to read books to us, though I do remember him reading me a “little Golden Book” which ironically, was “The Tale of Peter Rabbit- and another one . . “The Billy Goats Gruff”.   Daddy taught us other things, not found in books.  He taught us  how to saddle our ponies, constellations . .and leaf and bird identification.  He bought us sturdy shoes and winter coats, and flew kites with us.  I could not appreciate such things, as a child.  I had never gone without a good nights’ sleep, nor worked in sleet and hateful heat.  I had no knowledge of what it meant to provide for another living soul.  I was ignorant of working all the overtime you could, to buy dolls and tea sets for Christmas – and eating out of a lunch box, every day. Fathers do such things, at least mine did.  . .and what a thankless job, it can be, for years.  

Thankfully, I have lived long enough, to realise  the advantage I have, in having a good father.  Thankfully, he can know, my gratitude for it .

On Monday, I got up when I felt the notion-in spite of a clock.  I still got up early, but to have the liberty of that decision, felt good.  It was a clear morning.  A young mimosa was blooming for the first time in a delicate shade of pink.  The thing is full of feathery blossoms and though it grows in an inconvenient place, I haven’t the heart to remove it. . .and most especially, now.  Mimosa trees are so common, here.  They adorn the edges of field and wood- and come up in flower beds -and sidewalks.  The trees are quite tropical looking, with palm like branches, that always mange to grow in a graceful canopy form.  The abundance of the mimosa, does not decrease its’ value to me. I love them, as my grandmother did-and Jenny does now.  I remember laying with Brant, under a mimosa, when he was but days old.  It was one of the first times, he was outside, and I couldn’t wait to show him the beauty of the world, he’d come too.

I had two projects on my agenda -but didn’t attempt either of them.  I dreaded both of the tasks, truthfully. One was painting the kitchen ceiling and the other was painting the front porch.  I decided to put off, today, what might get done tomorrow.  Besides I was weeks behind in reading and I have not written nearly as much as my heart desired, as of lately.  I did cook, for I organised the freezer.  There was nothing to discard, but plenty to cook. I washed some laundry, and I read page after page after page, til the rabbitpatch was bathed in moon shine – and at last, my obligations were satisfied. 

On Tuesday, I behaved as I did on Monday, upon rising.  Early light fell in bright splashes on the territory-so that was what time it was.  I did not dally, but went straight away, to find the paint for the ceiling.  I sat it out in plain sight, so that the gumption might well  up inside me to paint that ceiling.  In the meantime I put on a large pot of chicken to stew.  I was wanting to try to make a chopped barbecue, using chicken.  Now, this goes against  my southern roots.  Eastern NC barbecue is highly regarded as the best there is, and rightfully so.  It is made painfully slow, with pork roasted over a wood fire.  Stewed chicken,  is a far cry, from that, but I had some recently-and liked it.  I will season it, and chop it, as if it were pork . . and hope for the best, though I may not breathe a word of it, to my neighbors.

By noon, I was sick of ladders and painting, altogether.  It was also apparent that it would take the best part of the day to finish.  . . . longer than I had expected. . .like everything else, I start.  Since the cabinets are white, the bright ceiling made them appear dingy.  There was nothing to do, but to paint them too. I took a good many breaks, but each time that I climbed down, meant another time to climb up, too.  I wanted to stop many times, but I knew I could finish it today.  When the kitchen is closed down -well, it is awful around here.

Everything was finished and the kitchen clean . . .around midnight.

Daddy had an early appointment at a hospital, in a neighboring town, on Wednesday morning.  That turned out just like my kitchen project,  .  . . dreadfully, under estimated.  I regretted not carrying a book, as I usually do, but we all expected to be home by lunch. We got home , just before supper.  Thankfully, all turned out good for daddy.   We took great comfort in that.

With all the imagination, nurtured in me, I hadn’t enough to see my daddy in a wheelchair, or my mother putting his shoes on, for him.  I knew, they would both grow older, as we all do . . as I do, but it always seemed a far away time . . .too far to think about on any given day, thus far.  My parents seemed as ordinary as other folks, when I was growing up . . .now as I watch them, a half century later, holding hands ,  united in heart and spirit, throughout all seasons, I understand, finally, that they have never been ordinary people.  They were always great people, doing the  ordinary things,  life called for.   

It seems  as if I under estimate, most everything.

 

 

The last few days have flown by like a “whirlwind”.  When “the dust settled”. children had graduated and a closing ceremony, concluded the school year.  I headed straight away to Elizabeth City, for  Jenny has a lot more on her plate than usual.   . .besides, I never turn down a chance, to see my children and grandchildren and will traipse headlong , at the drop of a hat. But, Jenny has two appointments this week and has to pack for a week at the beach.  She must bring linens, towels, kitchen necessities and toys, besides clothes and toiletries, for their week by the sea.

The weather feels like September!  The humidity is so low, that a neighbor informed us the records have been broken.  This allows the “laughing river” to turn that beautiful shade of indigo.  With the lawns being an emerald green just now, the village, is a lovely sight altogether.  One day, I took Lyla and Brynn on a long stroll in a double stroller.  Brynn sat up and took note of everything.  It was a windy day, and we all loved it.  Everything is blooming.  We stopped under a magnolia tree, just to drink in the scent of the saucer size blossoms.  Not long after we stopped again, in our tracks, on the sidewalk, for the wind was filled with the smell of the Cape Jasmine .  We stood there and let the wind blow around us, til we had the notion to move on. Lyla learned about hydrangeas, this day, for most every yard has one.  A kind lady was working in her yard and gave us several for a bouquet.   What a lovely day! 

