Shamrocks and Sparrows

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I am in Elizabeth City on this fair morning- the day that belongs to anyone with even a bit of Irish blood in their veins has dawned with birds singing.  I came on Wednesday night,  Brant and Sydney arrived on Thursday.  We have been cooking ever since. 

Jenny has her house decorated with shamrock plants, displays of green glass and gold coins. Lyla has a beautiful little  Irish  Linen dress on this morning and an Irish fairy costume for later.   We are after all, “a bit Irish.”

A few generations back,  Henderson  McDuffy Leary and his brother, Enoch settled not too far from Lake Phelps, where my sister, Connie lives today.  We claim our heritage and are known to boast about it on occasion, though we laugh at jokes about the irish without malice.  True to our nature, we do exhibit a “tribal mentality”.  If someone crosses one of us, we are every one offended and  quite likely to raise a ruckus.  I, who do not kill bugs, will start the commotion.  Thankfully, this does not happen often, but when it does, it leaves a memorable impression for years-long after, we have forgiven the offender.  We do not quarrel amongst ourselves as it seems  especially sinful, and besides that, I tell them with my hand over my heart, “I couldn’t bear  for one of you to speak  a word against one another.”- and I mean it.

We are every bit as sentimental  as we are known to be.  I cry at the drop of a hat, at things beautiful or the least bit sad.  We are a soft hearted lot and because of that we are generous.  We have great respect for all of the earth, and consider whatever patch we live on, about sacred.  I hardly think such attributes are only found in the Irish,  but I have noticed on more than one occasion, they are apt to be true-and I must say so, being it is St. Patricks’ Day, after all.

The cake is iced at last, and the final loaf of bread is almost done.  It is past four and guests arrive at five.  I have been in the kitchen, the better part of the day but I have stolen away to the porch several times and noticed the dog tooth violets blooming  in the yards up and down the street.  The laughing river just smiled today and was as blue as I have ever seen it.  Finally, a day came about that was mild enough for one to sit in the open air  and watch the sparrows carrying on with their great intentions.

We had just finished setting the table, when guests started arriving.  Two families had babies and what a refreshing picture it made.  They, like the young sparrows,  so full of sweet intentions.  Mandy, the darling of  Pansy and Ivy came with  a bouquet of  Bells of Ireland and shamrock hydrangea.  I had never seen this variety of hydrangea, but now I won’t  soon forget it.  Every petal boasted a perfect little shamrock that looked painted on.

 Tonight, when I say good night to the world, I will “count my lucky stars” and be grateful to the Hand that placed them.  I will be glad for sparrows and dog tooth violets-for kitchens to bake bread in and for little,  Irish Linen dresses worn by a fairy, who is just a bit Irish.

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Like a Blue Moon

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Sunday at the Rabbit Patch

I have been watching the snow fall since rising.  It is all but stopped now.  The trees bear witness, for their branches look frosted.  Pine trees are especially lovely when snow is clinging to their  evergreen needles.  The lawn holds no souvenir of the snow.  I sat by the morning table with coffee and watched the event of light snow falling in a state of contentment.  I watched the rose bushes in the “Quiet Garden” as the snow collected on their branches.  They wear a late snowfall as beautifully as they wear their  June blossoms.

Moon Shine, who has shown no interest in going outside, since his civilization, actually slipped out this morning.  He did not tarry long.  He was a comical sight, running in the door,  with snow all over his tuxedo.  Snow at anytime is scarce at the rabbit patch, and I suppose he was curious about it.

We are not having  our “Sunday Dinner” today.  Instead, I am cooking split peas, as I have found some one else in the world, that likes them.  In the past, I have not been able to give them away.  Split peas are just not a popular dish in this area, but I love them anyway.  Tomorrow, when a cold rain is falling, Melissa , my young co-worker and I will have some for lunch.  

I am also going to make Christian a strawberry cake today.  Birthdays last a good while at the rabbit patch- and for whatever reason, any sort of stormy weather makes me want to cook, even more than usual.  By the time the cake is done, there will be no evidence it ever snowed at the rabbit patch, this day.  Still, I am grateful to  have watched snow fall for  a few hours.  I count it as “time well spent.”

