“The creek had risen” and my ears were ringing, as I read the email, saying the closing, that was to happen in a mere three days was off.  I had worked for several weeks on the little cottage situated on a corner lot, where “the sidewalk ends”.  That very day, I had proudly announced to Kyle and his friend, Bo, that I had put the last of the essentials in place.  Now, I can “ice the cake”, I said happily.  With my friend and landlord, very sick, I had spent some money and labored like there was no tomorrow, besides.  The thought of losing the ONLY rental that I could barely afford AND  take my pets . . the thought of moving everything back . . .was daunting.  I called Jenny and she read the contract.  This really is not allowed to happen, legally she announced.  Tres was devastated and had his ire up, as well. 

I was just stunned.  The next morning, I called the realtor and with no answer, I called the realty team.  Later, we learned that the realtor was quite ill, but the company made sure that I retained the rental and joined forces to sell the house .  This was of great relief to me and satisfied my family.  Two days later, I slept in the cozy little rabbitpatch cottage on Bonnet Street”.  

I knew full well how  the daylight fell on the place, but I had never been there past the twilight time, so I sat on the front porch and watched this new world. I saw   when the sky blackened.  I saw a few stars shining, unhindered by the streetlights.  The neighborhood was very quiet and the folks start turning the houselights off just after dark, I noticed.  It has been unseasonably warm and I felt so disoriented with all the changes, anyway, that I could have sworn it was an evening in June, instead of late October. 

I stayed out for a long while, pondering the events as of lately.  I did feel relieved that the realty company were so supportive , but I still wished that things hadn’t become so complicated for so many folks.  I was sad for the ones that were sick and for  their families.  I was sorry for the wild scrambling the realtors were in the midst of.  I certainly pondered the unfamiliarity of everything for me. 

Was this little rabbitpatch  a very temporary dwelling or could I expect to see spring arrive there?  Truthfully, we never know the future for sure, but must so many things change so suddenly?  My job had changed, my income reduced and now living in a small town, in the absence of field and wood.  So many ways for thoughts to ramble!  It didn’t help a bit that we are without internet-and me locked out of my diary, anyway. 

The house was as silent as could be, which really made the night seem more somber.  I did have a place to rest, after supper . . and loved ones to bless.  These things consoled me and I chided myself for making such a big production over a few twist and turns.  I knew that God did not see these past six months as chaos, but instead, as  an orderly plan.  I reminded myself, that true reliance on God, is not born from a sense of human power, but from recognizing our lack of power in many circumstances.  I should be observing what transpires and gleaning from the experiences, what can serve me.   . . .when   “the creek does rise”. 

I went in and read til I fell asleep.  

I have so much to say , for many things have happened in my absence . . yet I can scarce think how to begin!  Words and thoughts are all jumbled up and come out scrambled and senseless.  It all started when I sold the old farmhouse on the rabbitpatch.  Somehow, I was “locked out” of my blog, I realised a few days later.  I was extra busy, so I thought I would tend to that shortly.

That was in September.  The closing day was October 15th, and so I began hunting for a rental to make due  til the dust settled.  I  told everyone that I knew, that I was looking for a modest home and implored their help.  Meanwhile, I packed boxes.  I called several businesses for rental homes, in every spare minute.  I was aghast at the cost of renting.  It was three times my house payment, on average -and nobody allowed dogs!  After a few weeks, I was a bit concerned about my situation.  One house was adequate though I thought it expensive . . but they wouldn’t allow a dog on any terms.  I started driving around the small town, that I worked in, every day after school looking for empty homes.  One day, I saw a small hand made rent sign out front of a dreadful little house in a quaint and charming neighborhood.  The yard was untended and had an unruly hedge lined yard.  Trees were covered in ancient vines.  The house was every bit as old as the one I was selling . . but smaller.  Somehow, a farmhouse had remained snuggly nestled in while darling little cottages with neat yards had sprung up like poppies, all around it.   Of course, I called about it, anyway.  Pickings were slim! 

As it turned out, I knew the landlord and his wife.  The price was manageable, if I was careful and best of all . . Pets were allowed.  I made an appointment to see the house the next day.  It was the dirtiest house that had ever seen and I was certain, that the smell would remain forever etched in my mind.  On top of that, what color was the walls and the doors and the windows and the ceiling?!  Everything was the same peculiar color.  It was as if brown and purple and beige and pink were  combined to make some shade of color . . but what it was called, I could not say.  The house did have a few things going for it.  The neighborhood was pristine not counting this little house on the corner.  Pets were allowed . . .and it was the only house I could find. 