Baby Brynn had a doctors’ appointment one day.  While she and Jenny attended that, Lyla and I went to “The Recycled Reader”  which was just a few shoppes down.  Book stores  are one place I like to shop.  Now, regular readers know, that I am on a mission, to live with less . . .still I bought THIRTEEN books, this day.  Most were for others.  I found a “Black Beauty” book, for young children actually using Sewells’ original words and illustrated beautifully.   I am quite a snob when it comes to books for my grandchildren.   I just will not tolerate poor quality in books, and most especially for children. I shutter at the watered down version of the classics and the cartoonish quality of many.   I also found two for my future grandson-also well written .    I found a book for Jenny and one for Will and several for me from the “Covington Series”.  What a jackpot for me, as these books are hard to find.  Lyla enjoyed herself as much as I did.  I have a feeling, we will go again, shortly. . .and carry a bigger bag!

Friday was Brants’ birthday.  Brant is my oldest child and he is the one expecting his own first child. . .my first grandson.  He and Sydney are in the mountains, on vacation, so we had to make due with a phone call.  Brant is a beautiful human inside and out.  He is far from shallow and is as compassionate a soul as I know of. If this sounds like bragging . . it is because I am.  He has never lived anywhere, that his  neighbors (especially the seniors), did not love him.  Children too – and dogs.  There is  just something about Brant.  Of course, I adore my children, but I have valid reasons to do so.  . .and Brant is one of them.

Friday was the day of packing.  The car was cleaned out and strollers were scrubbed down.  It was a full days’ work.   Lyla and I did manage to get in a visit with Miss Thelma.  We carried flowers and cookies and Lyla recited her poems.  Miss Thelma just lost her husband, last week, whom she refers to, “as her best friend for eighty years”.  Her only son passed  a few years back, so how tragic.  I hope to spend many hours with her this summer, for I have come to love Miss Thelma, and am quite distressed about her situation. 

 Lately, it seems a lot of sadness has plagued  our family.  I can scarce recover from one thing, til it seems another has sprang up.  What a toll it takes.   Sometimes, I feel like I have been in a perpetual state of mourning, for quite a spell.   My grandmama used to say, “There is ALWAYS something to worry you . .if you let it .”   (My elders used the word “worry” when they meant “bother”.) She was right.   

One of the truest test, life offers, is what to do with “bother”.  It is a skill that will be required by all of us and I am convinced, may be one of our most significant factors, in our overall happiness . . .and our health.  I sat on the porch swing, Friday night and wondered about all of it. I admit, that life had been going smoothly, for me for a long stretch and I grew accustomed to that.  The next thing I know, is that one thing after another unfolded, resulting in loss of loved ones, doors slamming on hopes and threatening circumstances, for several of my dearest ones.  I am not at liberty to “tell all” just now, but rest assured, I am not exaggerating.  I am in the proverbial “rough patch” and “things could always get worse” does not comfort me one iota, for yes, I believe  it!   . . .and meanwhile, the eyes of my children are upon me- and I realise, that I am still “teaching them” – about what to do with “bother”. 

I sat on the swing, when the village was quiet, and there was no sign “of man”, for a while, sorting out each care – as if I would come up with solutions.  I found myself to be quite dull, at such a task and decided to just “Be still” -as it is written. This is much easier, said, than done.  

Saturday morning dawned cool and bright. The very first thought, that I had was “to just love everybody”.  How odd, I thought, for such a thing to pop in your head upon awakening!  I could not recall a single dream, but somehow, the idea rang true and I felt it deeply stirring within my heart.  I had no explanation for it, for I doubted any conditions had changed over night, but I could not deny feeling more peaceful, than I had in a fortnight. . .that had changed.  My concerns were still intact, but I felt more able to bear them.  Love seemed especially powerful -and enough. 

I  gently got out of bed, so as not to wake Lyla.  I sat on the front porch again – and listened to the robins chattering, as they fed their young.  Somewhere a mimosa bloomed, for it made its’ presence known in the morning breeze.  The willow swayed gracefully, giving in to the desire of the wind.  It was like watching poetry.   . . a natural choreography . . as is so often found in nature.   

When I grow up, I want to be like that willow.

   

 

 

On Monday, the sale of the rabbitpatch, fell through.  It was disappointing,to say the least.  The thing I had going for me, was experience, this time around.  In December, the deal was off, just two days before closing.  It was a horrible shock at the time and dampened my spirits considerably – and right before Christmas.  Well, I carried on with high hopes, for the coming spring.

Though, I was better prepared, this time, I can say,  there was not an absence of some melancholy.  I had not even put the house on the market, when a prospective buyer approached me.  In all honesty, both of us thought it would work out.  

Lest, anyone think, that I spend all of my life, watching sparrows and talking to trees, I want you to know, that such things were not on my mind, that day.  I shed a few quiet tears and then I got grumpy.  Of course, all sorts of noble thoughts kept popping in my head.  “It was not the right time” -“the best is yet to come” and on and on.  I dismissed them all, for I needed to mourn. I wanted to mourn.  I was frustrated and felt stranded.   It was not my best moment.

I went out to say good night to the world, despite my poor behavior.  The pine trees were whispering and a dove cooed sweetly.  A pair of young rabbits were frolicking in the star shine, like all was well.  

I woke early on Tuesday.  It was a cool morning . The sweet country air came through the open window . . . and a mockingbird sang.  The realization of the “failed attempt” washed over me again, with a slighter sting, than the day before.  Every verse, I knew about trust and faith sprang up in my thoughts, while I prepared for work.  This annoyed me, to no end.

On a brighter note, it was Sydneys’ birthday. Dear Sydney glowing and so content    – so full of hope and joy as she awaits the birth of her little son.  . .and my first grandson.  What a beautiful time it is for all of us. Few times are sweeter than waiting for a baby, I think.  Everything else, I was thinking about started to pale in comparison, to that.

