April is the Time to Wander

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In April, when the world is splendored,

when trees and flowers bloom unhindered-

for the danger of frost, has finally past,

and little violets abide with grass-

I vow , my time I will not squander . . .

And April is the time to wander.

I think to traipse, the whole world over,

with hope to find a patch of clover,

or to look for a wild and fragrant vine,

or  to spy a redbird in a pine,

implores the heart, to pause and pray,

for the beauty of an April day.

Hence, I promise, not to waste.

a moment in April with rushing and haste.

Instead, I’ll stroll by field and wood,

and see  April  declare that God is good.

 

The Edge of Night in a Rabbit Patch

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Evenings in the springtime are especially nice at the rabbit patch. There is a time just after supper and just before the first stars start shining that comes in softly and leaves in   the same way.  

I am calling it “the Edge of Night” which is the name of an old “soap opera” that I remember my grandmother watching when I was a very small child.  She managed to see it on that very busy farm, by ironing or shelling beans at the exact time it came on.  Any task that required one being still would arise consistently at that time of day-it wasn’t her fault that it worked out like that.  I learned early on that it was not the time to ask questions or pretend my dolls could talk.  Of course, soap operas were mostly just on going mysteries and quite harmless in those times. A…

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Dear Diary, I love Sundays

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We had Sunday dinner at the rabbit patch this week end.  Christian and I both were up before dawn.  I had ample time to entertain lofty notions, while I had coffee.  By eight o’clock, I was peeling potatoes.  There is stand of “thrift” in full bloom and I admired them through the  kitchen window.  I love the periwinkle blue flowers. The flowers are tiny, but their color is as pleasing to look at as any, I know of.   They are the color of spring, I thought, as I peeled the potatoes.

By eleven o’clock, the cake was cooked and the corn and beans, too.  The chicken was ready and was in the oven to stay warm.  At twelve, Mama and Daddy were not here and wouldn’t answer the phone.  By, twelve twenty, I told Kyle that he would have to go look for them.  I was sure some calamity had befallen them.  I was fussing about the way the state had rearranged the highway, they had to travel. Surely that was the culprit.  When I had convinced the boys, that all was not well,  we were all in a state of panic and Kyle headed out the door hurriedly . . . as my parents were pulling in the drive.  I did not say “hello” but immediately asked why they didn’t answer the phones, asked why they were late and told them I was worried “sick”.  Mama smiled her trademark smile and daddy snickered, unhindered that they had caused such a commotion.  Christian told them that my mind does have the tendency to “go to the worst places on occasion” and as I fried the cornbread, I supposed he was right, especially, if someone is missing.  Besides, I caused a fair share of commotion for them long ago, when I was the one, “late” getting home.

We enjoyed the dinner and then Mama and Daddy were off to listen to music with their friends. I sent potato salad for Mama and cake for Daddy.  I tried to give them chicken, too, so they would have a good supper.  When  they left, I washed the dishes and gazed once more at the thrift.  Thank Goodness, they don’t like to drive after dark, I thought.  

While Mama and Daddy were with their friends, listening to a local band, I took a walk around the rabbit patch, gathering branches. . .again.  I happened upon some wild hyacinths.  They are not as sturdy as their hybrid cousins, but they do not disappoint in fragrance.  It is a pleasant thing to come across wild hyacinths.  

I always think as I work, whether it is washing dishes or picking up small limbs on the rabbit patch.  This day, I thought that I really love Sunday dinners.  There is something about sharing a meal, that binds us together all over again.  The details of the week spill out  in a natural fashion and something always reminds us of a past memory.  

A kitchen table is a lot more than just a place to serve food.  It is a place to gather and share our hopes.  It is also a place to listen.  I have probably learned more around a kitchen table, than in any classroom I have ever stepped my foot in.  Many a burden can be lifted around the lowliest kitchen table  and lofty plans can be made there as well.

When, I walked in the back door of the old farmhouse, my heart was content, and the yard was clean.  Later, I wrote-  Dearest Diary,  I love the rabbit patch yard, especially, when wild hyacinths are blooming . . .and I love the old table in the rabbit patch kitchen. . . especially on a Sunday,

 

Stories Told by Flowers

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I do love week end mornings at the rabbit patch.  Though sometimes, I will sleep a few minutes later, often, I don’t.  I like the way morning looks, and I want to watch it.  I want to hear it too.  No other time of day looks and sounds like morning. On week ends, I do not miss the song of  the mockingbird nor startle the sparrows.  I see the light change, gently and declare, again, that the sun measures time, more beautifully than any clock.