Mama went with me the next time.  The landlord had painted the walls a beige color, lighter than it was, but still odd.  The smell had gone from “worst ever to just bad”.  He said, he had some more things to do to the house, in our last conversation . . .and I agreed, with all my heart.  A few days later, as I was scrubbing dirt and grime and gathering rubbish, someone came in and said, the landlord had suffered a stroke.  I was stunned.  The landlord is my age and seemed as fit as could be.  It was a dreadful shock and I cried for he and his family at that very moment.  I was grateful that though his recovery was expected to be lengthy, recovery was a possibility.

For the next two weeks, I worked nights at the little house.  I took over the painting and added an ivory color, which softened the palette of the interior.  Kyle trimmed the hedges and cleaned the yard which made a huge difference. The landlords’ wife, honored the verbal deal, that had been struck and was pleased that the old and little house on “Bonnet street” was being tended.  Sister Delores made curtains and bought cream colored mums for the front porch.  Tres and Sarah spent a weekend hauling large furniture.  Mama kept us fed.  Love was showing up everywhere and the little house smelled sweet and shone fairly.  Neighbors dropped by to brag on our progress and express their gratitude that at long last, the neighborhood was without blemish.

  A day or so later, I called the realtor to get details on the time and location of “the closing”.  She said to check my emails.  That is when, I found out that the buyers had changed their mind . . .

I think every emotion known to mankind, has washed over me and through me, this past week.  Joy, sorrow, excitement, dread, fear . . you name it . . .I have felt it.  I have cried while hanging sheets on the line and moments later ,  felt gladness as I walked by the oldest barn.  I have stood very still, in my thoughts and then rushed headlong in to the future, within minutes.   . . .for,  I have sold the farm.  

Those of you that have a history with the rabbitpatch diary, will remember the “incident” a few years back. when the same thing happened . . .and then it didn’t. Circumstances changed and so I remained here on the beautiful, very  old, remnants of a farm.  In light of that, I know for sure, that anything can happen, but at this time, all indications are  . . that I need to pack. . . and not put another thing in the freezer. 

I am packing . . and haven’t any idea where I am going!  It is a very odd notion to entertain, for my personality . . but here I am, today washing seashells, collected decades ago by five children, for they are going with me . . .wherever that is!  I have not got as much to do, as I could.  I spent a summer, decluttering the place, now two years ago.  I have honored that decision ever since . . .with the exception of books.  I must have given away a thousand books that year-many to the school and I supplied quite a bit to a library and made a donation to a used book store.I probably still have at least a few hundred, that I could not part with.  Many are intended for the grandchildren and will be doled out in time.  Until then . . . they are going with me, too.  There is no way around it-moving from one place to another, is hard work.  . . .but that is not what I have been crying about.  It is the land.

Something happens as you tend to earth.  It happens as you plant. It happens as you water what you planted.  It happens as you cut thorned vines and pick up thousands of branches.  It happens  when you work in the hottest hours and it happens when you are caught in the rain.  It happens when you clean up after a storm-and when you sit in the shade of an old tree.  You find out where the doves are nesting and where the wild rabbit runs.  You know where the evening star shines and where the first rays of morning light fall.  When the earth feeds you . . well, you are grateful and probably hopelessly in love. . .even with the fields that you do not tend and who can claim the sky?  Yet somehow, you feel like such things are your own too.  This is what I cry about.

Then, too are the “precious memories”.  As I traipse the territory, I have flashes of pictures, from days passed.  I see Grandmama raking leaves and I have seen my daddy walking, looking for something to fix.  I see my dear uncles, Randy and Speedy sitting on the porch and Aunt  Carolyn, behind the barn  causing a commotion of some sort.  I see a dog, that I loved, faithfully guarding the place.  I see a fine evening meal celebrating Will and Jennys’ engagement . . and the Christmas tree shining through the windows.  I cry about all that too.  If it weren’t for me getting older and that old barn falling down, and several windows about to fall out and that dreadful sun room . . .

The community doesn’t make it any easier, for  I am convinced that some of the kindest and most noble people on the earth, live right here in Farm Life.