I wish I could say that I abandoned my gloomy thoughts, but I did not feel a conclusion for a while.  Really, I just wanted a direction to follow.  I came to doubt the whole business.  I wondered how a path that seemed laid before me, would be so hindered.  Of course, I thought that maybe the “timing” was off.  I pondered it all til I was weary of it.  That is when, things got suddenly clear.  It occurred to me, that  I either trusted . . or I didn’t.  It was as simple as that. . . I decided to trust. 

Later, I laughed at myself, for acting as if selling a house- or not, could have caused such an internal commotion .  What a big and unnecessary  production!   In my defense, though . . .this has gone on for a while and there are plenty more details, I am not yet at liberty, to tell.  Not one of them is small, either. 

 I have no idea, how I will continue to manage this territory -or how I will pay for it.  The house and property are bigger than they used to be and like me . . .older.  I still deeply desire a smaller rabbitpatch,   but for now,  I will trust in this winding journey with its, “blind spots” and twists, after all, I am not going it, alone.  I needn’t even be brave, I just have to trust.

Dear Friends of the Rabbitpatch, I write this in hope that  your own disappointments will be few . . but also knowing they are as certain as rain, to come along on occasion.  At such times, we are bound to falter . . .as I did . . and make mountains of molehills . . . as I did.  Should anyone find themselves, in such circumstances, I did not want them to feel lonesome .  I have a fair share of short comings . .  .but at least I am in “Good Company” as I go along.  The truth is . . .We all are.

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Temperatures have been rising steadily . . .til now it is hot.  Even the steady breeze is too warm to afford any comfort.  There hasn’t been a drop of rain in a fortnight, and so the lilies are complaining along with the roses.  The grass at the rabbitpatch hasn’t grown an inch, since my neighbor, Susan mowed it two weeks ago.  What a saint Susan is!

 With “summer weather” showing up early, we cut the air conditions on, in the old farmhouse.  This is dreadfully early for such measures, but the hateful southern humidity is just  an unbearable heritage.  The forecast calls for rain and cooler temps in the next few days, so hopefully, this is a short lived affair.

A pleasant thing happened on Thursday.  Tres came home!  He is here for just a few days, but long enough for me to make a supper and for  Mama to make his favorite cake.  We had a small belated birthday celebration at Mama and Daddys’.  And in the midst of it, rain came.  It was really a quick thunderstorm, but we were all happy about it.  Cool air came with it and what a difference that made. I drove back to the rabbitpatch at dusk, when fireflies were on the wing.  What a pretty picture it made, to see their flickering shine in the evening mist.  I came home and cut that air conditioner off.

If things had been different, I would have taken Friday off.  Tres had spent the night, after all.  

Friday passed quickly.  I left just after school, for Elizabeth City.  The sky was a threatening shade of blue and now and then a shower fell for a mile or so.  The young corn, in the fields held their blades tight, for this is the way, corn begs for rain.  

Along the way, my friend Rae called.  Rae and I have been friends for more than thirty years, which shocks me to think about.  When a friendship endures for that long,  you really “understand” one another, deeply.  Several years ago, Raes’ whole life changed in a flash.   First, her job ended – and a month later, her husband died , suddenly.  Both of her sons had recently married and so Rae was a widow, dealing with an empty nest, all at once. . .and no job to distract her.  I am sure those were the bleakest years, for her.  Still, my friend trudged on, til today, when she called to say she was married … . .and happily.  I smiled the whole way to Elizabeth City.

Not  too long, after I arrived at the Riverside Village, by the “laughing river”, a thunderstorm struck.  Lyla and I listened to the storm, safely snuggled in bed.   Like me, Lyla loves rain-and a thunderstorm.

The next morning, was quite cool, such a shock from the last week.  There were morning showers, but by noon, the sun was shining.  It was as lovely day, as I have ever seen.  Will and Jenny were attending a downtown festival and so the bright day was perfect, for that.  I had a stroll planned for Lyla and Brynn, but alas, Lyla fell asleep and just before she woke, so did Brynn.

On Sunday morning, I made biscuits for breakfast.  With the cool weather, lingering, Will and I sat on the porch. Somehow, we started talking about books.  Both of us agreed, that with all of the modern ways to read, holding a book and turning the pages, remains our favorite form, of the pastime.  Our favorite books, sit on our shelves, and become like old friends , over the years.  I will read a good book more than once.

Back, when I was young, and the world was safer, Mama would drop my sister and I off at the local library, while she shopped for groceries.  Delores and I took the library as serious business, and observed the quiet policy, and we were very careful to return books to the correct place on the shelves.  After we had checked out our selections, we would wait for Mama under the huge magnolia trees, just outside the door of the library, reading our books.  To this day, the innocence  of those happy days, moves me to tears.

Lyla and I carried Miss Thelma  some biscuits while they were still warm.  After a short visit, Lyla and I headed to the grocery.  This was to be a short visit, and though I knew this full well, I dreaded leaving.  The time had gone cruelly fast, but I consoled myself that I would be afforded greater liberty soon.

I left in a light rain that quickly turned to a blinding rain.  When it started hailing, I turned back.  It was a  short but perilous journey.  The crashing hail was deafening and I couldn’t  see but an arms’ length, beyond me.    

 

 

 

The days of late spring, continue to come and go in the most delightful fashion.  It is a bit warmer, now, but in the absence of humidity, it is a pleasant thing to be outside.  Right now, the rabbitpatch territory is tidy  and full of blooms.  It is highly likely, to see the wild rabbits now, scampering about in the evening. .  .and the birds sing nonstop.  Foxglove blooms in odd places and I am glad of it.  The elderberry joins the ranks of the foxglove, claiming  any available  spot on the territory.

