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Once again, it is Friday.  Friday is never a dull day when I am working.  It is easier to get up in the morning, no matter the conditions . . .for it is Friday!  Coming home feels especially liberating and hopefulness abounds in the prospect of some time that belongs to you.  Whether you plan to do housework, or read or go hiking, there is a beautiful element to “owning your life”.  It is a truer form of wealth to me, than money ever dared to be.  

Holding my laughing Brynn, or telling Lyla a story, walking amongst the old trees with the boxer, playing music with Christian-all of these things are priceless to me. I do not mind living frugally to afford these hours.  I practiced the same habits, when my children were young, hence my pockets are filled with yesterdays’ gold, and so are theirs.  I have more regrets, than I wish, but “taking to the woods in October, for a picnic” on a Tuesday, is not one of them.   

This does not mean that I am not an advocate for work, but the saying “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy”  does seem to ring dreadfully true. Finding  your own balance is a  quest to pursue with great fervor, for it makes all the  difference in our life . . .and what skill, it requires, for the scales tilt, first one way and then another, as we go along, depending on our circumstances. What once worked, no longer does and off we go again, adjusting and adapting, according to our current needs.  Balance is truly a lifelong endeavor, but the reward is also, lifelong.

This weekend is no ordinary weekend at the rabbit patch.  Tomorrow is Christians’ birthday.  Birthday ceremonies are not only for the day, at the rabbitpatch.  We start before the eve of the special day and finish up, several days later.  Only Christians’ favorite foods will be on the menu and  he will be on “light duty” too. 

Christian is my fourth and last son-and the youngest of five.  He is not without fault, but they are few and far between.  Worldly things hold little attraction for Christian-they never have.  He is bored with trends and has never followed shallow dreams.  He is compassionate, gentle, humble and an artist, to the core.  He is one of the most spiritual people I know and has served as a beacon to me, on countless occasions.  If it sounds like I am a doting mother, it is because I am.  I do not bear a bit of shame in it, either.  Far be it from me to make light of such a beautiful gift.

It is also Miss Thelmas’ birthday.  Miss Thelma lives across the street from Jenny.  Tomorrow will be Miss Thelmas’ ninety fifth birthday!  She has been so excited.  She explained to me, that she did not have a big wedding.  She married just after World War II and the world was still recovering.  She had a son , who passed a few years ago.  Her husband is bed ridden, but has a clear mind, at 96!  She told me today, that seeing her name in the Church Bulletin was just thrilling!  

I met Miss Thelma several years ago, when Jenny and Will moved in to Riverside, the old village by the “laughing river”.  A few weeks later, Miss Thelma came over with a card and candy, to welcome them.  She was a striking lady with long silvery hair.  Her smile was just beautiful.  We struck up a conversation and became fast friends.  She has done a good bit of traveling, and was head of the NC teachers for almost a decade.  To her credit, she STILL has students, that come to visit her, thirty years after retirement! 

Tomorrow, is a “red letter” day, in these parts!

I did not scurry a bit today.  I did make a caramel cake for Christian.  I have talked about it enough, that he wanted one too.  I did laundry and other housekeeping tasks.  I like to leave my house clean and orderly on Monday mornings, and it will be here sooner rather than later.  

Though it rained again, last night, it did not rain today.  I took a stroll around the rabbit patch in the still grey day. The boxer was with me as we explored the aftermath of winter.  It really wasn’t as bad as I thought.  There were branches, but all were small and manageable.  The wind had brought in debris, which was found lodged in the old fence.  The peach trees behind the barn were blooming, and  so were the daffodils, making bright patches of bright yellow here and there.  The forecast declares a stretch of dry, sunny weather, ahead . . . and so maybe, all  hope is not lost for an abundant and colorful spring, after all. 

Christian and I were up early on Sunday.  He opened his presents, while a light rain fell.  I was to play for Miss Thelmas’ birthday reception, so I hadn’t a moment to waste. It didn’t help a bit, that we had to change the time, as well.  I received notice from two loved ones of bad news. just moments before I needed to leave.   . .and so I left the rabbitpatch with a heavy heart.

It was a mild day and a friendly breeze was blowing.  I drove to Elizabeth City, in rain and shine, for it would rain for a few miles, and  then sunshine dappled the highway, the next few.  I had to really concentrate on my driving, for I do not take sorrow lightly.

I barely made the service on time,  which was very unsettling.   The house Miss Claudia lived in, was just a street over, and how hollow I felt, all over again.  What an awful time to be so full of sorrow – and late!  I walked in to a church full of friendly folks.  The pastor could not hide the relief, at seeing me.   Neither could Miss Thelma, who was lovely as ever and fairly glowing.  Somehow I manged the first song with a heart, not yet stilled.  Listening to the sermon, improved my spirits, for the message was about the dependability of Christ.  The second song came easier than the first, thankfully.  

 

The ride back to the rabbitpatch, was much like the one, away from it.  This time I noticed the blooming, stark white pear trees and the wildflowers growing everywhere.  Sunbeams fell tenderly over the fields.  How, I wondered, could a day hold so much beauty, be also filled with tragedy?  

I had not been home long, when a dear friend, for over a decade, dropped by.  Gayle and I were neighbors for a good while.  She was steadfast and dependable, when my husband was sick.  She dependably cared for my youngest sons and fed us all.   When storms blew in, we got in the habit of cooking a joint supper.   Today, she brought me a sweet picture of a rabbit.  Her visit did me good, for we sat around the kitchen table,  chatting, as if we still saw each other daily. 

Afterwards, the boxer and I walked around the territory.  I gathered more branches and collected a small bag of trash  . . .again.  All sorts of birds were flying about and singing cheerfully.  I found a patch of wild violets. . . . and  Dear Rabbitpatch Diary,  I love  violets. 

What a mixed batch, the weekend was.  Celebrations and calamities all at once, grey skies and sunlight.  Oh how glad I am for old friends and violets.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is hard to say whether or not “March came in like a lion”, for February made such a spectacle of itself, masquerading like the late days of April.  Either way it is the time of March -the time of daffodils and wind.

I came to Elizabeth City on Thursday.  A cold wind blew and rain soon followed.  It didn’t matter for Jenny and I had plenty to do -and it was inside work. We had high hopes of changing out the wardrobes of both girls.  I thought that would take   the best part of a day.  We also had planned a special supper for Wills’ “Aunt J” and his sister, Mari.  We wanted to go to a new grocery store and I wanted to make a caramel cake.  I  have never made one from scratch, and the icing takes a long while to make, for it must simmer for about two hours.  There was a lot to do, for we were not short on lofty notions.