The tranquility of the morning affected the rabbit patch all day.  Everybody, including myself napped in intervals.  The old house was quiet as someone was always asleep.  Moon Shine did manage to disturb the peace, several times.  Every one of us quarreled with him, at some point.  

I took great note, that hours pass sweetly, when they are not filled with details.  Days, without agendas, are as necessary and vital to me as the restored running water at the rabbit patch.

On Monday

I rose this morning while moon light gilded the rabbit patch with silver shine.  It made the humble farmstead as enchanting  as any  castle in any fairy tale .  Day light saving time, did not affect the beloved pets of the rabbit patch.  They slept  contentedly, as they are not concerned about the spring recital, nor the electricity bill.  Christopher Robin looked at me with one winking eye and seemed to wonder what we were rushing about, at such an “ungodly hour.” Today, there was an agenda full of details.  Today there was an almighty clock to be reckoned with.

By mid day, the predicted cold wind, started to  pick up.  I noticed the blossoms of the bradford pears , had been replaced with young leaves.  They are a lovely light green color and when a large flock of robins  decided to perch among them, it afforded a charming and cheerful sight-frame worthy, and   I thought, I would call it “March Gladness”.

I had not been home an hour, when the turnips and potatoes were boiling and cabbage was steaming.  I started a load of “whites” just as the rain began falling.  This is the week day rhythm at the rabbit patch.  Far be it from me, to sit down when I first arrive home.  Supper may be scant or reduced to remnants that “need to be eaten”.  Laundry may spend the night in the washer only to wake me at an odd hour, like a bad dream.

For those reasons, I adhere to a self-inflicted schedule.  . .but ever so often, a day will come along , that does not require anything to be measured or sorted out-and you do not need to go anywhere, to be in the right place . Those days come along as seldom as a “blue moon”-and . . .they are every bit as beautiful, when they do.

 

There Go the Daffodils!

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I did not see the sun rise this morning.  Most days, I do.  It felt odd to wake to “a bright and shining moment” on the rabbit patch.  The window by the morning table, was lit up like a chapel window and gently and joyfully, beckoned me to “rise and shine.”

We will celebrate My youngest son, Christians’ birthday today. His birthday was yesterday.  My “baby” is twenty-four years old now.  When, Christian was born, an ice storm promptly arrived.  The day before, had been warm.  Kyle and I took a long walk that day and then had milkshakes at an ice cream parlor.  I don’t know why I remember that, but the memory is as clear, as any I have.

Yesterday would have been the best day to celebrate, as it was Christians’ actual birthday-and that was the plan- but yesterday the wind blew without mercy.  Christian called me just before school was over.  There was no water at the rabbit patch and the lights were dimming and then brightening in an odd fashion.  I have only seen such conditions in horror movies and so I left for home, sure  that a fire was smoldering in the walls -or that ghosts were real, after all.  I came in the old house in a state of panic and rushed to check the breakers.  I could not identify what was happening and called my neighbors, who were doing just fine and had constant lights and running water.  This only alarmed me more and so I did what I have done all my life-I called my parents.  They came and daddy declared it had to be an electrical issue.  I called the power company, who promptly sent a truck.  Within an hour, full power and water was restored.  The wind had partially severed a line, it turned out.  Mama and daddy would not leave til all was restored at the rabbit patch.  Mama said they were there for “support.”-and they were.  Just their presence made a difference.

That is how todays’ celebration came about.  My fancy meal takes a few hours to prepare, and so today we will eat well.  We will also wait for a cold storm predicted to have some form of moisture, to arrive.  There go the daffodils!  There goes the spirea and the peach and pear blossoms-and the jasmine that has bloomed  just this week.  Woe to the irises and the lovely running periwinkle-if all goes as predicted.  This is the way of March, so I blame February for sashaying about as if it were April.

No matter, the weather conditions, as long as “another state of emergency” does not arise, today we will give thanks for  the birth of my last child.  Christian, being good natured, does not mind the delay in celebration.  He has not asked for presents in many , many years.  We all know he needs guitar strings, any way.  Christian is an artist in every sense.  He values art, whether it is drawn, written or listened to.  He lives like a poet, noticing the beauty of all circumstances.  You will not catch Christian being wasteful.  He cares for the environment and for all living things too much, to cause any harm.