There has been a lot of wind, as of lately.  The pines are whispering, as I write this.  The sycamores are donned with fluttering, , tiny leaves, the pecans too-but the oaks are as bare as they were in December.  The azaleas have a few blooms as does the dogwoods- I am hoping they wait for Easter to come in to their glory.  Mama and daddy have a yard full of azaleas and dogwoods.  Their yard is a mass of soft colors now.   It makes folks driving by, want to slow down, when they round the curve, where my parents live.  Mama and Daddy turned a pasture, into a garden.

My younger sister, Delores, remembers daddy digging young trees from the woods to plant in the yard.  The woods, back then, was the “garden store”.  Everybody saved seeds and shared them.  Women were in the habit of rooting cuttings from flowering bushes.  Every daughter had “something from mama in her yard” as well as a great aunts’ or a kind neighbor.  In the spring, a visit to someones’ house, meant a walk around the yard to admire whatever was blooming.  There was always a story told about every flower.  “This one came from Aunt Elsie, who lived “over the river” and made the best cobblers.”  was a typical explanation of a flowers’ origins.   I dreaded the walks as a child.  Some explanations took a long while, but I heard the stories in my childhood of those before me, told by those who remembered- and now, in the spring, I hold those accounts fondly and dearly.   I do know, that when I find a smaller rabbit patch, I will take  some of my grandmothers tiger lilies, running vinca from my other grandmother and a rose of Sharon from my Aunt Carolyn.  

My aunt Carolyn loved hard work.  She was fearless of chores of any sort.  The rabbit patch offered her many opportunities to show off her skills.  When the family gathered here, she would soon go missing.  It was highly likely that she was cleaning a stable or raking.  She almost set a barn on fire once, burning a stump, just a few feet away.   Grandmama stayed in bed the last few months of her life.  The family would gather here to visit.  I was out in the garden picking something   to cook for lunch when Aunt Carolyn came to me and asked what I was going to do about all the apples that needed picking.  That year, there  was a bumper crop. I told her I just could not preserve them this year, with all that was going on.  I came in the kitchen about thirty minutes later.   Five women were peeling apples to go in the freezer.  Aunt Carolyn had organized and recruited  every aunt and cousin there,  to join  in her mission.  

It is still too early to plant-no matter what is forecasted.  I do not plant before mid-April, at the earliest.  However, it is not too early to dream about scented geraniums and my favorites, “Sweet Williams”.   I love irises too, especially the pale blue ones at the rabbit patch.  They look like a water color when they bloom, and that time is not so far away.  Some of them will have to go with me, if I ever move, too.  My first friend at Farm Life, Miss Sylvia gave me the irises . . .along with the The Farm Life Cookbook, which is my favorite collection of recipes.  Miss Sylvia’s funeral was just this past Monday.  When the irises bloom, I will remember Miss Sylvia, who fed the widows of the community,  took them to Dr. appointments-and  drove them to get their hair done, for as long as she was able.

In the “Quiet Garden”, there is a  pink “lady banks” rose.  It usually blooms on Mothers’ Day.  The little pink blossoms cover the fence, and spill into the grass.  I am rooting a piece of that now.  Miss Peggy gave me that rose almost a decade ago.  Miss Peggy always had a pretty lawn, when I was growing up. She lives a few hours away now in a facility of some sort.  Mama talks to her on the phone, and says she is doing well.  Her  eighty-eighth birthday was in March.

There is enough chill in the air today, to warrant a pot of chili.   I may not concoct another pot til October.   It is simmering now and the kitchen smells of it.  Cash and Christopher are sleeping together, on their blanket.  Moon Shine is outside attacking  unsuspecting twigs and leaves.  The wind makes them very interesting for a naughty kitten.

Dear Diary, this is why I love weekend mornings.  Hours pass and do not feel snatched.  I have time to remember and wish. . . and I have time to write the “stories told by flowers.”

 

 

 

Dear Diary, Lyla is Now Two!

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I have been “Honeybee” for two years now.  Lyla had her second birthday on April fifth.  She was born on Easter Sunday just as I was putting the turkey on a platter for Sunday dinner.  The day was as pretty as any that has ever been, and my young dogwood bloomed that day for the first time.