Lyla always celebrates my arrival by running in to my arms and then hugs  me for a long while.   It is always a wonderful feeling-to know you are so loved.  Brynn has been warming up to me over the last month and now she is quite satisfied in my arms.  One thing, I can say with certainty, is that it is a wonderful blessing to be a grandparent. 

 Jenny and I started switching the clothes out on Friday morning.  I had forgotten that Jenny has a small group of mothers that pass clothes along to one another.  There were four or five bins to sort.  Each bin was holding the maximum amount of little dresses, coats pajamas, socks and every other article of clothing you can imagine.  First we sorted by size, then by season.  Of course, first we had to sort through the clothes. the girls had out grown.  Stacks of clothes soon filled the bedroom, for  mothers, with younger children and ones for Brynn to grow in to.  It took all day just to get to that point.  Then it was time to wash all to be used.  That happened on Saturday.  As we went along, we cleaned the closet out, as it seemed foolish not to do so.  Now here it is Sunday morning and there is still one bin left!

There was a lot of activity amongst the birds this morning.  There were doves and the robin that sits on the fence surveying the goings and comings of everyone, was in his usual post.  He always sits in the same spot, and does not stir from it, in my presence. There were sparrows and wrens – and some noisy blackbirds.  A pair of cardinals were frantically on some mission and then . . .I saw the Tanager.  I had to look twice.  He was as red as could be, and made the cardinals “pale in comparison”.  I have only seen these birds a  time or two, in the last  few years.  I do hope, he decides to stay.

Will and Jenny met friends for brunch.  Will has had such loss recently, first his beloved mother, then someone he admired, a mentor and a friend -and last week he lost his oldest and best friend to a sudden and fatal pancreas attack.  Well, the friends of Will and Jenny just wanted to do something to lift their spirits, hence, a brunch.  The little girls stayed with me and it was a delightful and calm hour. 

When they  all returned, I walked to Miss Thelmas’ for a quick visit.  She has a birthday, this coming Sunday, on the same day as Christian!  Miss Thelma is turning ninety-five!  She has been planning a party, for weeks.  She showed me her napkins and she has party favors for all of the children.  Her church will host the event.  I am playing the violin, at her request, during the service.  I am trying to persuade Christian to play with me.  A good guitarist, like love, does cover a “multitude of sins”.  I helped Miss Thelma choose an outfit and listened to her grand plans.  It made me glad to see her so full of joy and anticipation.  Jenny and I started on the last of the clothing, when I got back. 

It took all afternoon, to wash and place the clothes in the drawers and closet -or into a half dozen piles with different destinations.  By evening. the piles were packed and some sent on their way.  The upstairs bedroom was orderly at last. Jenny and I were so tired, that we ordered supper out.  Lyla was tired too, from trying on one dress after another . . . and shoes . . .and coats.   I took a shower and told Jenny, how good it felt and that I was restored, body and soul, from those wicked stairs and sitting on the floor for hours.  When Jenny got her shower, I asked happily how she felt and she said . . . “exhausted.”

Another thing I can say with certainty, is that Lyla and Brynn do not need any clothing for the next several seasons -and at this rate, Brynn may never need anything til she is in the fourth grade!  It is a sensible practice, but it does require an amazing amount of effort.  . .and so I never did make that caramel cake.

It rained again that night.  Rain fell and  muted the street lights.  There was wind too.  Lyla watched the young willow, from the nursery willow.  The bare tendrils swirled gracefully.  Lyla loves the willow.  She loves to play under it when the leaves fill the branches, for it makes the perfect canopy to dance beneath-or to have a tea party.  Lylas was upset that the willow was bare, so I explained to her that the earth was just resting.  Now, Lyla loves the willow, but the other day, she was in the back yard talking to a little fig tree.  I heard her say “Grow little tree!”  I know you can!”  Jenny says that Lyla often talks to the fig tree.    I may be the only grandmother alive, that would say so, but this thrilled me with no end.  It will come as no surprise that I talked to trees when I was but a child. It came about quite naturally.   . .and I still do.

Before I left Elizabeth City, I noticed a few green, tender leaves on one of the branches of Lylas’ willow tree.  I told her and she ran to the porch to see for herself.  

Dear Rabbitpatch Diary,   In a world so changed, from the one I knew, and I fear, some beauty lost ,   . . . I will remain hopeful . .    for as long as children talk to trees. . . there is hope.

It was not raining when I woke on Sunday. There was a bit of wind rattling the bare oak branches and the sky was that now familiar, pale pewter color.  I noticed the forsythia is in bloom, which I call “golden rod” as my Pop always did.  Pop, my maternal grandfather loved the bright yellow blooms of the forsythia, but he always refused to call them by their rightful name.  To him they were golden rods, and there was no convincing him otherwise.  I never see one, that I do not remember him and today was no different.  If sunshine could bloom, it would be called “golden rod”.

Now, today I must focus on tidying up the  old farm house.  Plenty of things are in the wrong place, which always ends up in  a catastrophe.  Also, I am getting ready for selling the rabbitpatch.  This requires a great deal of preparation.  I do not mind looking at houses with flaws, for I can see past them.  Some folks can not.  Will can not.  Once, we were looking at an adorable home.  I loved it, but Will said “The walls are purple!”  and dismissed it as impossible!   My friend Jo Dee and I looked at a dear cottage, but the yard was in need of mowing – and had been.  Jo Dee could not imagine the yard tidy nor mowed!  I must take that, into account.  I remember the first time someone came to look at  the rabbitpatch.  (Remember that every closet and cabinet is fair game.)  When it was over, I prayed they would buy it and that would be the end of the nightmare!

I had hoped to begin again in February, but just now, the landscape is so dull, save the spirea and the “golden rod”.  I love the winter landscape, but I can not deny the splendor of spring at the rabbitpatch.  I suspect some folks would be persuaded in spring, more so, than the fading days of February.  . . and most especially, when the peach trees bloom.