Christian, is the only person I know that is sure that he does not need money.   He works and then is far more likely to give his money away  than spend it.  If a worthy cause, does not show up, he saves his money till it does.  Frequently he comes to me with money and says  “just take this, I have too much!!”  I have laughed out loud at this, I have been concerned -and I still don’t know what to do with it.  It amuses me, I find it admirable and yet, it  concerns me.  (I know as Will and Tres read this, their faces will pale.)   Christian thinks long and hard before committing to obligations as he values the content of his life, intensely.  Like me, a clock does not impress him, nor hold him hostage.  He is way too independent to be trendy – and he thinks too deeply to be shallow about anything.  His presence has made a beautiful difference in the last twenty four years of our family and not one of us would trade it , not for anything, this world affords.

Happy Birthday Christian!  and – “to thine ownself, be true.”

Acorns and Dandelions

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I have felt glad all day today.  Not a thing out of the ordinary, occurred.  I did not win a sweepstakes nor unearth buried treasure.  I did not solve any age old mystery, nor receive recognition for some great accomplishment, yet somehow these things pale in comparison to what did really happen.

The morning came and with it, a light cool rain.  It fell gentle on the fields, as the Irish would say.  By noon, the rain had stopped and the gray sky was a bright blue.  The sunshine on things blooming, caused the light breeze to smell sweet.  

Daffodils aren’t the only ones blooming .  Snow seems to have blossomed on a variety of bushes and trees.  Today, I saw a clump of Irises blooming in the shady corner of a lawn.  My own are up on the rabbit patch, but they have yet to bloom-or make any promises.  

Dandelion flowers are alive and well.  Children have been bringing them to the music room, clasped in  small hands as if they were rare gemstones-and to me they are.  In the  winter, children bring me small rocks , as gifts- so the lowly dandelion, soft and yellow, is  beautiful  in that way.  It is easy to be thrilled when you receive a dandelion, or a rock, from a child.  There is an expression, on a childs’ face, at such moments that acts like a tonic, and so I think, I ought to give dandelions too.  The heart of a child, is a place of purity.

I met a gentleman, who tunes pianos, recently.  He was a kind and interesting human and we shared a pleasant conversation.  When asked how his skill came about, he said he learned it by watching another fellow  and then studying manuals.  He wanted to learn, so he could have a service for churches and charities.   He was quite humble, as he spoke, but has been tuning pianos for decades in all sorts of churches.   Some people are wonderful like that.  

  When I came home to the rabbit patch, Christopher Robin started purring and Moon Shine made sounds like a young dove.  Cash pranced around, in the familiar way, boxers are known for.  I walked under the still bare, mighty oaks.  It was hard to imagine, that a common acorn, became the majestic oak.

While I was cooking dinner, it occurred to me  that even dandelions and acorns  can become objects of beauty, and stir the heart.   I thought how the story of an humble servant could conjure up thoughts of greatness and inspiration.  Truth is not always shrouded  in an obscure mystery  and not all lessons have to be learned the hard way.  . . .and I was glad for that.

   

When March Comes to the Rabbit Patch

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When  March comes to the rabbit patch, and wakes up all the earth,

somehow it makes the homestead seem to have a bit more worth.

For hyacinths and daffodils bloom across the land,

and the peach and pear have blossoms, when touched by Heavens’ Hand.

The woodlands, on the west side, where  wild rabbits like to run,

become somewhat enchanted, when lit by Marchs’ sun.

The songbirds sing a prelude, and fill the air with mirth,

When March comes to the rabbit patch, and wakes up all the earth.

It Happened on Sunday

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Before Sunday Dinner

The sun is up at the rabbit patch, and the wind is brisk and has a chill.  The old house is as silent as it can be.  There isn’t a bit of news, other than Sunday dinner is cooking and the house smells like it.  The green glass and a clean tablecloth will soon transform the lowly kitchen table. I will gather flowers for a vase, shortly, as yesterday, I ended up scrubbing the kitchen cabinets.  After all, I was moving dishes around and the task seem to come about quite naturally, as they often do.