Lyla is my only grandchild-and in some ways, I was as nervous  when she was born, as when I had my own first child.  I worried, I would “break her” and what made her cry, I wondered.   I checked her breathing while she napped.   What does a grandmother do, after all?  Oh, how I hoped she would love me.

Jenny did everything right.  She was a calm mother that played beautiful music for Lyla.  Jenny had soft clothes for Lyla to sleep in, washed in natural potions.  Jenny had all sorts of contraptions, cradles that rocked themselves and a machine that made sounds like rain and waves.  Stars floated across the nursery ceiling while Lyla slept with the same soft bunny, that Princess Charlotte did . . .but Lyla was a fussy baby any way.

The one and only thing that was a guaranteed strategy, was to take Lyla outside.  I declared that somehow Jenny had given birth to a former “woodland fairy”- and I have not given up on that notion now, two years later.

It gives me great pleasure to report that, Lyla is an especially loving child today.  She still strongly prefers to be outside, but will cook in her little kitchen, from her Aunt B or look at books a good while.  Lyla loves to draw and she loves to stack blocks.  Lyla loves all animals and dolls.  Her Aunt B, just gave her the sweetest little doll carriage-and Lyla loves that too. (Aunt B gives especially nice gifts.)

I became “Honeybee” because I said a little made-up rhyme , that made her laugh, when she was still a fussy baby.  Honeybees do a lot of things.  Mostly, I share with Lyla, things that I love.  I do not worry about ABC’s and 123’s, but instead concentrate on sky and poetry, flowers and birds.  I am learning  all over again, how to make healthy cookies and soon, I will tell her stories about my own grandmothers, so she will know, that she came from a long succession of loving folks.

 Lyla reminds me of so many precious things.  Things known in the  the earliest days of childhood-like whispering.  I had forgotten how babies practice whispering . In a very hushed voice, they will chatter in baby language as if they are telling important and happy secrets.  They examine sticks and leaves for long whiles.  They never lie about their feelings, nor “put on airs”.  Lyla had as soon find a dandelion, as a diamond, in the grass-so now, I look for dandelions, too.  I am as liable to have a pretty rock in my pocket, as she is and I am now in the habit of waving at cats.

In some odd and beautiful way, grandparents and their grandchildren, are on common ground.  A place where clocks have little purpose-where wealth is not measured in dollars and status is of no consequence.  It is a place of  authenticity yet, on a dime, can turn to something very far fetched from reality-for while we embrace truth-we are not fearful to dream-and dream big. There seems to be a sort of liberty, in childhood-and then again, in later years.  It is really beautiful, when you think about it.   

Dear Diary,  I do not  proclaim to know much, and only few things, am I sure of-but I do know with certainty. .  . being a “honeybee”. . .is all it’s cracked up to be.

 

Happy Birthday Lyla!  Love, Honeybee

Dear Diary, I love April!

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On the Way to Elizabeth city

It rained the whole way to Elizabeth City, on Friday.  By the time, I  arrived the rain had “set in”.  Showers came in intervals all afternoon.  Once, a heavy shower fell and made quite a racket.  Lyla and I were looking out the window when. abruptly, the rain stopped and the sun came out.  Quickly, I rushed to the porch with her, looking for a rainbow-and there it was!-a very faint arch of color over the laughing river.  It did not compare in brilliance with the one I had seen a week ago, at the rabbit patch, but it was Lylas’ first rainbow, and that will make it memorable for me.  Lyla stared in awe and said “wow” in a hushed voice.  

After a nice evening dinner, I went out to see the twilight.  The rain had been stopped for hours, but the distant sky was full of flashing.  The air cooled off considerably.  At last, we heard thunder foretelling of an impending storm.  Will, Lylas’ dad, took her to the front porch.  There was wind, which delighted Lyla-and the sky was flashing lightening in all sorts of arrangements.  Lyla was delighted.  Moments later, we heard the familiar sound of hail .  It only hailed a few moments, thankfully.  When we went in, I wondered what Lyla thought about the sky, with its’ rainbow and flashing lights- and then the hail.