It was a pleasant surprise, when the sun came out, in the mid afternoon.  I had put some of the windows up, since there was a mild breeze blowing.  I was as convinced as the spirea, that spring was just around the corner and then I chided myself, for falling so easily for “fools’ gold”-  if it is the prelude to spring, it will be the earliest one, I have ever known.  I do hope no one starts their garden now or anytime soon, for it is mid April, before the danger of frost is truly past.

Meals are served at odd hours under such circumstances, as deep cleaning.  We ate a late breakfast, skipped lunch and had an early supper.  I finished all of the rooms but three and was satisfied with the progress.  The last three rooms will be done, when I can get to them.  The yard is in shambles presently, but  that will require several days-long days, to complete.  

I went out,  when night had fallen.  The stars shone brightly.  I felt like they were long lost friends, come back at last.  Orions’ belt was bold and glittered like a strand of  rare diamonds.  I tarried briefly, in the star shine letting it wash over me like an ancient tonic . . .

Now Monday came along, and that changed everything.  The sun came up, heralding the day with a burst of golden glory.  It has been a while, since the day dawned in such a way.  I had a good day at work and came home to wait for Mama and Daddy and the boys.  Mama and Daddy were worried, because my refrigerator wasn’t cooling as it ought to, due to the seal.  I had been tolerating it a while , but that wouldn’t do, for Mama and Daddy.  I pulled the old refrigerator out, cleaned behind it and unloaded the contents.  I even decided to start supper and all was well, when they pulled up.  Besides the refrigerator, they had a puppy !  He was a tiny thing and looked like a little boxer.  He was found on a road, without a near by house.  The boys asked the residents of the few houses down the road, but no one knew anything about the little fellow.  I guessed him to be only five to six weeks old.  Thankfully, my parents’ neighbor was planning to rescue a dog, and had just been approved, to do so.  We agreed to keep him tonight, so she could prepare and make an appointment with a veterinarian.  I think sadly, he was abandoned.   His little eyes were still tinged with blue. I gave him some warm milk, which he gulped greedily.  Daddy held the puppy tenderly while the boys tended to the many details of replacing a refrigerator. Daddy loves dogs and was very worried about him.  The puppy was soon fast asleep in Daddys’ arms.  In the midst of the new appliance and the puppy and supper, someone called to say they were interested in the rabbitpatch.  What a lot of commotion in that hour!   

After supper and after a bath for the puppy, I had a pleasant conversation with the woman interested in the house.  They currently live in a very old house, not so far away.  I told her the awful truths of the place and did not sugar coat a thing. . . though I did also say, that the place had more charm , than any place I have ever lived, for that is also true.  We have an appointment, in the near future.

Tuesdays’ sunshine made the ornamental pears bloom . . .and the daffodils,too.   The drive to work on Wednesday gave me evidence  of that. It is too late to turn back now, for blossoms are everywhere, frost or not, I will enjoy what the current conditions are affording. . . .and it is lovely. 

Maybe the seasons have shifted.  Scientists even say so.  So many people are glad for shorter winters, but has anyone asked the birds,? for this surely affects their migration habits.  Well, climate really affects every living thing.  It is an amazing but sobering subject.  We ought to all practice good stewardship of this planet, we call home.  This is one “bandwagon” we all should be on.  It is bewildering to me, that this does not dominate headlines, as we will none escape this predicament unscathed.  Instead, the networks cover who wore what to some event. . . Dear Rabbitpatch Diary,  every day I sound older, I realise.

On a brighter note, the little foundling, went to his new home today.  The lady that took him, said she had just been praying for a puppy – the right puppy to adopt, when the boys showed up with him.  I take great joy and comfort in that.  

May they live happily ever after.

 

 

It is Friday again and it seems it was just Friday, a few days ago!  Here we are in the “short rows” of winter, already.  I notice that seasons, now seem but a few weeks, and the years zip pass, too.  

As a child the time between Christmases, seemed like an eternity – the same can be said for birthdays.  Summers were really endless, in my youth, though they were never long enough to suit me.   I remember my elders would talk about something that happened twenty years ago, as if it were just last year.  I thought they were “mad” for  they always seemed startled, when they realised, it was decades ago, that the barn was that old, or since they had  seen a certain cousin.  Now, I understand fully well, their predicament.  . . and as it turns out, I am every bit as mad now, as they ever dared to be.

It is raining again, as it has most every day, for weeks. The rabbitpatch sits on high ground and rarely a puddle forms here.  The yard is a soggy mess now and there are puddles. Some folks can hardly walk in their yards and cars are getting stuck regularly .  I have read that we have more rain this year than any other year, recorded – and I believe it.  In that case,  I am perfectly content sitting under a soft blanket, by the morning table.    I still have books to read and I need to write in my journals.  I haven’t baked bread as often as I wanted too, nor practiced sketching. . . and here we are in the twilight of winter!

Some people are glad of it.  I however, am not prone to “wish time away” . . .well, not entire seasons, at least.  I am as guilty as can be, when it comes to “official appointments” of any sort. 

 

It was still raining Saturday morning, when I woke.  I had heard it falling throughout the night.  At first light, I looked out the window and  the scene reminded me of a black and white photograph.  Little silver droplets clung to the old oak and with just  a bit of imagination, it looked like the old oak was decorated with tiny lights. It was a beautiful picture and I dwelled on it for a while. 

I decided to make a pot of soup, as I am apt to on rainy days.  By now, it is almost a ritual for me.  I hardly ever make soup, unless it is winter.  I will make the tomato basil in months like June, but again,  only if it rains. I was out of carrots, but I did have a small sweet potato, which is a fine substitute . . and so before ten o’clock, the kitchen smelled like home.  

Tonight,  Mama and I are teaming up for supper, so I have more cooking to do.  I think I will make apple dumplings, for Brant is coming and he especially loves apples.    Mama is cooking a pork roast and so I will probably  fry cornbread, as it pairs well with pork.  Nobody will mind that we had it last weekend, either.  I had been thinking to cook a pot of green beans too.  They would  be a good side with our supper fare, but alas, when I had the pot of seasoning boiling, the greenbeans in the freezer, turned out to be broccoli.  It was a shock, as I had planned on the menu, for days.  After a bit, the thing became funny-though Daddy won’t think so. 

There is always housework, and today I will tackle that.  Still, Saturday seems like a soft breeze, compared to days like Tuesday.  

As is always the case, the day slipped by til it was time to make the apple dumplings.  I wanted them to be warm when we ate them. They cooked all to pieces.  Of course we can eat them, for the taste is really almost divine, but they aren’t  the usual cute little dumplings.  It was just a day of humbling, for me.