I love neat lawns that look tended, for they look loved, but too  much tending and then the place looks too controlled, to suit me.  As much as I can, I let “nature take its’ course” – of course,  this does not apply to the greedy thorned vines nor poison ivy, that I do battle with regularly.  Yet I also love rambling roses, that spill carelessly  on the lawn and flowering bushes with flowing tendrils, left to their  own devices.  

I left right after school on Friday, for Elizabeth City. I had not been there for a several weeks.  First one thing and then another had come up.  It was a beautiful day to drive and the highway  traffic was light for a holiday weekend.

I drove past the sprawling fields , now a tender shade of green.  “Queen Annes’ Lace”  was blooming all along the roadside and so were the wild day lilies.  I love an arrangement of the two.  When paired, neither look like mere, roadside flowers. The three rivers I cross sparkled enough, to rival a large cluster of diamonds. The highway, now familiar, offered all sorts of beautiful tokens.

Of course, there was a sweet reunion, when I walked in the back door, of Jennys’ home.  No one is ever as glad to see me, as Lyla.   She ran down the stairs calling out “Honeybee!”  Little Brynn did wave and smile sweetly, tucked safe in her mothers’ arms.  What a beautiful baby she is.  The old fashion word “bonnie” comes to mind and just suits her.

 That night, agendas were made.  Projects for Jenny and I, like cleaning out the pantry.  Lyla and I would make a strawberry cake, and visit with Miss Thelma, besides stories and “lessons”, for I always have a few “up my sleeve”.  Lyla especially loves poetry.

On Saturday, Lyla and I went to the grocery, for she was especially anxious to make the cake.  When Lyla and I shop for groceries, I do not rush hastily as is my usual practice.  Instead, we gather each of the produce items,  and I always have Lyla find them.  Next, is the bakery section.  We look at all the decorated cakes, leisurely.  Then, the fresh cut bouquets, which Lyla always checks for  sleepy fairies and on we go, til at last we have completed the list.  Lyla is always very concerned if we buy anything that is not on her mamas’ list.

We made the cake that very day and made strawberry whipped creme, too.  While we worked in the kitchen, I played, Duettino Sull ‘ Aria, which I declare  is one of the most beautiful pieces ever written.  Lyla loved it, and so did little Brynn, in her high chair.

We carried some of the cake, to Miss Thelma, who was sitting on her porch, watching birds.At ninety three, Miss Thelma remains “sharp as a tack”.  She taught school for over thirty years and I am certain, that her students were “happy little larks”, for Miss Thelma is a gentle and loving soul.  Lyla loves to recite her poetry, for Miss Thelma for Miss Thelma showers her with praise and declares her “bright”.

Sunday was Tres’ birthday.  It is always odd to me, when one of my children have a birthday, and I am not with them.  It matters little to me, that they are all grown.  I always remember their birth and the details surrounding it, on their birthdays.  I suppose all mothers do.  I did get to talk to Tres. He had spent the day doing school work and had at least, scored 100 on a calculus exam.   . .and yes  -I am bragging,  without shame, for I am a fan!  I always have been.

One day, Jenny and I did get the pantry cleaned out and reorganized.  That was a huge mess.  On that same day, Will and Jenny both wanted a banana pudding.  We had a special supper planned as well.  We ended up inviting Brooks and Mandy, and daughter Riley, to join us.  Mandy is the one who started a florist business called “Pansy & Ivy”, which ended up being a sweet success.  I still remember her first arrangement.  It was lovely and a far cry above the usual.  Mandy seemed to be a natural and her face nearly glowed.  When she left, I told Jenny, “There is someone who has found her passion.” . . .and I was right. 

Another day, and I say that for I lost track of the days, Jenny and I organized the nursery and made plans to go through Brynns’ clothes, again.  It will not be the grand effort it was, a few months ago.  I can scarce believe that “Baby Brynn” is now crawling, waving and standing! But she proved it this week end by getting out of her cradle, on her own!  What a shock it was for all of us!  I suspect that cradle will be passed along to Brant and Sydney, shortly, for their little son, due in September.

There were many bright moments, during my visit, but one I hold especially dear.  Early one morning, Lyla and I were sitting on the front porch swing.  It was a beautiful morning with a slight breeze that made the willow dance gracefully.  Lyla awakes full of chatter and this day, she wanted me to tell a story about “Gypsy”, a naughty doll in our saga.  I somehow, convinced Lyla, that surely Gypsy was still sleeping, for I’d  had but a bit of coffee. I also said how good it was for us, to just sit quietly sometimes.  So, she did.

A few minutes later, she slipped her little hand in mine, though she sat as still as a mouse, and said “I want to talk to Jesus.”  She meant,  that she wanted me to pray . . .and so I did.  We prayed in thanksgiving for robins and willow trees and Lyla chimed in with “and apples”.  Next she said “all the old people” and then “all the   babies, most especially Brynn and her future cousin”- She next added “all of the Japanese children’, for she is learning a song in Japanese.  Well, a lot of the world got blessed that morning at our “early service”.    I know for certain, that I was.

 

 

I do not believe, I have ever seen a more beautiful spring, for this one lingers.  Mostly, a southern spring is a few weeks of pleasant weather and then it is hot and full of humidity.  Not so, this year.  The whole week has hosted days filled with sunshine and nights just cool enough for a light blanket.  The mornings warrant a light sweater.  Birds sing day and night.  . .and now the magnolia blooms, lending a sweet fragrance to the air. Rain has tapered to an occasional shower, making each day, the perfect day for a picnic.