On Saturday

Saturday dawned bright and fair and seemed to call my name.  It was  going to be a good day for wandering.  I saw a robin in the yard when I went out.  He had a mouth full of nesting materials and so I wished him well.  The dogwood, just outside of Jennys’ kitchen window is in full bloom.  It is supposed to wait for Easter, but shows no sign of regret about that.  It is full of “April snow” and just lovely.

After breakfast,  I did take to wandering.  I took my sweet, little companion, Lyla with me.  The streets are lined with all varieties of flowering trees.  I especially love the weeping cherry trees with their flowery tendrils.  Friendly people were out in many yards tending the soil in various fashions. We saw some young children chasing bubbles in the gentle breeze.  Spring is a fine time for such things.  Chimes tinkled from porches and seemed the perfect music when teamed with the songbirds, for the first day of April.  It sounded like an “out-of season” rendition of  Joy to the World.

 In the, afternoon, after Lylas’ nap, Jenny and I took Lyla out again.  The sky was as bright as October with only a few friendly clouds and so we watched them a while. We walked to a park with swings and slides-and seagulls.  We  had a good time beneath the sky with friendly clouds and supper was late because of that.

Sunday

Breakfast was served and cleared away.  Fresh strawberries were cut and sugared for a strawberry short cake- and a pound cake was baking-all by ten am.  The day was every bit as lovely as the day before it.  April has made a grand entry this year, I thought.

Sunday dinner was served at twelve-thirty.  Wills’ mom, Miss Claudia came and so we ate in good company.  Lyla was especially happy about the cake.  She has only recently tasted cake and has decided there should always be a cake in the kitchen.  She has put forth great effort to say “cake” and does so perfectly, with emphasis on the ‘k” sound. 

Monday Morning

Early Monday morning, I saw some young “lady cardinals” fussing in the oak trees.  Meanwhile, a robin was having breakfast, where Will had removed a small and dead peach tree.  I don’t remember ever seeing robins quarrel.  Squirrels were racing about and seemed very preoccupied with squirrel business.

 There is a ladybanks rose in full bloom, in the neighbors’ yard that ought to be in a magazine.  It runs up the side of a shed and then grows upright several feet.   Plumes of yellow blossoms cascade like a  floral fountain , making a spectacular “splash”.

An hour later, as I carried my bags to the car,  I thought what a lovely occasion, the weekend had been.  I went past, the stroller and noticed yesterdays’  gathered flowers strewn in the seat-like souvenirs . . . Dear Diary,   I love April!

 

 

When the Woods are Golden

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Dear Diary,  Tuesday was lovely.

Not every day is  full of lovely things-but today was.  It is true this year, at least, that “March does go out like a lamb”.  On days like this one, it ought to be a sin to be inside.  I took full advantage of every chance I got, to stand in the sunlight.  It is on account of that I saw the blossoms in the wind and the violets growing beneath them.

Driving home from work, I noticed my beloved winter wheat fields in all their glory.  I do not think anyone could argue, if they were in the midst of winter wheat in March.  

Not long after I arrived at the rabbit patch, it started to sprinkle little silver drops.  I decided to make soup, as I am only prone to make soup in frightful weather.  The occasion of a cool rain warranted  soup and I so I put together a hearty tomato soup with  plenty of basil.  I baked a loaf of bread and while the soup simmered and the bread was rising,  I  called my friend, Jo Dee.  We were having a pleasant conversation and the rain became heavy.  The sun was shining faintly throughout the thundering.  Though Jo Dee doesn’t live so far from the rabbit patch, there wasn’t a cloud in sight at her house.  The rain was quick to pass and that is when I saw the rainbow.  Jo Dee was in mid sentence about something when I abruptly ended the call, for, I told her, “the most beautiful rainbow, I have ever seen!”  I called Kyle and Christian.  They came running, expecting to fight fire, so they were relieved it was all because of the rainbow.  They hushed any complaints, when they saw it.  The sky was dark blue and maybe that is why the rainbow was so vibrant.  The colors were distinct and bright.  No other rainbow, I had seen before, compared to this one. 

It did not phase Jo Dee, that I hung up on her.  She is used to my behavior when I see something beautiful.  She herself, has been known to brake, while driving, at the sight of a cardinal in a pear tree.

Dear Diary, I love everything!