While Gathering Flowers

I went out to gather flowers for an arrangement, while the stove earned its’ keep.  I found the day true to what is expected in March, at the rabbit patch.  The air was pleasant with only a slight chill.  The air of March is like that.  The day was bright and the territory was dotted with all sorts of flowers.  The pear tree is blossoming along with two young peach trees.  The oldest peach tree bloomed last week and a few cold nights have burned the tender buds to an awful brown.  Wild hyacinths are blooming in their familiar places.  The wild variety is not as spectacular as their hybrid cousins, but they have the same wonderful, sweet scent.  The Japanese roses are breath-taking now.  When I walked around the barn, their bright yellow flowers almost startled me.  Truly the “rose” looks like a carnation.  The flowers bloom along the slender branches, before the leaves appear.  It looks like the flowers are floating and  the effect is very fairy-like.  I cut some branches for the vase, and then was off to the daffodils.  Of course, the spireas are a favorite.  Their blossoms look like tiny roses and the bushes are full of them.  Christopher Robin walked with me, and true to his good nature, did not complain a bit.  He laid briefly, on a bed of running periwinkle and that made a charming picture.

In the Afternoon

The green glass did make a pretty table.  The arrangement was pretty too and quite complimented the setting though it did not compare to Pansy and Ivy, in Elizabeth City. ( I declare that Mandy has Divine help in her arranging.)   Mama and daddy got to the rabbit patch just as I was putting the cheese biscuits on the table.  While we ate the creamed turnips, we remembered my grandmother.  When we got to the pie, daddy was telling stories about his childhood.  I grabbed my book and wrote them down in fragments, to be composed later into a story that makes good sense.  Today, Mama and Daddy talked about their memories of the Ice truck.  Mama said, that when the ice truck came, her mother made iced tea for supper, that night.  It was something she looked forward to,  as a child.  The truck came every two weeks.  Daddy remembered he and his brother running to catch up with the truck when they saw it.  They gathered the broken chips that fell as the blocks were broken apart.  

While, I washed the green glass, I thought about the stories, my parents told, at the little kitchen table. I thought of Mama, as a little girl waiting for supper happily, as she would have ice in her tea-and daddy running fast, as a young boy, for a handful of ice.

I kept thinking,  once upon a time, people were thankful for ice and  this thought humbled me, greatly.

Just Folks Getting By Part 17

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this pie made my Sunday Dinner today-and it will again.

lbeth1950's avatarNutsrok

“Mama, I know you are making  a peanut butter pie for the American Legion Auction, but Ben’s Uncle Amos, just called and wanted to know if I could bring two pies!  I’ve  never baked a pie in my life!  You’ve got to help me!  Do you have a really easy, really good pie you can help me with?”  Jenny looked panicked.  “Do you still remember how to make that caramel pie you used to make?  That was my favorite.  Was it real hard?”

“Sure, I must’a made a thousand of those.  It’s real easy, just takes a while.  Do you have any Eagle Brand milk?”  Asked Lucille.  “Do you want it with pastry crust or graham crackers?”

“Graham cracker is best, but we have to go to the grocery store anyway.  What do I need for the pies?”  Jenny took out her pencil and pad.

“Let me think,” said Lucille…

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Pure and Simple

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The Mockingbird has sung his morning hymn, and the sun has risen over the barn, making the old shabby thing look holy.  It is Saturday morning at the rabbit patch.  I enjoy the leisure feeling of the early mornings on the weekend.  I wake up early, as I always do and lie very still- for the moment that I stir, Cash, my boxer, needs to go out.  It is apparent that he will perish, if I dawdle.  He takes to dancing around and pleading in tones only made by dogs.  No amount of chatter convinces him to wait.  Moon Shine gets up and races around the room as if the devil is after him.  I get up and hope Cash will not die and that Moon Shine will not trip me, in my morning stupor.  Christopher Robin, wakes up well mannered and considerate of my predicament.  Moon Shine waits nervously, for Cash to come in, by the window.  When he does,  they both settle back down.  I drink coffee and ease into  the morning, gently.