It remains busier than usual at school.  The grand event, of the dances from around the world, is tomorrow and so that will lighten my duties, considerably. There are mere weeks left in the school year anyway.  I tell myself, that someday soon, I will read  books again and think about things like geraniums and curtains.   , ,and on some morning, maybe a Tuesday, I will stroll with my grandchildren. by the laughing river. These are  the kind of things, I hope for.

The contents of a life have great variation.  What satisfies one person, seems dull to another and unfulfilling.  Even a single lifetime varies from one season to another.  What was once necessary, no longer is. What was once sought, is no longer desired. Our needs change and our values may as well.   Sometimes, we must broaden our former thoughts and sometimes, we may need to  use greater precision.   Hopefully, we refine our lives as we go along and discard accordingly, else our own authenticity may be hidden from plain sight.  I have often wondered if finding our own truth, and daring to live it, may be the quest of mankind.  What if it really were as simple as that? 

On Friday, the day dawned bright.  The forecast promised  ideal weather for the open air program.  Since, one of the dances, featured a may pole, this was especially good news.  I spent the whole day consumed in details and answering questions.  It was more exhausting, than dancing with the children.  . .and a lot less fun.  

The program was held in the evening, just as the sun hung low on the horizon.  Every class performed exceptionally well and so I went home “as happy as a lark”.

Daybreak on Saturday, was a far cry from the cool dawns of the past  week days.  All of my bragging about the spectacular weather, must cease now, as the temperatures have risen to “about hot” and is expected to remain so, from here on.  In this case, I packed the rest of the blankets away, today.  The prospective buyer, who has seen the house before, is coming this week-maybe tomorrow.  I have been in a state of limbo, for such a long while, that I  am used to it. Of course, it would be wonderful if the thing works out, but if it doesn’t . . .well there are worse things, than living on this rabbitpatch.  Up until a few short years ago, you couldn’t “have moved me with a shovel”!  When ever, the affair, is over, I will write about the “accident” that landed me here, in the first place. . . (and by “accident” I mean, “Divine Intervention”).

Will and Jenny came in town for a birthday celebration.  They met me at my parents’ house, to drop the little girls off.  Brant and Sydney were with them, and so there was a “short, but sweet” reunion for me. Sydney  is “fairly glowing”  these days.  Being “with child” agrees with her.   It has been several long weeks, since I have seen Lyla and Brynn, which is way too long for any of us. It nearly melted my heart, to hear Lyla call out “Honeybee!” and dive in to my arms. Brynn, was a bit unsure, but managed to smile, when I started  to sing, “You are my Sunshine”.  

Mama showed Lyla a bird nest, full of baby robins.  What a pretty picture, they made, walking “hand -in hand”  in the long slanted rays of  late day sunshine.  Later, there was “hide and seek” and then supper.  Brynn was growing less tolerant and finally, she cried.  No amount of swinging or singing consoled  her.  Brynn wanted her mama, and no one else would do.  Mama built a tower of wooden blocks, and Brynn did hush and  watch  intently.  In moments, Jenny walked in and all was well with Brynn,  again, at that moment. 

I drove home under the “Flower Moon”, –   whose name has a lovely ring to it.  There it was, above the fields like a golden lantern, shining its’ light on all peoples, animal wild and tame, wildflowers and fancy roses . . .old trees and saplings, alike.  Oh, if we were all as generous as that dear “Flower Moon”!  

Dear Rabbitpatch Diary- I am grateful for nests of baby birds and magnolias . . and days fit for picnics. and . . . the light of a blue moon.

 

The Sunday, that we call  Mothers’ Day, began with a light rain.  I slept a bit later, because of that.  Few things are as pleasant, as waking to rain, and no place to have to go. 

Tres had called last night, and we had a long deep conversation.  We talked about all sorts of things from “the state of the nation” to the Bible , the environment and current research in medicines . . .and space.  We talked about Einstein, too-well we talked for a while.  A conversation with Tres, is never dull.  He will call again today with warm greetings, as he can not come home.  At least, he is finished with school, for a short time.

Christian had to work today.  Will and Jenny are on a vacation.  Kyle is away and so my holiday , will be with Brant and Christian, when Christian gets out of the “rat race”.  We decided to eat at home, as I can not bear the thought of any restaurant on Mothers’ Day.  It is the worst day of the year, I know of, to eat out.  Besides, I will take any chance I can get, to cook for my children.

In light of all this, the morning was calm and quiet at the rabbitpatch. I took full advantage of the lack of duties.  I knew full well, that a lot of folks were already busy preparing for gatherings, but I did not envy them one bit.  It soothed me deeply to have a morning lacking details.  Certainly, I am all for, celebrating our mothers,  and I suppose that I would be singing a different tune, if my clan was all able to get here. 

Rest assured I consider, motherhood, one of the most sacred states, that this life offers.  For me, being a mother, has been the blessing, that I hold most dear.  . .and  I will be the first to say, that having a good mother is sterling . . . I ought to know, as my own mother is just that. 

My mothers’ generation did not lament over the work of raising children and running a home.  Mama  never “announced” the almost daily sacrifices she made,   nor  “denying her own dreams” to be a mother. Truthfully, I do not believe she considered, putting her childrens’ needs first, a sacrifice and I think being a mother, may have been her dream.  I admit, I agree with her.  Mama made being a mother, “a valuable contribution, to this earth” and one to take seriously. It is hard for me to think of a more noble endeavor, myself.  After all, what does it matter if we own a kingdom, or rule a dynasty, if our children are spending a childhood in the shadows of such accomplishments?    