In contrast to yesterday, today was overcast.  As I feared, the dogwoods are blooming and with Easter weeks away!  The fairy roses of the spireas  have come and gone, so now it is up to the azaleas for Easter Sunday to look at all familiar.  I noticed that the jasmine is blooming.  Woodland trees wear crowns or garlands of the bright sweet smelling flowers.  The jasmine flowers seemed to light up the woods on this “silver” day.   No matter which tree the vines clamber upon-oaks, pine or the lowly sweetgum, the tendrils with golden blossoms  show no favoritism. My friend, Julie loves the smell of Jasmine, and I always think of her when the jasmine blooms.

I love every season.  With the arrival of each season, I declare it my favorite.  I do not intend to be fickle, but I am enamored by all sorts of occurrences throughout the year.  I love snow and I love tulips.  I love summer mornings.  I love roses and autumn leaves.  I really love Thanksgiving,  and I really  love Christmas – and now, today,  when the woods are golden, I remember . . .  Dear Diary, I love Jasmine, too.

When Petals Fill the Air

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Today, outside the window,  just floating in the air.

I saw a “flock of  dainty wings” , and went to see them there.

I thought to write a poem about pink butterflies-

but when I went to take a look, I got a sweet surprise.

For it was a “flock of petals” flying in the breeze,

that surely came unfastened, from a grove of cherry trees!

The air got still and all the petals rained upon the grass.

Where they fell, I saw some violets, I may otherwise, have passed.

I will not rush in springtime, when the days are mild and fair-

For violets bloom in springtime, and “petals fill the air”.

Dear Diary, I Remember Pop

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It looks like somebody lives at the rabbit patch today.  Kyle and I worked yesterday, the better part of the day, restoring order to the territory.  The weather was mild and just did not give me any excuse, to put it off again.  Now, that I am older, the lot is bigger.  There are more sticks and branches, too.  Nevertheless,  the  yard is almost tidy and I lived to tell about it.

I worked in the “Quiet Garden” and that is where I saw the wild violets. Violets are so dainty and do not cause a bit of harm.  I have used them to decorate cakes and to toss in spring salads, but I love watching them grow too.  I find them growing in their usual places.   (There is a whole community of them, beneath the grape vine.) but they grow where they please and what a nice surprise to find them, where you didn’t expect.  I felt a surge of energy after seeing them beneath the roses-and as I carried dead branches and vines to the garden for burning, the garden did not seem as far away as it did  in the first hours.

The “Quiet Garden” is green.  The rose bushes have really grown and some will give shade this year.  No matter how tenderly, I care for them-no matter how sweetly, I speak to them-the rose bushes still “bite” me hatefully,  as I trim and clean around them.  Kyle was content to leave the rose garden to me.

The Japanese roses behind the barn are a mass of bright yellow.  I bet you could see them a county away. The “cape jasmine”  known also as gardenias, are awake-so are the foxgloves, and so are the weeds.  I managed to get two flowerbeds cleaned up.  

I also worked in the herb garden and was delighted to see young chives and all sorts of mints, were growing.  Everything is better with fresh herbs, I think.  By mid morning,  the clothes line at the rabbit patch was adorned with blankets of every sort, in good faith, that we can afford to pack at least pack some of them away, til October.

A lot was accomplished, in a day at the rabbit patch-and  so, maybe I can convince the neighbors and those driving by, that somebody does still live at the rabbit patch, after all.

Sunday Dinner

By eight, this morning, the kitchen smelled like Sunday.  Cabbage, chocked full of onions was simmering and eggs were boiling.  Kyle did not find those smells appropriate just after waking, and grumbled right off-but come noon, when the table is set,  he will not complain. Kyle and Christian are both here today, so with Mama and Daddy, the table will be full-and I won’t complain either.

About Thirty Years Ago

It was a typical March morning, almost cold, but bright.  Daffodils bloomed on time, that year.  I was a young mother of three children-the oldest one was four years old.  Of course, I was in the kitchen, when a cousin and neighbor came in with bad news.  My grandfather, Christopher S. Haddock, had been found in his yard, just outside his shop.  He had passed in the new spring grass, while his beloved “goldenrods” (forsythia, really) were in their glory.

I knew him as “Pop”.  Pop, was loud  and known to cuss, even around the children.  Brant, at four told me  on one occasion, that he was going to get the “damn newspaper” as that was what Pop called it every time.  I did not reprimand Brant, on account of that and thankfully he forgot it.  