I met  the buyers, a few days ago and I loved them right off.  The wife and I took a stroll so, I could tell her about the flowers.  She just admired everything.  The husband was busy making a list of repairs.  He wasn’t even scared of that old barn!  The visit acted like a tonic on me.  The rabbitpatch will be loved and saved by these folks and I will be cheering them on.  Until further notice,  I will be packing and seeking a place to rent. 

I have never rented and now must learn that business.  It seems that a lot of land lords do not like dogs nor cats.  I will not bring it up that Christian is a musician, either . . .and what in the world is “renters’ insurance”?  Please pray there s no “Home Owners Association”  in my future, either, for I just can’t be but so civilized!  In the meanwhile, I will continue packing and dreaming of a quaint cottage . . the next rabbitpatch is somewhere . . .after all.

Sweet August . . .when “white moths are on the wing”  . . when gardens lack their former vitality and you can smell the corn drying, in the thick air, at twilight . . .has been hot.  It is hot at eight thirty in the morning, scorching by noon and there is not enough coolness in the evening  for the weary.  Mosquitoes buzz happily and wreck my “early service” and I have found that my prayers , under the stars are “short and sweet”, in August. 

I was in Elizabeth City, last week.  It was hot there too . . .maybe more so than here at the rabbitpatch.  Even a small town has a fair share of concrete -and that makes a difference.  Still, the little girls and I managed a few walks and a picnic!  The four days, that I spent there were wonderful and full of shining moments.  I declare that Lyla is such a good and caring sister for Little Brynn.  Lyla reminds me of Jenny, who was a stern but loving second mother to her brothers, when she was growing up.  Brynn is becoming quite compassionate.  Brynn is not yet three, yet she noticed that a woman walking, seemed sad -and Brynn was  probably right, for what a sad countenance this woman wore. 

We had supper at “Aunt J’s” one night.  Aunt J lives just a good walk, from Will and Jenny.  Wills’ mom and my friend, “Miss Claudia, was Aunt J’s sister.  Like everyone else,  I love Aunt J.   Jenny prepared a perfect meal and served us like we were royalty.  Then we had ice cream sundaes! 

I left on Thursday, quite melancholy, knowing, this was “the last hurrah” of my leisure visits . . for it is August, after all.  I start school on Monday.   

This was also Tres’ last weekend home.  He would be leaving on Saturday. I started moaning about that, the minute, that I got home. I did not shed a single tear in his presence, for Tres is so sensible, it would have shocked him to see how unreasonable, his mom can be.  Instead, I packed a bag of food and school supplies and sent him off with the best fake smile, that I could muster.   August is just full of “good byes”.   

I could choose to “look on the bright side”, for it is also a time for new beginnings as everybody  loves to say . . but I will probably  sulk a while, before I say that. It is written, “there is a time to mourn”  .  It is a good thing to be positive, but life is not always roses and sunshine, and to deny sadness,  is like a denial of what it means to be human. I do not want anything ugly dwelling in my heart.  . .not bitterness or anger, not dismay or sadness . . so, I let feelings wash clean through me, til the beauty of what was lost,  outshines the sorrow of losing it, til moving on  is more desirable than wallowing  –  and so when it is a time to mourn, then I do.  . .whether it be for  such things as a fallen sparrow or a grown up son leaving in August.

My very good parents did not and could not have shielded their children from unpleasantries .  Foals were still born, sometimes and dogs died.  Some books did not end “happily ever after” and every race was not to be won, though we ran our best.  My parents showed us all of life, shadow and light . . and that has made the difference.

Often, I think that recovery from disappointments -and imagination, are some of the most important skills, to teach children, as they will with great certainty, need both.

It finally rained on Sunday and cooled things off. The sky was full of thunder, and  I suppose everyone in “Farm Life” was full of hope.  I went out and saw huge, steel blue   clouds moving overhead.  They looked like whales swimming along the horizon.  I watched the rain coming across the field.  Rarely does rain “sneak” up on you, in the country. 

I spent the afternoon, preparing for what seems like a “new job”. that starts on Monday.  I confess, that I am almost nervous about it.  My niece Hayley , starts a new job too, on Monday and niece Dana has her first day of college.  Tres starts school on Tuesday.  Nephew Brandon, starts on Monday.  Jenny has started a part time job. Oh . . .August came along and just changed everything!