When, I am not in Elizabeth City, I plan “Sunday dinner” on Saturday mornings.  I will put away my lovely china with the redbirds and ribbons today.  It is March after all.  In tribute to my Irish heritage, I will set the table with Kyles’ collection of green glass.  Most of the pieces are very old.  I have collected dishes for each of my children, for many years.  Each collection is different, and were selected by my children.  Kyle, my landscaper, chose green. Most of the pieces are very old.  Many are “depression glass” pieces.  What a lovely table it makes-especially in March, and with us being just a little Irish.  

My great, great, great grandfather was Henderson McDuffy O’Leary, and straight from Ireland.  He and his brother Enoch, settled in the Lake Phelps area, where my sister Connie lives today.  Henderson and Enoch were farmers.  They fought for the north in the civil war.  I wondered how unpleasant living in the south, that must have been for them, at that time.  Once, I spoke with a historian, Dorothy Redford about this.  Ms. Redford wrote “Somerset Homecoming”- which I think should be in every North Carolina school.  It is the story of how Redford found the descendants of the slaves of the Somerset plantation, on Lake Phelps, and held a reunion.  The “ Today Show”  covered the story.  Ms. Redford told me, that more than likely, these Irish brothers had family up North and wouldn’t have fought against them for “love nor money”.  Thankfully,  both brothers survived the war.  Henderson is buried at the “Hollyneck Church”  that still meets today.  I found Uncle Enoch in a family cemetery in a field,  not far from Connies’ house.  The “Union” tombstone of “Captain, Enoch O’Leary”  was lying in the edge of a field-me finding it, was surely “Divine intervention”, I convinced myself.  Kyle and Christian were with on me this outing.  They were little boys and traipsing through field after field looking for a grave, lost its’ appeal for them, early on.  When we found Uncle Enoch, they were shocked and thankful.  They were in full agreement that God or some angel, had put an end to the search.  I put flowers on the grave, that were growing on a ditch bank,  and cried.  There is no explanation for my behavior that day,  except that I am Irish.  You may see now that  whether  Ms. Redfords’ explanation was right or not, it sounded reasonable to me.

Today, I will wash the green dishes, for use tomorrow.  I love to wash glassware.  It is a relaxing task.  I can not wash precious dishes hurriedly.  Of course, I think and dream while I wash them.  I find I can only think of pleasant things, while washing glass.  The sunshine through the kitchen window makes the glass appear to be lighted.  Being Irish, it is perfectly fine that I often ask the dishes about the hands that washed them before me.  “Whose table did you grace by your presence?”  I ask- and I wonder.  

I am making a pie tomorrow- from an old recipe, but one new to me.   It is a caramel pie, that requires you boil sweetened condensed milk, in the can for several hours.  I have never heard of such a process to make a pie, but apparently it is at least a sixty year old recipe.  I will give more details tomorrow and credit to its’ origin.

 The March air is chilly  and the wind is light this day.  It is a good day to do some housekeeping while an old movie plays.  It is a privilege not to rush today. It is a privilege to wash green glass and watch it sparkle near a window, where the spirea is blooming-and to make a pie from an old recipe, someone was generous enough to share with you.  I am grateful for every day, but some days are just so pure and simple, that it just makes you want to cry at the beauty . . of course, being  alittle Irish . . . I always do.

 

The Winds of March

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March at the rabbit patch is a very windy affair.  The territory is situated in a particular area where the  wind blows without mercy.  This makes us subject to storms with gusts that send the rockers off the porch and the tin off the barns.  Twice, we have had “downdraft” storms which are quick and brutal.  When it is over, the Farm Life residents come out from their homes, in a daze and scan the countryside, making sure everyone is accounted for.  Farmers armed with tractors and chainsaws go to work, clearing the debris.  Anything not nailed down is usually found weeks later in the woods and ditches, and returned by the finders.