Pop had a fondness for spirited horses and apparently mean cows, as he always had both.  Of course, he had a herd of ponies for the grandchildren and goats that could pull carts.  He had pigs too, that he said would kill you if you fell in their parlor, so we kids avoided those at all cost.  If you heard the tractor coming home at an odd time, it was best to “make yourself scarce” as something on it needed fixing and you could bet he was mad.  That is mostly why he cussed, I think.  Pop could get mad, but no other adult could -especially with the children.  Pop would not tolerate a child being scolded, unless he was the one doing it.  If you just stayed away from his tools, you were pretty safe, anyway.

Pop went to school til the sixth grade, yet he was known for his superior math skills.  A farmer has to do a lot of math and Pop was quick with numbers.  

I could write in this diary, all afternoon with stories about Pop-and probably would not give an adequate account of his life.  He was not perfect, but he loved me perfectly.  Today, that  still means every thing.  Here it is decades later, and I know his influence made a difference in my life.  It reminds me how important grandparents are.  Pop might have taught three generations to cuss,  but he also told stories and taught us to plant by the phases of the moon.  

Love is a mighty thing.  Memories can fade and details can dim, but the feeling of being loved is very powerful and it endures for at least thirty years, I can declare, today. . .because. . . I remember Pop.  

Dear Rabbit Patch Diary

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“The time of the singing of birds,has come.”  It is officially spring.  I do not consult a calendar to know when the seasons change.  I watch the landscape and note the changes.  I understand the science of how humans interpret the arrivals of seasons, but the cherry trees really have “the say”, I think-along with the songbirds.  Blackbirds fly when they ought to and bluebirds set up housekeeping without needing consultation.

Frost covered the fields and pastures this morning, so my geraniums still sit in the windowsill, of the old house at the rabbit patch.  My winter coat remains in a handy location and just might til mid April.  

The purple Martins have yet to return. No other bird sings like the Martins.  Martins winter in South America and there they learn to sing  songs like the tropical birds, with all sorts of trills.  Daddy has had Martin houses as long as I can remember.  Right around his birthday (March 15th), we would look for the “scouts”.   They are the early birds , and the “elders”.   Martins often return to the same  community  for the breeding season.  The elders have been there before, and so they survey the familiar sight to see if it is still suitable.  I have read that they recognize the humans where they nest.  I wonder how many generations have known my parents.  Several times, daddy’s birthday has marked the first sightings of the birds that look purple in sunlight and sing in the ” language  of flowers”.  Many springs I have hung clothes on the line, while a purple martin sang.

I have really missed the children this week.  My holiday was just long enough, for me to get used to all of us being together.  I have tried to stay  especially busy, because of that.  There is no shortage of things to do, but no matter how much I try,  I manage to pine for their company.  Not even, the ice cream cake, left from the Christians’ birthday party has comforted me-and believe me I tried that on more than one occasion.  This weekend, I plan to begin the spring clean up on the rabbit patch territory.  Just the thought of it, makes me weary, but it is rewarding work and may put an end to my whining about the kids growing up . . .again.  There are several sections of the picket fence in need of repair and all sorts of debris to be picked up.  There is  also the mowing.  Work always helps me keep things in their proper perspective. 

On the week ends, I pretend I am a writer.  I do not imagine to be famous.  I do not imagine, I have any great wisdom that the world is in need of, either.  I just pretend to be a writer that earns enough to have bread and hyacinths.  Imagination is a wonderful saving grace.  We always tend to think it is best suited for childhood, but it is imagination that allows your heart to feel the plight of fellow humans.  I think that compassion is a direct result of imagination.  When I have found myself in a quandary,  imagination allows me to see past it, and believe I will come through it-and that all will be well again.  Lyla is just now starting to pretend.  Her aunt “B”   gave her a lovely little kitchen.  Lyla cooks and serves us empty plates  and  empty cups .  If we drop a dish she says “uh-oh!” and sets to cleaning it up.   We take this “play” very seriously-she and I.   I try never to disturb her when she is pretending- besides, sometimes, it is nice to have tea with a fairy, I think. 

Dear rabbit patch diary, tonight, the house is chilly enough to warrant, I sit beneath a soft blanket.  I will need the winter coat in the morning, again and- I will notice the poor condition of the yard on the way to the car, but I can also imagine that the wild violets will awaken soon, and the purple martins will come-and it won’t be too long before the geraniums will be  blooming-  on the rabbit patch porch .