The territory  around the old farmhouse is following suit and changes almost daily.  Yesterday, the loosestrife sported some blossoms, and the  roses are fading.  The beloved morning glory is clambering wildly now and ever so often, a dry leaf will fall from a sycamore. The wild mulberry is full of promises for a spectacular show, soon to come and the grapes  on the very old vines are not as green as they were a fortnight ago.  In this way, I measure time.  

Humans may race about at breakneck speed , but nature  is never frantic.  The world can get mighty loud and commotion springs up at the “drop of a hat”.  We get so accustomed to it, that  somehow  we seem to have “acquired a taste for it’. Nature , on the other hand, whispers its’ fanfare.  

Oh, how I  love the silent, wild  wood, with its’  beauty and lack of racket.  ..and the fields that lie quietly and do not boast of their  magnificent  and mighty value.   I have never seen a sky, that did not humble me.  I have found something new to love also, for one night, Lyla, Brynn and I were looking out out a window and saw an evergreen with clinging raindrops, lit up by the moonlight.  It shone brightly and Lyla gasped at  the sight. 

August, with its’ heat, mosquitoes and changes . .is at least generous in some respects .  I musn’t forget to love August, too. 

It is early now, as I write this and a steady rain is falling across a dimly lit rabbitpatch.  I was looking forward to writing in the diary, for days.  Mornings are my favorite time to write and rainy mornings are the best, so I was delighted and woke up smiling.  Only the boxer and the gentle cat are here with me.  Christian is at work and Tres went to see Sarah for one of his last weekends home. 

His senior year starts in about  a week.  I dread seeing him pack up to leave.  I will mope and trod about forlornly for a while , when he does.  I am hopelessly foolish, when it comes to departures.  Practice does not always make perfect!   I just never got over that “empty nest” thing and at the age of sixty two, I do not aspire to do any better. 

Mama and I have been busy.  After our return from Elizabeth City, we headed for the lake for neice Hayleys’ graduation party.  My sister Delores and Dana came with us.  I looked at Hayley with her friends and wondered when she grew up?!  For a moment, I saw her at six, full of spunk and curls  . . now here she is all grown up and on the brink of everything!   

Delores and Dana spent the night at Mamas’ that night and we all left for Raleigh on Monday.  I would stay with Brant and tend to little Ryan while Sydney tended to obligations with her work. Ryan is a gentle natured child.  He loves tractors, tools and books. I think he has already figured out his “Honeybee” , for he asked me for ice cream, for breakfast, the first morning. . . he settled for oatmeal, though.   

Mama and I came back on Thursday.  On Friday, I cleaned out several kitchen cabinets, washed clothes and scrubbed floors.  I picked peaches too, as there was just enough left on the tree for a small pot of  peach dumplings.  The white peaches have a week or so more to go. 

On the footpath to the clothesline and garden, I noticed that the “magic lilies” were blooming.  Magic lilies spring up overnight, with large pale pink blossoms.  I have often hoped to eavesdrop one night and catch them in the act! . . but you never know when this will happen, so I remain  filled with curiosity, for I lack the stamina to appease it.  The loosestrife is packed tight, along the way -so are the floss flowers. It is no wonder that the lowly and a bit uncivilized footpath to the garden, is a favorite place for me.    . . and  a lavender sea awaits.  I love that lavender sea with hues from periwinkle to violet. 

Lately, I have thought a lot about things that I love.  Little things or small moments,  are sometimes like a flash of shine, in the day.  We all have them, if we just take  an account of them.  Somehow, I did.  Could it be, that I did so, while at that “crossroads”?  I did think, more than once, that somehow, I was lost-and was surely the  only person on earth that could get lost standing still.  That is when I became on high alert to things that I loved. 

I love open windows . . and most especially those with sheer, white curtains that flutter in a playful breeze.  If my gentle cat, “Christopher Robin” is dozing, behind the curtain, then I am pleased, at the sight, all the more.  I love the drowsy hum of a window fan and the tinkling sound of my neighbor laughing in her yard, as I hang sheets on the clothesline.  I love patches of sunlight falling through the leaves and bracken in the young woods, on the territory.  I love the darkness just before dawn  and waiting for the day.  I love pastures filled with horses- or even just a couple.  I really love old trees. I love when Christian plays the piano  and floods the house with his tender melodies. I love it when moon shine spills in to the farmhouse . . .oh, I could make this a very, very long story, for there is so much to love.  Being still, may be a lot more, than “it’s cracked up to be”.    As it turns out, that season of hush, is waning for me, as is the summer. 