Not every day is so harsh, in March, but even on the ordinary days, the wind will keep us as house bound as any winter weather.  I do not know how blossoms hold their own in March.   March is not the time to plan a picnic.  It is not the time to put the geraniums on the front porch, either.  We turn the rockers, so that they look as if they are kneeling in  constant prayer.  Wreaths and flags, do not stand a chance of surviving the March wind, at the rabbit patch.

Lyla loves wind-she always has.  Once, when she was not a year old-  on a day full of wind, I took her on a walk to the laughing river.  I parked the stroller, on the grassy open lot by the rivers’ bank. She laughed aloud as the wind tasseled her hair and caused her blanket to fly about wildly, as if it were alive. On that day, the wind was warm and playful.

When I was growing up, March was the time to fly kites.  We never bought a kite-Daddy made them.  We would stand in the front yard, with a field in front of us and watch the kite climb the sky, til it was barely visible.  If the twine broke, the children would make a mad dash to recover “the long, lost friend”.  Often we ran til we couldn’t, the distance was so great-and it is  very difficult to run in a freshly plowed field, even for children.  In my earliest memory, I remember that I cried,  the first time that the twine snapped and set the kite free. Daddy had worked a good deal of time with newspaper, scrap plastic and little sticks, to make that kite. We had watched him in silence, as it seemed like such a great project.  When the twine snapped, I was sure , the kite was gone forever and that daddy would be heartbroken. I did not fall for my cousin Chris’ story, nor take any comfort that the kite had gone to Heaven to be with Grandmama-and I was right as after a search, the kite was found in a ditch at least a half mile away.

 I have never been able to fly a kite with any great success-let alone make one. Every March, when my children were little, I would attempt .  I had great determination, but still the kites would climb a few measly feet and take to darting about, before plummeting in a deadly dive .  The children ceased to stand anywhere near, where the kite was, as it seemed to target one of them every time, it took a dive. 

It seems folks do well with kites at the beach.  They leave them unattended, and still the kites float peaceably above the water.  Children build castles in the sand, beneath the kites, without any fear whatsoever.  Todays’ kites are colorful and you can see every sort of shape-dragons, birds and such things.  As lovely, as it is to look up and see the sky full of pretty kites, I remember clearly the early spring evenings in my childhood, watching our kite soar mightily, over a field of winter wheat-and I think, ours, made from scraps,  is still the most beautiful kite I have ever seen.

 

 

“You are my Sunshine”

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Farewell to February, with its’ paper lace, hearts and best chances of snow on the rabbit patch.  February this year , woke the cherry and peach trees.  Hyacinths and daffodils, bluebirds and mockingbirds-all roused for the warmest February, I have ever known.  

The birthday party for Mama was nothing short of a grand occasion.  My Aunt Christine-Mamas’ sister came.  Cousins, first, second, third and fourth all joined in the affair, as well as the usual crowd.  Mama had a corsage and wore it proudly, on her day.  All of the details came together-and at last the secrets whispered for weeks, were revealed.  My sisters and I gave her a music box, with a pretty verse about motherhood, engraved on the top.  We chose, the song we first remembered her singing to us-the universal song of children everywhere-“You are my Sunshine”.   Of course, Mama cried and had barely composed herself, when we presented a small box, with a necklace inside.  It was a filigree heart and inside were little gemstones that represented, her  grandmother, mother , herself and her daughters.  We also gave her a scrapbook with pictures and handwritten notes of favorite memories and birthday wishes.  We showed it to her, but thought it best, that she wait to read it as she was having a difficult time, keeping her tears at bay.

My cousin, Chris and I grew up like brother and sister.  While, everyone had cake and ice cream, the two of us recalled long ago memories of running in pastures and woods.  We grew up alittle wild and completely unencumbered in childhood.  We worked too, but the farm chores were often pleasant.  Chris did recall, that the sound of a goat in distress, was not  something that he remembered fondly.  Of course, a goat was most likely to have his horns caught up in a fence, in the furthest corner of the pasture.  Somehow, Pop had designated Chris as the child responsible for goat rescue.  I am sure that Chris “made himself scarce” when he heard the dreaded and familiar noise of a crying goat, but Pop was louder than any goat and a force to be reckoned with.  Chris came down from trees, out from under barns and up from ditches, when Pop called out “Chris, go help that goat, NOW!!!”  I told Chris, it has been a long while, since a child has heard that command!-and we laughed, about that. 