As I got ready to walk out the door, the rain picked up and fell with the most force of the day.  Evening came early, with the dense clouds blanketing the sky and so it was almost dark as I traveled the back roads.  I did see a few deer, but they were in the fields, grazing safely, out of harms’ way. 

The supper was enjoyable, even without the string beans – and even though the dumplings weren’t at all attractive.  Mamas’ roast was tender and the cornbread was golden and crispy.  Of course, every meal is better when shared with loved ones.

It was pitch dark, when I drove back to the rabbitpatch.  Thank goodness, the “creeks didn’t rise” while I was out, though they might, shortly.   The forecast calls for rain again tomorrow, after all.  The countryside was  so quiet.  Silvery fog hung thick over the fields and covered up the stars, without a bit of mercy.  Then there were the stretches of the journey through the woods . I thought of all the beauty this world affords us, as I drove along, for mist over woodlands is a thing of beauty.  A lifetime is just not long enough to take it all in.   

At last, I reached the friendly lights of the rabbitpatch, and stepped out of that magical, silent world into  the presence of a joyful dog, celebrating my return, the way all dogs do.  . .then I called Mama to let her know that I was home “safe and sound”.   Another thing of beauty . . .is to be loved.

  

Friday has a different “feel” to it, in months like February, when the school year is in full swing.  It does not have the same affect in the summer months. By the time the wild honeysuckle vines are clambering up the woodland trees, I often have lost all track of what day it is.   . .but oh, in February, Friday means something.  If I stay at the rabbitpatch on the weekend, I do not cook supper and I abandon chores too.  . .at least on Friday night.  

Today was warm and a slight breeze blew, tenderly.  I feel much younger, than I really am, on such days.  I have no idea why,  but I always do. Sometimes, there is just no “rhyme or reason” for  things.    The spirea continues to proceed with great haste .  It blooms now – because it can, in this  “mock spring”, by a little shed, near the edge of the woods.  I painted the shed a watery shade of blue, years  ago.  The shed has never been used much, but the original owner, wrote his name and the year in the cement floor. . .and so I kept the shed, for no other reason.  Years later I planted the spirea.  There is a grave there of a dog -a collie who was beloved and was a companion to the original family, according to Miss Sylvia, who is now, also passed.  The spirea almost shades his resting place now. 

On Saturday morning, I woke to the sound of a light rain.  If the sun shines and the warm temperatures remain, I suppose that peach tree will bloom, shortly.  I did not spring from bed, as only a week day  warrants that.  I lingered instead, in the good fortune of a soft blanket and a loyal dog sleeping by my feet.  The rain fell gently, without a hint of malice.  How wonderful to wake without a sense of rush and obligation, I thought. 

 I eventually had coffee and read a beautiful article on forgiveness, which I took to heart.  There were things to do but all were some of my favorites.  We gather tomorrow, for Mamas’  birthday celebration and so I had some cooking to do.   I also had some housekeeping  to do.  I believe in equal pay for women and fair treatment, but I would be a poor representative of the current movement, for I am so content cooking and cleaning.  I wish I had time to bake on a Tuesday as I used to.  I have a domestic old fashioned heart and tending to babies may always be the most satisfying work I have ever done.  Above all else, on this earth . . .I love “hearth and home.” 

I also plan to practice my calligraphy today. I suppose, this is becoming a lost art and not nearly as useful as it was years ago, but I like it and practicing is as peaceful a project as I know of.  I will also  study edible flowers.  I have used violets and pansies for years on cakes and in salads, but there is a much broader spectrum of choices. . .besides I always devote myself to studying flowers in February-and neither calligraphy nor gardening should yield  anything, but plenty of inspiration. 

Last weekend, as I have written, was very busy.  Jenny was hurrying to get the little girls dressed and I looked at Will and winked, for I knew full well, that Jenny could not be bothered to think about supper.  I think about supper the night before, but Jenny is likely to make a decision just an hour before the meal.  I knew there were a lot of us and we would all certainly  be hungry, by supper, for we always are – so I mustered the courage to ask.  Just as I expected, Jenny replied sharply that she couldn’t think about that at the moment.  Will and I grinned .  Then Will and Jenny mentioned my lack of planning for anything -except meals.  I defended myself by saying I do plan.  Will laughed aloud as he is  always chiding me about my lack of financial planning.  He said “What do you plan?” and I answered  “gardens”.  Will said good naturedly “well, there’s that”.  ( I also plan for Christmas and to prove it, my “Christmas closet” is not empty at this moment . . .but I did not mention that.)

Since, I would be busy in the kitchen, I had the notion to clean out the refrigerator.  I keep the refrigerator very tidy, for every Thursday, I go through the contents, but how every tray and shelf in the thing, needs to be washed, is beyond my wildest imagination.  Next, I inspected the kitchen cabinets and to my dismay, they also needed attention.  All the while, the rain fell and the stove top was full of simmering pots.  . .and I was “happy as a lark”. 

It was well past seven and the  world was pitch dark when I finished in the kitchen. I do not know when it got dark, nor when it got cold.

I slept soundly, which is a benefit of work-and then it was morning.  Today was Mamas’ birthday party.  I knew of several households that, like me, had things to do.  I had finished the most of my cooking yesterday, but you can not make cornbread ahead of time -and so there was that to do.  I had done laundry yesterday, but had piled everything on the kitchen table, so there was that to do as well.  Still, I had ample time to collect my thoughts in the chilly morning moments.  A few of the winter birds sang just as light came to the day.  The countryside was still and silent, other than that.  There is never much traffic and  country dogs do not bark like the ones in town do.  Well, if a country dog barks, you best go see why.   . .at least that is the case here.

There is something about morning that is holy to me.  Once, chores are started or a television is turned on or a phone rings . . .well, such things seem to break the spell.  Each day and night can hold sacred times, but for me it is the morning, most of all.  It is for this reason, that I rise so early, especially on the days I work.   I first take in to account my dreams, which mostly come in flashes.  I pray next and I like to write in the morning, for that is when all sorts of thoughts seem to ascend upon me.  By now, I am drinking coffee.  There is such a  purity  present in the first hours -and truths seem more evident, upon my waking.  Even the sorrows of yesterday  “get put in their place” in the morning.  The night , seemingly, having stolen,  at least, some of their fierce thunder.