I will be working this year, in a far different capacity and not as much as in years past. I start next week. At least, the dust finally settled around that predicament. Between, now and then,  I am going to see the grandchildren in Elizabeth City and hope to have  visits with several cousins.    . .and I will keep seeking more things to love, as if my life depends on it . . .for in some ways . . .it does.

I have done a good deal of “traveling” this summer . . .but  have only left the rabbitpatch a  half dozen times or so.  I spent the last five days in Elizabeth City.  How good to have a leisure visit with my beloved daughter and grandchildren.  I feel quite indulged to have such a privilege.  I see first hand, how the girls “find their day” , how they play, what things they celebrate  . . . in short, “who they are.”  I treasure the moments, thoroughly.   

Little Brynn, at two, has a lot pf expressions as she talks It is adorable, just to see. She has the face of a cherub. any way.  She gave me several lectures about healthy food and the value of brushing teeth.  Brynn can carry a tune like a little songbird, which delights me and  she knows what a rose is and also a crepe myrtle.   She stands in her mothers’ shadow, most of the time. 

Lyla  is quite self sufficient and quite organized.  She  continues to have a great sense of compassion and therefore is tender hearted.  Lyla starts school this year.  She is as ready as can be, academically   -but , I am not so ready. Of course, I cried when she lost her first tooth. Childhood is just not long enough to suit me. 

The summer here, has been a bit cooler, than in other years, but that week, was a hot one.   The air was about sultry in the evenings.  The mimosa tree took full advantage  of the conditions, and sweetened the air generously.  The mimosa tree is quite a common sight in the south.  Every patch of wood and field is host to the mimosa.  I have never known any one to plant them, many yards have a mimosa.  If you have one, you are bound to have two, as the mimosa springs up freely and without a bit of reservation. It may be said, that the mimosa trees are “a dime a dozen”,  so to me they are a miraculous bargain.  The same can be said of fire flies . . .and stars.   

The rest of my “traveling” has occurred right  here on the humble soil of the rabbitpatch territory.  There is a routine -I gather fallen branches which takes several strolls.  I take account of the grapevines, and the fruit trees. I cut the wicked thorned vines and look for poison vines-and I am thinking the whole while.  I have made good progress on this remnant of a farm.  Everything is tidy, so  there has been some profit in my meandering. 

Aside from that, I remain at a “crossroads”,  of sorts. I came to this place a few months ago and still, I stand dazed, almost rooted to the same spot. If “patience is a virtue”, I at least, have accomplished that. I liken the situation to receiving some announcement of upheaval  with a “no action required on your part” included in the closing salutation.  Certainly, there is some action on my part-I am filing for social security and I am putting the house on the market-but in both cases, the process is slow and the results of either are vague.   . .So, I stand .  I have stood so long, the place is starting to  feel familiar-not as strange as it used to be.  The thickness of  “this fog”, still obscures my vision.   . .but fog being mysterious  . .also , creates a heightened sense of awareness.  My mind went down a hundred “rabbit holes” and I “backtracked” quite a bit.  I stumbled from one circle to another, never leaving the spot, I fell in to.   . .and that is how I ended up with a very tidy rabbitpatch! 

Sometimes . . .I act like Peter , “I do not know Him” and sometimes I am like Thomas, “Show me”.  This confession shames me, but one  must know the truth, to be set free. I do not like  life altering circumstances that seem to shift like sand in a whirlwind.  I confess that too.  Then again, it is those very  kind of circumstances that teach the  greatest lessons.  I chide myself  for saying it again,  so consider this my own personal necessity to “second”  the subject. 

My maternal grandmother, used to say “you can laugh about it or cry.”  as she was snapping beans,not even looking up  -and most especially when neither she nor I could fix something.  How pert that sounded in my youth!  How wise it sounds now.

 Meanwhile, the peach trees hang full of gold, and the the grape vines and the pear are full of jade.  Apples are scarce, so the squirrels are making haste to eat them extra green.  The black eyed susans are in full bloom and almost glow.  These things remind me, that as it is written . . .“To everything, there is a season.”

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Though one forecast said different, the day of our picnic dawned fair.  One weather station said one thing and another one, said something different.  Either way rain was heading our way sometime around mid afternoon or much later in the evening .  The station that had claimed a rainy dawn, I discounted altogether .  I wondered how the radar, could spin such various  tales. 