Time is a peculiar thing, a complexity, of sorts.  When you are a child, seasons seem endless.  From  one Christmas to the next is a very long time.  Days are as slow as  “molasses in January” in a school year- when you are young.  We grow up and raise our children, and it seems  we are in a permanent state. . .  til they grow up.  Only then, do we take account, that years turned into decades-and it seems “in a twinkling”.  There is simply no explanation how twenty years  seem to ” slip by”.  

Truly, we ought not to “squander time”.   I say this whole- heartedly and often .  There is so much beauty for us to behold and it reveals itself in many forms.   Surely, there is more to life, than “just keeping the electricity bill paid.” -I often say.  And so,  I look for redbirds and blossoms in spring, without regrets.  I recite Housman’s “Lovliest of Trees”-and vow  to be mindful, again- for I declare, it was not that long ago, that our mother sang “You are my Sunshine”  to us as we hung clothes on the line, or snapped beans in the afternoon.  It was just a while back, that my cousin, Gena, was “the prettiest little baby”  and needed to be held tightly, in the front porch swing at Pop and Grandmas’ house.

I have been driving my “new car” to work, the last few days.  There are so many bradford pears along the way, covered in white blossoms, it reminds me of a huge wedding!  The winter wheat bears the frosty mornings like a champion.  In the afternoon,  the fields shine like emeralds.  Of course, like Mama,  I shed tears of joy, because, I  too, feel so loved. 

“If of thy mortal goods, thou are bereft, and from thy slender store, two loaves alone to thee are left,  Sell one, and with the dole,  Buy hyacinths, to feed the soul.  -John Greenleaf Whittier

“Big Days”, Today and Yesterday, Too

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The sun has not risen over the barn just yet.  At this particular moment, the first rays of light, make the barn look as holy as any church.  As I predicted, the peach tree is full of tiny little pink promises, and a few of them have already opened.  The peach blossoms are  a very pale shade of pink.  In full bloom, a peach tree is one of my favorite sights.  Last year, the peach tree blossomed in full glory.  It lasted all of a day, as an ice storm came that night.  I vividly remember the burnt blossoms that seemed to turn to paper and were scattered like trash, with the first breeze.  In July, two peaches were on the tree.  

I have a huge pot of collards simmering already.  I still need to make potato salad and cheese biscuits-enough for twenty people.  Today is a “big day”.  Today we are officially celebrating Mamas’ birthday.  The secrets of the past few weeks, will “come to light” today.. . that is all that  can go in the diary at this moment.

Yesterday was a “big day” too.  I spent a few leisure hours with my children and Lyla. The boys played basketball, while Jenny, Kelsey and I sat on the big front porch with Lyla.  Tres and Kelsey, returned from Rome, a week ago.  Tres said he had something for me and I immediately told him, that he shouldn’t have brought anything back-It was enough for me, that he was back “safe and sound”.  He asked me to look in the console of a car, and so I expected an Italian rabbit or a piece of jewelry-but the only thing in the console was a key.  I remarked, that Kelsey had left her key in the console and also that she kept her car very clean.  Tres said it wasn’t Kelseys’ key.  It took me a second or so to comprehend and I looked at him blankly.  He said “mom, that is your key” . . . and so I cried, right there in “broad daylight” on the rabbitpatch lawn.

The car I drive now, past fields and pastures, is twenty years old.  The ignition is a little tricky and the air conditioner quit working years ago.  I have never cared about cars, other than their safety and dependability.  I know what other folks drive by the size and color of the vehicle.  Quite often, I get in the wrong car in a parking lot because of that.  Once, I had a bagger put all of my groceries in a car that wasn’t mine.  I have wondered why my key didn’t fit, in someone elses’ ignition, then looked around and ran in horror.  Tres was able to “pull this surprise  off” easily.  Later Kelsey asked, didn’t I wonder, why they drove separately-no, I didn’t-and then she said didn’t you wonder whose car that was?-again no, I knew she had a small car.  She said “but mine is black!”. (this car is champagne colored).  So, you see,  what I know about cars.  A few moments later, it dawned on me and I asked excitedly -“Oh!-does it have air condition?”  They all laughed and said , yes.