The birthday dinner was at one o’clock.  I went early to fry the cornbread there.  It was a smaller gathering than usual, as several family members were out of town.  We were not short on food though.  Mama ought to not to have to cook for two days, as we left her well stocked. 

She is hoping Daddy will take her out to eat anyway . . .and I bet he will.

 

Happy Birthday Mama!

 

 

 

 

 

   

I drove home, from Elizabeth City, a bit later in the day, than I usually do, on Sunday.   The sun was a buttery shade of yellow and was  descending on the pewter horizon.  It was not bright enough, to cast a shadow of trees in winter, on the barren fields.  The low, golden glow of the evening gave the landscape a kind of serenity, as if the heavens were singing a benediction.

The weekend had been full and busy.  On Friday night, I had stayed home with Lyla and Brynn, while Will and Jenny attended the wake for Miss Claudia.  All was going fine, til Brynn started a crying jag.  As I was walking and singing to her, Jennys’ elderly and beloved dog made a puddle on the floor right near the back door.  Within seconds, Lyla came running  and  stepped right in the middle of it.  She slid several feet, which sent her to wailing  – and of course, the phone rang.  I could not hear a word of the caller and simply said “please call back”.  Brant and Sydney came in ( a welcomed sight) and got Lyla in the bathtub and cleaned the puddle.  Brynn remained on her mission to “disturb the peace”, til Jenny came in about half an hour later.

The services for Miss Claudia, were held on Saturday.  It still seems so shocking to write that.  It was comforting to see the large attendance.  Many had driven several hours to pay  their respects, and I think that speaks well of my friend. 

 Afterwards, I dropped in on Miss Thelma, while I was there.  Miss Thelma lives right across the street from Jenny, in a rambling old house on the  laughing river.  She lives with her husband, who is ninety six and bed ridden.  Miss Thelma will be ninety five in March, and she was planning a birthday party for herself,  on this day.  Despite her advanced years, Miss Thelma seemed so youthful as she planned her event. Miss Thelma is very sharp in mind, but terribly confused about the ways of modern society . . .so am I. 

It was pitch dark, when I pulled in to the rabbitpatch, for I had stopped by Mama and Daddys’, first.  This is Mamas’ birthday week.  We will celebrate on Sunday, so there are lots of secrets just now.  

Christian helped me get my things in while Cash pranced around and Christopher Robin purred.  I was in my “house clothes” within minutes.  Now, it was time to “wait for Monday”, which always changes everything. 

I have not yet chosen  my next winter study or else I would have read.  All I know, is that I am going to study some light subject-  I am not in the mood for any subject that requires me to dwell on anything that can be even remotely gloomy -or that requires a lot of complex thinking. 

 I noticed, that the he spirea bush is just beginning to blossom.  I love the delicate masses of fairy tale flowers.  The stark white flowers appear before the leaves and so there is an illusion of floating flowers.  It is mighty early for the spirea to show off, for we are  likely to have at least a “hard frost” from now to April.  The last weeks have been spring like, and it seems the spirea does not “look before it leaps”.  I am hoping against all odds that the peach tree does not follow suit, for the palest pink  blossoms of the peach, are some of my favorite.   I think I could sell the farmstead, quite easily, if the peach tree stayed in bloom. 

It seems to me that February just arrived a few days ago, but alas, Valentines’ Day looms just ahead.  I like this day, though I do not participate in any ridiculous expectations of the day.  To me, that would spoil every thing.  Besides,  I have fond memories of paper hearts and wilted wildflowers, that I hold dear -and remember in February.  Mama used to make a heart shaped cake for us on Valentines Day.  I thought they were beautiful and so fancy.  I will probably bake something or make heart shaped pancakes at the rabbitpatch for supper.  . .and maybe I will bring a sprig of that spirea in, too.  Simplicity keeps holidays so  pure –  and  manageable.  “Big productions” just wilt me, anyway. 

 Speaking of “big productions” . . . I do not watch the evening news, as I used to.  I do try to catch the local weather, so I will know whether or not to warm the car up, the next morning and what kind of clothes will be suitable, too, but  I have tired of the relentless negativity.  I am always shocked at the types of crimes being committed, for they are quite bizarre and  unnatural acts. Then there are the “band wagons”, loaded down with a slew of unhappy folks.  It seems to me that everybody is fighting about something.   There are more “life styles” out there than I dare to imagine  .  Health scares are a dime a dozen and on and on it goes, til at long last, thirty minutes have passed,  and dinner  is ready, if you can still eat.     

If I sound old, it is because I am that old.

 

Oh how grand that the sun til sets in the west as it always has-lighting up the sky with ceremony at the end of the day.  The stars take their familiar places and somewhere, little paper hearts and scraps of  old lace adorn a kitchen table . . . and maybe there is a mother, making a fancy, heart-shaped cake.

 

 

  

 

  

 

 

I came to Elizabeth City, on Friday, after school with high hopes, of all sorts.  The drive was really beautiful.  The three rivers, I cross were full of shining blue water. I thought of the poem “Song of Hiawatha” as I went along.   The day was mild and the forecast was that this would continue for a few days.  I expected this would mean a few strolls around the village with Lyla and Brynn  over the weekend. 

I expected we would all go to Miss Claudias’ shortly after I arrived.  She and I had a project to work on, after all. . . one I devised and she was ready to rush headlong in to!  We had talked about it at the beginning of the week. The doctors said, Miss Claudia  had but a few months left.  The news had been crushing, but Miss Claudia kept us all lifted by her example.  She did not complain but instead went on about her business.

Will was spending nights with his mom, so I thought to stay with Jenny and the little girls, would be helpful.  I was already working on a long term plan.  Christian said he would stay, when I couldn’t.  

Will drove up just a few minutes after I did.  Miss Claudia was sleeping, so it looked like I would see her the next day.

 On Saturday, Will came in for breakfast.  Miss Claudia was not yet up.  Jenny and I thought we could take lunch over, but Miss Claudia was not yet up at noon.  I was concerned, but pushed it aside.  By around three, Jenny called the hospice nurse.  The nurse came and my worse fear was confirmed -Miss Claudia died early on Sunday morning.  She just went to sleep and peacefully drifted away from us, and so very gently,  like a sparrow, bound for home.