Motherhood is a complicated affair, and no matter how  and the decade we do it, it takes the wisdom of Solomon and the patience of Job.  Parents, must be a “jack of all trades” and today, more than ever, maybe.  There is an overload of  available information, that convinces us , we are bound to do something wrong.  Unfortunately,   many families are often not even in close proximity, any longer, and so young parents,  are without the  constant and vital support of previous generations.    Things like fevers, and teething, poison ivy and bee stings   take a toll, on young shoulders.   . .and that is only the beginning.  

When our children are little, we are far busier than we will ever be again.  We do our best to teach them to become independent.  We are consumed, in those early years, with the numerous details that go along with the days. Then, the children really do grow up . . .and it seems, in a flash!   Suddenly, there are less settings at the table and the laundry is more manageable.  Bedrooms are cleaned and stay that way. Now mothers have to adjust, to that.  The once, constant activity slows  now, and so mothers get still, so everyone else can move.  It has always been this way .  Some things do not change. Some things really are the same, every where.   Motherhood, is an understanding, that could bind women, from every continent, from every way of life, together.

No matter, how times have changed, no matter how circumstances are presently, the thing that remains, that covers us all, is love,  and that is the greatest inheritance we can bestow, upon our children.   I have said it before, but it bears repeating . .and remembering . . “If you were born, to a good mother, then  “you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth.” 

 

When May came, it did not come “empty handed”,  but instead bearing gifts.  Surely, nature is at its’ finest, just now.  Every day has been drenched in golden sunlight.  “The heavens have been declaring the glory of God . . and the firmament, His handiwork.”  Dappled shade falls on the territory, where a few short weeks ago, it did not.   Every day is born with cool air that is  filled with  melody.   . .and something blooms everywhere.

Now, the wild honeysuckle blossoms sweetly taint the night air and the fireflies, which we call “lightening bugs” –  are out in great numbers, flashing in the pines.   If the days are golden, then the nights are surely silver. 

Now is the time to buy geraniums  and strawberries.  Blankets  sought in January, now are packed away and window fans hum softly, at the rabbitpatch.  Even the kitchen table  reflects the season, for chowders and roasts smothered in gravy, will now be replaced with lighter fare.  

No matter how mindful I remain of this lovely season, one day seems to turn in to another “behind my back”!  I am quite busy at work, as is usual for the last weeks, in any school.  I am also busy at the rabbitpatch, where the fence needs mending and the grass grows unreasonably fast.  Most every day, the boxer and I take an evening walk around the territory to survey the unfolding beauty of the landscape  -and to note what ought to be done next.  Still, the days pass and when I do look at a calendar, I am always shocked!  

One evening, I noticed the “Mothers’ Day”    rose ,was beginning to blossom.  The pale pink roses are the small roses, like that of the “ladybanks” rose.  The sprawling bush climbs a fence in the corner of the “Quiet Garden”  and blooms faithfully at “Mothers’ Day”  . . hence, my name for it.  That is why I looked at the calendar, at all.  In light of the news, my sisters and I met Thursday and went out to eat, with Mama and Daddy, at a local restaurant.  Connie, a nurse had been in class all day.  Connie is much younger than, I am, and I suppose that is how she mustered the energy, to join us.  Delores, lives near Raleigh, and had driven in that day.  Both of my sisters are able to honor busy schedules, while I am not.  In contrast, I am  on a mission to declutter   my life, as if it were a pantry! Still, “Mothers’ Day” is upon us and my own dear mother, deserves her day. 

On Sunday, my sister, Connie is hosting a picnic, at her home on Lake Phelps.  Mama and Daddy are going to that. Connie and husband Mike, will cook for an army, that day, as if it were a “second nature”.  We are all invited.  My own children, who “take after their mother” are   still working on the plan . . . for tomorrow!  Will and Jenny are leaving today for a vacation – or else Jenny would have herded her brothers, like a devoted shepherd, and covered details.  Jenny, born second of the five, has always been like a “second mother to her brothers.   I see her now with Lyla and Brynn, and declare she is a natural   at the art of mothering.   Thankfully, Jenny is loving AND sensible, with her own children and her brothers, who often depend on her advice.  My children are devoted to me . . .and to one another . . and this thrills me to no end.  

On Saturday morning, I had some housekeeping to do, and the  list compiled from my mental notes, taken on the evening strolls, around the rabbitpatch.  I have a party, quite interested in buying the rabbitpatch, coming this week.  Though, I haven’t a bit of the former anxiety, regarding the sale of the place, I do want things tidy.  The truth is, I want things tidy, anyway.  I like things in a proper place.  I am not opposed to a jacket on a sofa or a pair of shoes, by the door, but I do like order. My pocketbook is the only exception to that rule, for that has always been an impossible quest, for me.  Money is tossed in, like I have plenty of it and there are often chocolate wrappers, and receipts for all sorts of things.  There is always a book, in case I have to wait, for something, somewhere-and a small notebook to write in, for notions strike me at odd times.  My mothers’ pocketbook, on the other hand is a wonder, all to itself.

I have read several essays on aprons- and their many uses, besides cooking.  They hold apples and eggs,  and even dry tears .  Grandmamas’ apron did those things and more – and when my Aunt Josie died, I asked for her faded , thin  apron.  . . but my mothers’ pocketbook even rivals an apron.  That pocketbook still hold all sorts of remedies.  There are band aids, tissues and, if a headache or a sore throat, a nagging cough or pangs of hunger arise . . the remedy is in that pocketbook.  There is a stash of money hidden in some dark corner of it, folded neatly . . .just in case . . and things for nails and hair.  I think if you wanted to write and mail a letter, the supplies for that . .are likely, in there.  In fact, for all I know, there could be an apron – in that pocketbook. . .along with a rain bonnet, of course.  I  simply, can not live up to my Mamas’ “cure all” pocketbook.