The most endearing part of the story, is not the relief of now having a better car.  I had been wondering what I would do when my “silver car” gave out.  The fact that my children consider my needs, means the world to me.  Christian, was not even “in on the act” but he teared up in the happiness, as I did.  I have not raised perfect children.  The boys have run trucks in ditches in their youth,  they have all had “traffic tickets”  and stayed out too late, before-but I declare this whole-heartedly-They are good people for me, and for the planet.  They give to strangers in need, as well as their mama.  They care about the environment-and their mamas’ old house.  They care about animals, wild and tame.  They love and care for one another-and they care about the conditions of all humans.  Brant, will not buy a pair of shoes for himself, unless he can buy a pair for someone else in need, as well.  

There are many thoughts about “success”.  We all define it as we see fit.  We also define wealth-in many ways.  As life unfolds, we redefine and hopefully, weed out our former misconceptions.  We understand, more fully,  what pure and genuine happiness is.  The authenticity of life does not “hide” and we needn’t go on some dramatic treasure hunt to search for it.  Lifes’ treasure is not for only the few that have gotten their hands on some secret map, or an ancient “key”, they fought for.  I will tell you,  most likely, that our wealth is  found on  places like the front porch or in the back yard, as we have been told, after all.   Success gathers around kitchen tables and looks like family,  good friends, or neighbors.  Happiness is not reserved for yachts and country clubs, only, but may be in a summer garden or along the edge of the woods, as well. As it turns out. of all the things to acquire in life, “The greatest of these, is love.”

While the Mockingbird Sings

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As soon as the world starts getting light, birds begin singing.  It was not this way just a few weeks ago.  I can not make sense of this state of affairs.  In February, I am  usually hoping for snow, but the cherry trees are blooming along with the spirea, just now.  As much I love snow, it would be almost sinful to wish for it now.  I have paid great notice to weather, since I was very young.  Journals, that are now thirty years old, have the records of all those seasons.  Not once, did I record that the daffodils bloomed in February.  Today, finally, I gave in and packed the cheerful little, ceramic snowman scattered throughout the old house, in a box.  Maybe this year, spring will be a longer condition than previously.  That is lovely to consider.

As I sit at the morning table, by an open window, I listen to a mockingbird, singing with all of his heart. He is throwing “caution to the wind”  and encouraging the peach tree to do the same.  “Joy, does seem to come in the morning.”

All of my children are coming home this week end.  It is the first time since Christmas, that we will all be together.  Tomorrow, we are having a birthday party for Mama.  It is no small feat to gather five grown children under one roof.  Of course, this makes me sing, like the mockingbird-with all of my heart.  

Today, I have been writing in the rabbitpatch diary one year.  I have written really, all of my life.  When Brant was born, I took the endeavor of keeping an account of his childhood, very seriously.  The same can be said of the four that came after him.  When the children grew “way” up-I wrote for myself.  My dear friends encouraged me to no end to take my writing seriously and pursue a path in it.  Rae, may have been my biggest fan.  Eventually, I felt “led” and thus the rabbitpatch diary was born, on a very stormy day.  I have found, that when something comes about quite naturally, we often dismiss it as nothing of any significance.  Artists of all sorts, do this.  I think we have convinced ourselves that work must be “hard and taxing” to be valued.  I do not believe such notions, any longer. I have often wondered if the age old question, “what is my purpose?’, could be solved easily by replacing it with “what do I love?”  It is no great wonder to me,  to consider,  that those things we love, are given for us to find our place, joyfully.

I have clean linens on the beds, but the morning sun is bright now and showing me every speck of dust.  I will clean the old house as if I am putting the Christmas tree up!  It always feels like Christmas, when the children come home.  

I must say “Happy Birthday Jo Dee!” Jo Dee, is the one who makes the best barbecued chicken, and is also one of my dearest friends.  What a sweet difference, she makes in my life-and the lives of many others.  I hope you all have a friend just like her . . . for friendship is really golden, after all.