 

 We are all in a state of shock. Of course, we are all heartbroken.  It seems like we are all in a  horrid daze.  Will, was shaken as I have never seen him . Lyla said her “Cici” had become an angel, but she “could not understand, why she had to do it now.”

The last few days already seem a blur.  There is so much business to be taken care of with a death.  The first time, I went to her house, was awful  She wasn’t there and the whole thing seemed shocking all over again.  We were all busy and exhausted, so that when a brief lull occurred, . .  .  I was sorry, for the hurt welled up inside, reviving the tragedy all over again.

One day the weather was especially. mild.  Will was tending to all sorts of arrangements and details.  Jenny was doing paperwork and I decided to take Brynn for a stroll. It could have been a day in April.  Birds were singing and in the distance, I heard a tractor.  I felt homesick, for lack of a better word, for everyone and for happy times.  I know we are told repeatedly, to “live in the moment”, but this does not mean we must abandon all memories and  so on this day, I indulged myself, til I was  quite filled with melancholy.

 

It makes no difference the circumstances, loss is hard and may be the worst burden this life offers.  We miss our loved ones, pure and simply put.  Certainly, we are all glad that Miss Claudia was spared further suffering – we are all glad her passing was peaceful,  but that does not bar us from the  painful, deep ache of losing her.

The one time, that Miss Claudia cried about the whole affair, was because, she wouldn’t see Lyla and Brynn grow up and that Brynn wouldn’t even know her.  Now that, still makes me weep.  . .hence, ” our  project” was born.  I thought to create a journal , to tell Miss Claudias’ “story and she was every bit as excited, as I was. It was one of the last things we talked about.  Rest assured, the project will go on, for the dear sister, “Julia” also known as “Aunt J” has agreed to help me. 

I drove home on Wednesday under the same fair conditions, of the last few days.  The service for Miss Claudia is on Saturday, and a lot of things had been taken care of, but how I wished I could have done more.  To see the young shoulders of Will, bearing such grief and my Jenny caring for the children in the midst of it all, caused me to want to turn around and race back to the rescue.  It felt so odd to just return to the routine of my life, as if something significant had not occurred.    

When my grandmother died, I was annoyed that the world just went about its’ merry way, as if it didn’t matter that we lost a beautiful light, which seemed to drastically dim the planet.  That very night, a full moon rose and shined like all was well and  I couldn’t understand how Thanksgiving came anyway, when Uncle Randy had just died. 

I know full well, this may be peculiar thinking, but such thoughts do pop in my head.   . .  much, like the wild dandelions, that spring up without fair warning.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

A lot of people declare that January is the longest month.  I suspect that the commotion in December and the New Year celebrations causes us to get used to a state of perpetual motion.   The quiet of January is in such stark contrast to the gatherings and excitement, the carols and the many details, of the holidays.  Even the food is reduced to average meals- and evenings are quiet affairs with soft blankets and books, or crochet or a good film.  Of course, I feel partial to months like January, on account of this.  The world needs January, I think.  Solitude and quiet times are so seldom, and so very profitable .    January is a fine time to sort your thoughts and to reflect  – and  certainly, there is no harm in that. 

 Every season holds my favorite kind of days, for I am surely fickle.  I declare in winter, that the sunsets are loveliest.  I love a bit of snow and a cheerful fire.  I like early suppers.  Then in April, I nearly swoon when I see the wild violets and proclaim, spring my favorite, after all and on and on I go til the honeysuckle blossoms and the wild rabbits have their young ones.  . .and then  there is the first  crisp day in autumn , when the trees are adorned in scarlet . . .and then the holidays are truly so magical, well,  I am just hopelessly in love all of the time, it seems.

I continue my winter studies.  I have been studying the Bible-specifically, the teachings of Jesus.  This caused me to do a lot of self examination and  I came up quite short of “admirable”.  Thankfully, I do not act on all that pops in my head nor  do  I say it.  You would think at my age, it would be an easy course, to practice my faith – but you would be wrong.  I am as liable to falter now, as ever.  I  spent a good deal of time pondering my desire for a  pure heart and my feeble attempts to claim it.  In the midst of my  complex and deep thinking, I decided  it better to be a robin,  for  the robin, I was watching,  did not seem to be contemplating a thing !   The absurdity of this thought made me laugh and  startle the poor robin.  . .still, I thought about the common little bird-I supposed he was happy being a robin, for no one told him that he ought to be an eagle and it was perfectly fine with him that he did not have the prized voice of the nightingale .  . . I could stand to take a few lessons from that robin,  I thought.

In order to regain a sense of balance, I resumed my reading of “Elizabeths’ German Garden”.   The book has some lovely passages, most especially, if you like gardens.  If you are not a gardener. I fear this book, is not going to be of much interest to you.  Even if you are, you are not going to burn the biscuits, because of this book.  First of all, it took a few chapters for Elizabeth to even leave the garden.  Clearly, Elizabeth feels more tenderly to her flowers, than she does any person ,  still I  liked the book, and may read it again.  It was written in 1898 and  so the  vocabulary is wonderful and besides that, I like reading of a time past. 

I have not watched one iota of television for a week.  It was an experiment of sorts and Christian was in on it too.  As you know, I did a lot of reading and the house  stayed tidier than usual, too.  I went to bed earlier and one night I made gingerbread, from scratch.  I  do not have time to watch a lot of television, but I admit I missed  hearing the familiar voice of the weatherman as I was cooking supper and I was always wondering which old film was playing.  The results are, Christian and I agreed, that we are going to adopt a new habit regarding television.

I am going to Elizabeth City, after school tomorrow.  I am packing all sorts of clothes.  The days have been cold, for the south-and the nights even colder.  We have not had a single snowflake, though.  I simply can not imagine the frigid conditions  north of the rabbitpatch.  Last year, for the first time in my life, the temperature dropped to -6 degrees F!  I had to check on the water pump and without proper clothing.  I expected to perish at any moment.  Conditions are not so drastic now, but it is cold, none the less. 

Rest assured I will call on Miss Claudia, when  I get to Elizabeth City.  She was so happy to know that she has a fan club of  rabbitpatch readers, praying for her. t means everything to her . . .and to me too.

“More things are wrought by prayer, than this world dreams of.”  -T.S. Elliot 

 

 

There is a heavy frost this morning.  The morning sunshine causes it it to sparkle and glisten, as if it were a field of crystals .  The frost was so heavy that I took a second look, to make sure it was frost . . and it was.  All of the rabbit patch was dusted til it looked like a fairy land.  There isn’t a single cloud in the sky and the lone old pine at the front of the yard is boasting heavily of its’ greenery.