By noon, I was sure I had done a full days’ work.  The light of day did not offer any indication of the hour, as clouds had muted any chance of telling time by the sun.  Lunch revived me enough to plow on and I ended up, accomplishing enough, to have a holiday tomorrow  – no matter what plans, unfold.

 

 

It has been a while, since I had a day without some sort of obligation or some place to be .  Under such circumstance, I was drinking coffee at the “morning table”, when the day arrived.  I listened to the mockingbird sing a prelude, and watched the sun rise, shyly over the old barn.  The fragrance of morning, drifted in the open window and this day I could smell the wild privets blooming in the young woods.

For a while, the world was a silent and peaceful place, then a dove took flight, and shattered the spell with its’ alarm of impending doom.  When a dove coos, I declare it as a beautiful sound as this world offers.  His song is capable of putting one in a trance , in a total state of contentment . . .when the dove flies, its’ song could startle a rock!  The dove always seems in a state of panic, when it flies. 

Last night I heard a “Bobwhite”.  I am convinced,  I will always feel young when I hear a bobwhite, for a flood of memories wash over me like a sudden rain, every time.  I do not know why, but learning about birds, was  as important as learning your abcs when I was a child.  The lesson on the bobwhite has remained vivid in my mind throughout the many passing decades. The bobwhite sings his name and if you whistle back, he will answer!  I clearly remember when Daddy demonstrated this.  I was quite young and was amazed that when Daddy whistled back, the Bobwhite did too!  Now, I have never been able to really whistle.  Kyle can whistle with clear trills and on pitch.  My whistle sounds like something is in dire need – and it is almost too late. . .however the bobwhite , is a courteous bird and will answer the most feeble attempt.  I do not hear a bobwhite, without calling back . . .and also remembering the unfaded magic of those long ago twilights.

By mid morning, clouds had moved in, making the constant breeze cool and so very pleasant.  I have the usual chores to accomplish and in addition, there is that one last room in the farmhouse, that needs to be scrubbed.  I am also going to  tend  to those awful vines at the back of the property, for left unchecked, they can give shade in  just days!  There is also the small pasture, now vacant, since the grand children were born.  It needs to be mowed.  If “idle hands are the devils’ workshop”, as Grandmama used to warn us, then I suppose the rabbitpatch has been a remedy for that.

Not long after noon, I tackled the vines.  It is a dreaded task, as you must cut and then pull the hateful, itchy things off their victims.   A the same time you are looking out for snakes and bees that sting.   The day was almost sultry, on top of that.  Of course there was more work to be done than I thought behind the barn.  I decided to take a break.  On the way to the house, I passed the cherry tree and to my delight-there were cherries on it!!  Now, not enough to make a pie, but it was the first time, the thing had produced fruit.  I had taken the half dead tree from a neighbor, who had bought it, with good intentions, but left it in the pot a few years.  I happened to be there, when they were tossing it in a burn pile and asked for it.  That was almost a decade ago.  Every year, the tree bore blossoms, but no fruit.  I remained on good terms with the tree,  as it was pretty in spring and so fragrant.  I overlooked the absence of fruit . . and quit expecting it.  I saw the cherries and forgot I was hot, dirty and tired! 

Christian and I tackled the pasture in the late afternoon.  The thick grass was knee deep and you had to mow painfully slow .  We used a push mower, for that is what we had.  We took turns so it wouldn’t kill either of us.  We ran out of gas, with about ten minutes left of mowing.  It was almost dark anyway.

I was tireder, afterwards, than I have been in a long time.  A bath felt the best is has in a long time,   , . .and the grilled cheese, for supper, well , that was the best, I could do.

When I first moved to the rabbitpatch, many days were like today.  It mattered little to us, that we didn’t have TV, for we worked so hard, that after a bath and supper, we wanted to go to bed.  My elders used to say “hard work never killed anybody” . . maybe that is true, but a few times, it at least came close to that.  We made an entire garden, with shovels!  It is a big garden sight, too.  That was hard.  There was the time, the  Roofers came, and I had the bright idea, that to save money, we would do the clean up.  That remains the hardest work that I have ever done and I was sorry, almost immediately.  Shingles are heavy!!  I was amazed at at how the young men would toss a bundle on their shoulder and then climb a ladder!    By about day three, the yard was covered in broken shingles as we were way behind.  When the crew drove up, I was out there with a bucket, picking up shingles and barely able to walk.  The men jumped out of the truck, like spring chickens, and began spreading a huge blue tarp.  Next, they began tossing the shingles in the middle of it.  They told me just to throw what I could on the tarp.  Well, this was a different game, altogether. Then,  it dawned on me, that the tarp would have to be emptied and the horror of that, sunk in.  In a state of panic, I asked, how that could happen?  The crew said they would empty it . . .and hours later, after three days of watching them work, in that awful back breaking work, they did,  To this day, I am full of admiration for roofers. 

Another job, that tops my list, was making the path in the patch of young woods.  We did everything by hand.  We cut the trees, with hand saws.  Then cut them up to burn.  We removed vines that had trunks!  The vines had been there for years and had choked many trees , that we were cutting.  The vines clearly “owned the joint” .  Removing the roots of the trees, with a hand tool, was maybe the worst job of all, and when we were successful, we would yell out to one another, our victory.  One particular night, I was so tired, I didn’t think, that I could walk back to the house.  I was filthy and my back was hurting, so that I stepped oddly.  I came in, put a sheet on a sofa and laid down.  I was too tired to even eat.  The phone rang several times, but I was dozing and let it ring.  Next my young neighbor, Molly came bounding in the back door, calling out “Michele, your barn is about to be on fire!”  I sprang off the couch and nearly ran!  Molly, was the one calling . . .and she was right about the circumstances.  The fire I had started and put out, was made on peat soil and peat will burn underground.  Smoke was rising in several places, a long ways from, the burn pile .  Now, we had to carry water, in buckets from the house to the woods.  Her children helped and they were so very young.  Kyles’ friends drove up, and in the midst of their greetings, I interrupted and screamed, ” bring water!!”    Hours later, it was all over.  Molly had saved the barn .  I have never made a fire, on that soil, since.