I picked up groceries, put them away and had painted a large metal trashcan by nine am.  I proceeded to plant petunias and scrub the kitchen floor.  Mama got here around eleven, as I was cleaning the bathroom.  I still had to make a cucumber salad and put those very lovely tablecloths out.  Jenny, Will and the little girls arrived in time to help me tie up the loose ends .   Brant, Sydney and Ryan drove up to find most everything was in place.  How beautiful it looked, under the old sycamores, I was thinking, when Will called me  to look at the sky.  It wasn’t even noon! . . but the southern horizon was dark.  Within moments, wind and rain swooped in, turning things over and making us scatter. The wind blew the rain sideways. making the shelters, useless. We saved everything, thankfully  and crowded in to the rabbitpatch kitchen.  Will made a few mad dashes and ended up soaked.   Christian rescued the table cloths and the cooler.

We ate in a disorderly fashion.  We had to hunt for the pickles, which were with the ice cream toppings.  I had to laugh at how all of my careful planning had turned to chaos so quickly. 

While we were scavenging for things like forks . . .the sun came out!  I suggested a walk around the territory-mainly because I wanted all to see the fruits of my labor . . and to show Lyla the starlings .. . and where the dove lives. 

Brant fell in love with the place, all over again, wiled by its’ charm, as I am.  He kept pointing out all of the beloved nooks, the vast views of fields and woods, the many birds and the peace of the place til, I too, was “head over heels” myself, all over again.  Of course, I was second guessing my decision to sell the farm. 

I was just about to list it officially, when my job status changed. Certainly, I could sell, but also as certain, is that I would have to have another home.   A reduced income impacted that piece of the puzzle, with brute force.  That is why I said. “one thing hinged on another”.  Now, my head and my heart , are at odds again!  Must I always land in a brier patch?   “Peace will come “, I remind myself.  It always does . . .as sure as rain. 

That night, the rain returned,  Claps of the loudest  thunder , had us all jumping.  The thunder did not last, but the rain did.  It rained most all of Sunday, too.  Along with the rain and the loudest thunder, came a brisk , almost cold, wind.  It felt like October!  Mama and I left on Monday, for Raleigh.  It was to be just an overnight visit.  Sydney had a meeting on Tuesday and we would tend Ryan.  “Tending Ryan” is easy business.  He still love tractors and now, building blocks.  He sings songs now too.   . .and has all but quit eating  the cats’ food!  Mama and I came home on Tuesday and I went back to school on Wednesday. 

This was our last week of the year and the last days of my job, as music teacher.  I have mostly come to terms with circumstances, but how odd I felt, packing up things.  Memories  were darting and flashing like fireworks, as I filled boxes.  I could hear the Christmas concerts clearly as I walked to the car. 

To combat the nostalgia, I wondered , “what beautiful things await, next year?”   I pictured a table laden with gifts, for me to open.  They held things like,  more liberty to walk in the woods, to see your loved ones, to read more and to write more . . .and many had delightful secrets.  It may seem childish, but it worked.  We all imagine our futures, at times.  I am going  to imagine and declare, one of beauty.  Besides, we all “walk by faith, not by sight” whether we believe it or not. 

Now, for two days rain fell hard and fast.  I do not remember ever seeing such a spectacle.  Not even hurricanes, have rendered the rabbitpatch so soggy.  These were not showers, for the thunder was like clockwork and you couldn’t see past your hand.  Since this weather came just behind the day , we almost had a picnic,  fields were covered in water and ditches spilled over the country roads.  Every rain catching bucket I have is filled to the brim and any  other vessel that  could hold water,  does at the moment.   I can only hope that the beloved swallows are hungry, for mosquitoes are sure to follow, such an event.   And so . . .for me it is summer.  It is the time to stroll by that laughing river.  It is time to tell stories and build castles.  I will paint roses and cut thorned vines . . and sit on Mamas’ porch and I will cast off any sense of rush (barring another fire).  Maybe, I will  plan another picnic.   . .and I will dream  – and I mean  to dream  boldly .

It is early morning as I write this.  . . the tender hour, when the light of the day is born.  I “write ” all day long, in my head – but it always takes  a morning for me to gather my thoughts to pen them.  Often, they are like wayward children running wildly, in all directions!  Sometimes they shout and sometimes, they peek out shyly from some shady bracken. For some odd reason, they all come home, in the mornings.