A lot of people frown at pines, claiming they are  the most likely to topple in the midst of a storm.  I have found the pine is most likely to topple when someone that doesn’t like them, has a chain saw.  I suspect, that many folks have never heard a pine whisper. 

A few years, after I moved to the rabbitpatch,  we decided to have cable installed.  I watched the technicians  plant a receiver amongst the old trees and felt it could be a mistake, but was not confident enough to say so.  After all, I do not understand the concept of such things.  We had trouble with reception “right off the bat”.  I complained and so a man was sent to find the problem.  Within five minutes, he told me, it was the trees and that I ought to cut them down.  I evenly said “Get off my property.”  I do not know what welled up inside of me, I had never said such a thing –  but to me, it was as if he had spoken against something sacred.  He left immediately and the boys and I trimmed a few of the lower branches and all went well.  We still laugh about it, me especially, for the cable is just a memory now, but the oaks remain steadfast and the pine still whispers.

With today being Saturday,  there is no dreaded rush, which satisfies me deeply.  There is housekeeping of course, but cobwebs stay put, til you are good and ready. I already have curtains in the laundry, soaking  in rose soap and  I did mix up a concoction, to try on the floor.  I had read the recipe and the pictures were quite convincing.  I did not measure exactly as I made the solutions, which was a mistake, as the thing foamed and ran out of the bottle.  It reminded me of the “volcanoes” we used to make in science class.  I sat the bottle of the frantic liquid on the floor and the stuff soon covered a square foot !  As I cleaned it up, I noticed that the floor was as clean as I have ever seen it, where the spill was made!  I will measure next time, for lemon juice and baking soda are apparently a “dynamic duo”.

As the last week of January, looms ahead, I must put the “farm” back on the market.  A part of me, is quite anxious to do so -a part of me dreads it.  I dread the documents, the appointments and regulations,  as I always dread anything “official”.   . .and the long state of chaos of the last ordeal, is still not forgotten.  This time I will have an agent, for they like such business. 

One thing that has happened, is that I no longer feel the least bit frantic or any degree of desperation about my plight in selling.  There is a peace that has somehow nestled deep inside of me.   This does not mean that I want to sell the place less-it means simply, I at last trust that all is as it should be and this will remain the case.  I still look forward to a snug little cottage as much as ever.  I want a smaller property.  I want the freedom, this will afford me to have even more time with children and grandchildren, for I can never have enough of that.  . .  and  I want my children to stop worrying  that the barn will fall down and other such catastrophes – that are all valid. None of that has changed.  . .and be aware, that  in the big picture, this is a lot more than just selling a house.  

We often say, that we have “given things to God”, but I  often reserve a small bit of it, to worry over.  To really give all of a thing “lock, stock and barrel ” over, is  no small feat.  . . at least for me.   It  really makes no sense to bear a burden, anyway and  oh the sweet liberty casting it off, yields. 

As I lament over this predicament, someone dear to me has a different battle going on-one that makes mine insignificant.  Miss Claudia, Wills’ mom and my friend, has been sick for about two years with that hateful disease, we call cancer.  Just recently, she has stopped treatments .  The doctors say, these are her final months, here on earth.  Of course we are all heart broken.  It is like a gloomy cloud hangs right over our heads, now.   Miss Claudia seems stronger, than any of the rest of us.  She just keeps gong about her business, encouraging others and reading to Lyla.  What a pillar of strength and how I admire her.  Heroes casts so many different shadows.  . .and to know even one, is a blessing beyond measure.    I am blessed beyond measure.

 

 

On Friday, the wind changed and suddenly, the climate was remarkably warmer. Daddy had a doctors’ appointment.  Thankfully all went well with that , and  since it is a three day week end, I headed north . . .to Elizabeth City.  I had not seen the grandchildren, since Christmas night, and I think this may have been the longest stretch yet, since Lyla was born, to not have seen them.  On top of that,  Jenny has a birthday on Monday.   “Happy Birthday Jenny!”

The drive over the three bridges,  was lovely.  The sky was interesting enough to be a painting.  One day, I will paint, I thought.  Before, I joined the work force (or the rat race), I painted  and I have lofty notions of doing so again. Ironically, my first drawings were of rabbits!  

Lyla ran to me the minute I walked in the back door.  We hugged for a long while, for we had missed one another.   Brynn, now four months old, looked on with curiosity as  if she was trying to recall a familiar face.  Within a few  minutes, we were on the way to see Wills’ mom  and my friend, Miss Claudia.  We had a nice dinner and the visit was a nice conclusion to the day.

Lyla woke up on Saturday morning, full of ideas about her moms’ birthday, which is on Sunday.  She talked about making a strawberry cake and taking Jenny to Disney World.  She was willing to give all of the money in her piggy bank to make sure that Jenny had a “fun and magical” birthday. We made a card, and Lyla dictated a long  and loving message that ended with how glad she was to have “a beautiful husband and a beautiful wife, for parents”.   . .I agree with all my heart. I could not have hoped for more, for my only grandchildren. “Happy Birthday, Jenny!”

  Will and Jenny went out in the evening.  They met up with several couples that I have come to love, too.   They are  a close knit group and are so thoughtful of one another. Their children call me “Honeybee” . . .well,  they all call me “Honeybee”.  Brynn did a fair share of fussing, but when Jenny came in, both girls were sound asleep.

Now, Sunday morning came and with it rain.  Lyla got up extra early, for she was ready for our first celebration.  We had decided to fix “honey cakes” -fancy ones and topped with whipped cream.  We went about our work and soon the kitchen smelled wonderful with morning aromas .  The  smells of almond honey cakes and coffee  mingled   Lyla carried a bouquet of flowers to present  to her mom, when we were ready to serve.  Of course we had candles and sang the song.  Jenny made a big production about the affair, which delighted Lyla . . . and me too.

After breakfast, Lyla and  I went right back to the kitchen to make the strawberry cream cake.  We used two bowls for that and then a third one  for the icing.  While the cake cooled, we made a blueberry crumble for Miss Claudia.  We spent a good deal of the morning in the kitchen and neither of us were sorry for it. Of course, we listened to music.  Lyla says now, her favorite piece  is “The Swan”.