When Flowers Appear on the Earth

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One of my first post-and as you see, it is not in the best form-I loved writing this post. Happy Spring!

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10405628_230464637301046_2460218135546075693_n When the days are born gently, when the breezes pass softly, and  when flowers appear on the earth-it is spring. Everywhere I look, something is announcing the arrival of the fairest season. Daffodils and hyacinths are the first with good tidings -but they aren’t the only ones. The spirea bushes with their stark white blossoms are especially beautiful. Their flowers, when properly examined, look like tiny roses, fit for a fairy wedding-and in the spring such things are possible. We always stood in front of spirea for “Easter Sunday” pictures.

Many of the trees are as lovely now as they have ever been. Their blooms of pale pinks and lavendars are in drastic contrast to their appearance just a few weeks ago and are nothing short of a miracle, really.

A few days ago, I was riding with a dear friend of mine, Jo Dee, when we saw a…

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Diary of a Holiday

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Saturday Morning

I smelled rain, when I went out this morning.  Showers came about an hour later and didn’t surprise me.  The house was as silent as an empty church.  What a contrast to the night before, I thought.

 After coffee, I started peeling potatoes for hashbrowns.  While I  was peeling potatoes, I thought about the day before, when we were all  together in the kitchen, each with our own tasks.  I loved those moments.  Conversation was constant as we all worked dicing and mixing.  Sydney  told us about her much adored grandmother-and her  blackberry wine cake.  It is Sydneys’ favorite  so when Sydney grew up and moved away, visits back home meant the cake would be served,  and an extra one was made for her to carry back,  when she left.  Sydney has her grandmothers’ recipes and so I asked for that recipe.  The cake is wonderful, according to Sydney, but I would make it anyway,  just  to remember that afternoon in the kitchen.

 How many things there are to think of when peeling potatoes!  I have thought great thoughts, come up with solutions and made decisions, while peeling potatoes, over the years.  I have peeled a lot of potatoes.

Silver drops fell steady  when I was dicing the potatoes.  The dogwood just outside the kitchen window is full of blossoms just waiting for a warm day full of sunshine, to convince them to open.  A robin perched a while on the closest branch and peered at me curiously through the glass.  Both of us, I thought are on a mission for our breakfast-” we have that in common”,  I told him.

I liked this curious little bird-I like robins in general.  They wear such pleasant expressions.  A robin always looks cheerful.  The lovely cardinal is stoic and seems serious.  Cardinals are handsome birds and maybe they are aware of that.  I have seen a cardinal in a pine waiting expectantly, I think, for an artist to show up to paint his portrait.  Blackbirds and sparrows were flying around the yard, but only the robin said “good morning”.

By the time Lyla woke everyone in the house up, the kitchen smelled like coffee and biscuits rising. 

The Rainy Afternoon

With yesterday being so busy, today seemed especially carefree.  I had started a pot of soup as soon as the breakfast dishes were cleared.  While it cooked, all things  “St. Patrick”   were taken down and stored for next year.  Will and Brant watched ball games and the girls watched “The Secret Garden” in the nursery.   Rain fell all afternoon and  seemed to magnify the peace in the atmosphere of the house.

Sunday-The conclusion of the holiday

It was snowing, when I left Elizabeth City, early Sunday morning.  This was the day we were celebrating my daddys’ eighty second birthday- and Christians’ twenty fourth.  The snow became a cold rain just south of Elizabeth City.  The wind howled, but thankfully, I had a safe trip. We had a wonderful Sunday dinner, with all of daddys’ favorites, which happen to be Christians’ too.  Both love barbecue best of all.  Chris and Ana brought an ample supply of that and so I had fixed brunswick  stew and slaw as they are the natural companions of barbecue.  Mama had cornbread .  Delores had fried chicken and potato salad.  There were several more sides and three cakes.  It was a wonderful affair, altogether.  We took pictures, as always of daddy and Christian  preparing to blow out their birthday candles.  Christian, now a young man that can grow a beard in a week, sat beside my dad, but I remembered  when he sat on his grandaddys’ knee-and I thought again the sly way in which time passes.  

The light from this day is now fading and tomorrow, all goes back as it was before.  I have been on “holiday” since Wednesday night and I am so reluctant for it to end. .but, what a beautiful collection of moments transpired -and  were gathered, just as easily as  if they had been  the first wild violets of spring.