I have almost got the rabbitpatch civilized!  There are but two barns left to tidy and a large pile of old leaves awaits, but I am “down to the short rows”,  as my Pop used to say.  I suspect, not many folks use that phrase today, or have an inklng what it means.  If you have ever chopped a field , then you would.  The long rows were situated n the middle of the field-and it seemed you would land there, about mid day.  The blessed short rows were on the outer edge, allowing a tractor room to turn around.  To encourage one another, my cousins and I would call out to one another “We are almost at the short rows!”  I can only imagine that when Grandmama got the announcement, she scurried to the kitchen.   

One of the barns is a one day affair.  It  is mostly just dirty, but the other barn is a different story.  The oldest barn is a massive two story structure, known around here, as a packhouse.  The packhouses, of yesteryears, were meant to store crops.  Dried tobacco was taken off the sticks, they had been tied on, before curing in fired barns.  Farm children learned the nursery rhymes in these barns . . and babies slept.  I suppose “raised in a barn”  rings true for many a country child. 

My old barn got converted to uses for gatherings.  The upstairs had four or five old iron beds for “primitive camp outs”  Those were golden days, but alas, tin came loose, an upstairs door fell off and there is a large portion of rotten flooring on the bottom story. Tres says, “tear it down” . . but I declare if the right one comes along, they might make a go at salvaging it.  Trse is usually right. He is sensible and I am hopelessly sentimental, after all.  Still, I am going to do what I can in that old  enormous relic.  Upon my prowling in that old barn , I discovered that the swallows are back! 

I may be the only fan of these little, startling birds.  Besides being delicate little birds, they can be warriors over their young and take to swooping and diving at harmless folks, just getting a shovel.  You can’t even bribe them with food, for their diet is mainly flying insects.  I get in their good graces by just sitting in their presence.  They seem to soon learn that there isn’t a bit of malice in this human and will tolerate my presence. 

Barn swallows, like the grape vines and winter wheat, serve as clocks and calendars for me.   Sunshine determines  the length of a day.  What a beautiful contrast such things are, to jarring alarms and obligations on a calendar. I went about the business of cleaning out and sprucing up.  I do love to work and make things better, as I always say . . whether or not we are having a picnic  -but this time we are!  The children and grandchildren are coming this weekend and a picnic is planned.  It has not rained here in a long while, but the forecast says it may, that day! 

I do have a shelter, and you can believe the housekeeping is completed there.  Several tables have been scrubbed and painted, the walls are washed and the little china cabinet fairly shines !  Living on this rabbitpatch is a full time job!

Besides all of this commotion, Tres and Sarah  have birthdays on Wednesday!  They are going to the mountains to celebrate and so they will miss the picnic.  I gave Tres two solar lanterns and a flashlight that does everything but cook biscuits!  Sarahs’ gift is to remain a mystery, until she opens it. 

I left for Elizabeth City after  Tres had opened his gifts.  Lyla attended preschool this year though she could have gone to kindergarten.  I was so glad for that .  Her graduation was on Thursday.   That morning, Brynn and Lyla put on fancy dresses.  Brynn wailed the minute Lyla left with Will, for Lyla had to go early.  Jenny said that Brynn cried whenever Lyla left the house. I did not expect to, but I  cried too, just hours later.  I was so moved that slow  tears welled up and splashed like a very lazy waterfall, during the program.  Next year, will be very different, as I know all too well. I felt, like Brynn . . “Lyla . . was leaving the house.”

After the pledges and songs,each  childs’ name was announced and “and what they wanted to be, when they grew up” was declared.  Many said firemen. one a police officer. One wanted to work on old trucks with his daddy  . .and one said, artist!-my Lyla- and I was thrilled!  Shortly, after lunch, I was headed back to the rabbitpatch.   . .”with visions of sugar plums, dancing in my head” -and why,  did they have to grow up so very fast.   

I found the rabbitpatch, as tidy as I had left it. The table  cloths, that I ordered were in a box on the porch.  I ordered cloth ones that were the traditional red and white checked.  The forecast does not deem a single day of the next three, suitable, for a picnic.   We need rain so badly, that I will not complain.  My rain catching buckets are all bone dry and even the hydrangeas are weepy.    The truth is . . “Come rain or shine” . .  .the children are coming home!