In the afternoon, Will and Jenny worked on some household chores.  I told Lyla stories -stories about giants and fairies and magic shoes to fly with.  There were kittens and robins and peppermint flowers.  Lyla never turns down a chance to hear stores.  She cried when the talking kitten got lost and Lyla always wants a villain, usually a skeleton or a witch and she bravely speaks her truth, when they show up.  If they do not listen, she calls the police.

  I fixed Jennys’  supper , from her birthday menu, fried chicken, creamed potatoes and turnips and peas.  No one complained, but Will does not like peas.

 I saw the full moon with its’ titles and fanfare.   I only saw a tad of the eclipse though.  I had read enough to know that this was quite a historical event.  I pondered the science and considered the Divine order of such a wonder.  I have never had to perform but simple calculations, and do not pretend to comprehend the magnitude of things like “light years” and “black holes”-even gravity is a mystery to me.  I like every moon, even if it shows up without a fancy prelude.  No moon is ever ordinary to me.

Monday came and with it a chilling rain.  When the rain stopped, a cold wind blew, that seemed to bite!  The temperature plummeted to single digits.  Most southeners do not even have adequate coats  for such conditions and we must rummage for our gloves, for we have but a pair.  Snow and ice are so seldom here, but I always regret not having a warm coat and boots, when we do get it. The wind finally died down in the evening.  The sunset was stunning.  I love winter sunsets.  It is always a silent occasion and what beautiful hues cascade over the landscape.  A clear winter night is so very spectacular.

 After french toast for Jennys’ birthday farewell breakfast, Jenny and Will continued their mission to organise every closet.  Bags and boxes were sorted in stacks by the door for donations. At some point we would have to brave the cold and carry them out. Until then, we all worked and passed little Brynn  between us at frequent intervals.  Brynn is an especially beautiful baby-and I haven’t a bit of shame in saying so.

 Lyla and I made a big pot of soup and another pot of chicken and pastry.  I gave Lyla a piece of dough to work with.  She rolled it, patted it and kneaded more than any pastry dough deserved.  I made pimento cheese too, but Lyla wanted no part of that.  Wills’ dad was expected in the late afternoon, and so I felt the least I could do, was have Jennys’ kitchen stocked for her special guest.

Of course, parting is always such sorrow and there is nothing sweet about it.  Coming home to Christian, is my saving grace.  Cash, my boxer and Christopher Robin, my silver gray  cat  are also a “Godsend”.  I know I will fall back into my routine and tasks will present themselves til at last I know I will make it.  I have just never mastered the art of tending a mostly empty nest.  Now, the last post I made was a horrible mess.  Some contents were just missing altogether and the whole thing ended abruptly.  I was shocked when I saw it .  Attempts were made to fix it-and they every one failed.  I have mustered the courage to post this one with high hopes that it will at least make good sense.  Time will tell . . .  as it always does.

It was raining Sunday morning, when we woke.  I knew snow was a long shot, but I had hoped for it anyway.  As the silvery, cold droplets fell, I felt glad that I could linger under my favorite soft blanket, for a bit.  At least I did not have to spring up, as I do on a week day.  Cash, my dog, and my gray cat Christopher Robin, were snuggled together and what a sweet picture they made. I was happy, that it was Sunday.

I read, as I usually do on Sunday mornings, but not about “Van Gogh”.  I read enough yesterday to suit me for a while, on this tender artist.  My heart broke with every tragic detail -and there were so many, in his life.  I did gather that Van Gogh felt deeply for human suffering and went above and beyond what most of us do, to show it.  He believed  the purpose of his art was   to glorify God.  I admired his independent nature, but goodness, how sad he was!  I simply can not bear to know anything further, for just now.

 I read  the “Sermon on the Mount” which is a favorite of mine.  I made a pot of soup and since Christian had a friend stop by, who happens to be a chef, I made apple dumplings.  This time I made them in a pot, instead of a skillet.  I think I like them better, prepared in a pot.   “Jose” noted the recipe, as he was going to make it for the head chef.   

So the cold silvery rain fell all day and Sunday passed gently by. 

As I drove to work on Monday morning, I took notice of the day.  The countryside looked so very muted, in colors like gray, and shades of brown.  Even the sky was a dull pewter .  I thought, that some folks would call this a dismal scene. . . but I like most kinds of days.  I do understand how dreary weather can feel like an unfriendly guest, for it seems something tragic may happen, under such circumstances, that could not occur on a bright happy day in June.  This is hardly true, but it does feel like it could be .  I really miss the comfort of home on such days. 

I am quite sure, this all started in childhood, growing up on a farm.  When the weather was bad, we all stuck around the house.  We often made a cake and the adults had time to tell us stories.  If we needed rain, then everyone was in high spirits .  Weather was of huge consequence in those days.

The wind was acting more sensible, but Monday was every bit as cold as Sunday.  Some people declared they had seen snow flurries, but I kept my eyes peeled to the sky and never saw anything but  some tiny ice pellets, for a brief spell.  I have seen stunning pictures from friends up north.  What a wonder snow is, covering  every sin, a landscape could have . . and what a hearty lot it takes to live where snow accumulation must be measured in feet.  I simply can not imagine shoveling a driveway on a regular basis before going to work.  Those folks are a hearty and gallant lot -and nothing less.

Snow may be scarce here, but frost is not.  Lately the countryside is sparkling in the early morning. “Brother Earl” , a neighbor has a fire going most every morning.  Smoke rises in curls and tinges the air with the familiar scent of burning wood.  The sun rises over the treeline transforming the bare branches to ebony lace and the frost becomes all sorts of shades of orange, pink, peach and apricot. This morning an icy luster even topped the trees and so the day started with quite a spectacular display of nature in winter.

I drive past the very quiet pastures and the resting fields to work and then back home.  Occasionally, I stop at the grocery.  Somehow my dog and cat, know exactly what time, I will arrive at the rabbitpatch, for they are always waiting by the door.  I usually start a load of laundry, then start supper and at the first chance, change into “house clothes”.  I prepare for the next day within an hour of walking in the door, for I can not think of such things as sweaters and earrings, in the morning.  

I read while supper cooks.  There is little variation in my routine.  One day turns in to another and in this way, the week passes.  Unless there is an emergency, I am home at night.  I am quite content to spend evenings at home. . . and it is not just because I am older.  I have never enjoyed a ruckus of any sort.