I remembered these things, tonight – and many other such occasions , of the same nature, as well.  Of course, I was younger then and blissfully ignorant of what it would take to make a home, out of the remnants of a farm.  . . but the rabbitpatch proved to me . . .that it can be done.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Everything is coming up roses’ at the rabbitpatch!  The rose bushes are full of blossoms and it makes a stroll through  the territory a grand event . Miss Sylvias’ irises are blooming too.  They are so named, in her memory.  Their watery blue color is striking and so cheerful, at the entrance of the drive way.  Now all of the grass is green and the lilies are up and full of promises.  New leaves adorn the old trees and quiver tenderly in the constant breeze.

The morning dawned silvery.  Not long after a light shower fell.  Tres had spent the night here, but he had stayed up pretty late with , Kyle and Christian, for someone who was smoking pork at six am.  Christian, was up first and he made extra coffee, as Tres loves coffee as much as I do. 

I decided, to take it easy today and just do what was required for housekeeping.  Maybe I would cut the wild vines as they grow with great vigor.  It would at least keep them at bay, for a bit.   I have often wished vegetables grew with the same vitality as those hateful vines.  I had laundry washing, by the time Tres and Kyle were up.  We had a light breakfast and then Tres went out to inspect the car and the mower.  That is my Tres.  He reminds me so much of my daddy, who always walked in my house and found repairs needed somewhere.   Once, when Jenny was little, she piped up and said “Granddaddy, you just want something to be broke!” She was maybe four, but had learned the circumstances, – and ( had not learned to use the word, Broken, instead.)  I still chuckle, remembering.  

Tres left around mid afternoon and so the holiday was officially over.  I did collect some branches,  that were strewn again, all over the place – and I did cut some vines.  I packed another box and that was about it.  I also spent some time in front of a window fan, which I declare is as pleasant, as can be.  It is a worthwhile practice and I look forward to using fans each year.

This time of year, at school we are preparing for the folk dance program.  The dances come from all over the world. This means that I am outside all day watching the children perform and dancing with them often.  On the day of the program, the children will don clothing that reflects the country they have been studying.  They will also prepare foods and display art from places like Colombia, South Africa and the Dominican Republic.  These days, I sleep especially well, but few things are as lovely, as children dancing in the sunshine , in spring.  

The fireflies are back!   With such good weather, I am back in the habit of going out each night to bid the world good night – and so I have seen them twinkling, this past week.  The first one of the season, flew very close to my face, and I was sure a star was falling on me!  It was startling – but I laughed a good bit later, about it.  A night or two later, another thing happened . . .  I keep the windows up, this time of year, and I heard rustling sound just outside the window, by my beloved morning table.  I ignored it, but it kept getting closer and closer.  The boxer didn’t seem concerned, but I was.  Surely the sounds were footsteps and  were approaching the back door.  It was just after twilight, and I couldn’t see a thing, so at last, I mustered the courage to go see.  I stepped cautiously out, and “screamed like a banshee” for a young rabbit hopped onto the door step with me !

 

 Now, the sweetest month, May has arrived, like a well loved friend, that was sorely missed.  It is no wonder to me that the birthstone for May is the emerald.  . .for in May, the fields and woodlands are all shades of green and even the most hesitant flora, will  bloom in May.  This is the month for picnics, if there ever was one, for pesky creatures, like mosquitoes are scarce for now- and so are  the dreaded flies of summer.  Once, I brought a baby home in May and how delighted I was to sit on a front porch swing with Tres when he was but days old.  Maybe it is for that reason, that I am very partial  to May.

Every May, I remember, that  children were allowed to go barefoot, on May 1st, when I was growing up.  But  in those days,  of long ago, things were different.  I was richly blessed with a lot of loving adults, who indulged us with rich memories.  We were children, but highly involved in the day to day tasks, meals and all aspects of life on that little farm.  Looking back, I do not know how the grown folks did it all.  I learned nursery rhymes, songs and Bible verses in the old barn, and in the garden and in the kitchen.  There was also the faithful clothes line and the back porch, where beans were snapped or shelled.  Stories were told and songs were sung. We wrote our abcs’ in the dirt, for the first available adult to check. . .and the World Book Encyclopedias, was a required reading.

Sometimes, however, a task just did not require the assistance of a child and so we were sent to play untethered . . mostly.  To keep us safe, all sorts of notions were put in our heads.  If we played in the ditch (by the road) we would surely get the “ditch itch” – and  that is the way,  we were kept out of the road.   No one ever talked to me about the possibilities of snakes or black widows, being under the house . . for the devil himself, lived there!  I can say truthfully, not one of us met our demise under any house.  The well would swallow a child whole, so none of us drowned either.  If you stayed out after dark, you were not only late for supper, but there was the chance, that a bat would make a nest in your hair-hence no one was late for supper.  We kept our shoes on too, . . .to avoid the “Hong Kong” flu, which would kill you, . . .  before the first of May.

In this way, we all managed to live to grow up.  . .and tell about it. 

Dear Diary, I love the gentle, fair time of May, when the wild becomes tender and “flowers appear on the earth.”