Living on a rabbit patch is not for the faint of heart.  My own, has barns that complain constantly about something.  The house itself, joins in, clamoring for its’ fair share of attention and the grounds around it can make me weary at times.  . .  but in September, on a day like today,  I forget all of that.  September makes me remember why I ended up on a rabbit patch-and the long and winding road that led me home.

In January, the farmhouse is cold and you are apt to want an old quilt over you in many of the rooms- but today the windows are wide open and the country air blowing through the house, does not allow me to harbor any resentment about past winters.  The ageratum is everywhere in masses.  They are as tender as spring violets and like the violets,they bloom where they please.  How lovely to come across a patch of them unexpectedly on my wanderings.  The bright yellow “swamp flowers ” are just about as friendly.  Their lowly name does not hinder their joyful presence in the least.  Years ago, I talked Kyle in to stopping by  a field and digging a few up, to carry back to the rabbit patch.  I am in the habit of this if I take a fancy to something blooming wild-no matter what you call them.  Kyle worked like his life depended on it, to do it quickly.  He found the practice odd and would have been horror-stricken if we had been seen in a ditch, digging flowers.  I always remember this, in September, when the rabbit patch seems to grow sunshine.

I am not sure whether I bought the rabbit patch, or the rabbit patch bought me, now a decade later.  I did not know that there was a busted pipe under the house and that the the water heater was useless.  I thought if I just painted it, all would be well.   There were five bedrooms-one for each of my children, in case they needed to move back.  I forgot they were grown and had their own homes, with the exception of the youngest two.  I think the wild irises blooming at the edge of the woods made me forget.  There are seven barns scattered about and it never crossed my mind that loose tin would be a perpetual thorn in my side-or that doors would fall off, ever so often.  I had painted flowers and verses on them.  I hung wreaths and painted birds and thought they were beautiful old barns. . .and they are.  I can barely keep an account of the wrongs of the rabbit patch, today though.  I can forgive and forget in September, especially when a full moon will rise over the fields tonight.

I came here not knowing that I would have a magnificent sunset view from the front porch.  I had forgotten that in the dark sky over a country dwelling, a million stars shine at night and you can see every one of them.  I didn’t know that the silence of rabbit patch would act like a tonic on me, either.

 It seems now, that all my life  I was  going down a long and winding road  leading me straight away to this old rabbit patch, so I would know that I can paint birds and roses – That I can stack wood, mow for hours and love a cold winter night in an old house.  In September, on the sweetest day. . .  I remember-and my heart is grateful for time well spent.

 

This week has been a bit too busy for my liking.  It seems every day, after work just held some unpleasant task for me to tend.  So far, there has been a car repair, car inspection and paying taxes.  I wouldn’t complain at all, if I had been buying those chrysanthemums or picking pumpkins, though, I would have been just as busy.  I am much better suited for things like that.  I still have two more items to complete that are “business related” tomorrow.  Thank Goodness, for a tea cup and a ginger lily -what a sweet difference they made, this week!

A friend of mine, took a trip to the mountains- The Blue Ridge mountains, of North Carolina.  Melissa is young enough to be my daughter, but has an old soul, I am sure.  We love the same things, from chickens to the Brandenburg Concertos-and a lot in between.  On Tuesday, she gave me the sweetest china teacup.  She had searched the many antique stores, along the parkway to find one with flowers and birds on it.  I had never spoken of my obsession with old china with her, yet she knew.  It is a wonderful feeling to know she thought of me, while  in far away hills and valleys.  It is a pretty little china cup and I took a fancy to it right away.

 People used to set such store in pretty dishes.  I wonder when it went out of fashion to have a pretty supper table.  A table set properly with even an everyday china makes a meal an occasion-and coffee in a china cup tastes better, I believe.  Besides all that- It is a lot more enjoyable to wash dishes if  there are dainty pink roses on them .  

I am noticing the sycamores are casting less shade daily. They make a frightful mess of things, with their huge leaves which curl as they dry.  Still, I have no quarrel with the sycamores.  We are old friends with a  long history of summer afternoons .  I have sought refuge in their shade and watched the stars come out, while sitting beneath them.  The sidewalk to the backdoor is  dependably cool, because of the sycamores.

The details of the week, have made for some long days.  I do not tarry from the car to the stove, and only glance around the rabbit patch, before going in.  One such day, a familiar scent, faint and sweet, came my way.  I went straight-away to the bed of ginger lilies.  A lone bloom had sweetened the air and I breathed it in deeply.  I had all but given up, weeks ago on the tall green stalks producing their ordinary little blossoms full of fragrance, yet here was one leaning against an empty birdhouse, and it made a difference in my walk-I slowed right down.

I saw the “silver apples of the moon” late that night.  The night air was cool when I turned my thoughts to things to be glad for . . . .like friends that care enough to look for china teacups with flowers and birds adorning them, just because you love them-and a ginger lily blooming . . . because you love them too.

Yesterday, when the morning came gently to the rabbit patch,  I had a lot of lofty notions.  As it turns out, one hope got dashed, and then another.  I gave up on remaining cheerful alittle while before evening and took to the woods of the rabbit patch, where all things are wild and beautiful.

I had plans to mow, which requires the best part of the afternoon.  I was aggravated  to find the gas can was dry as it has ever been.  This meant a trip to town and back.  I talked Kyle into going for me.  He was back in three minutes, because he never left.  The car needed a repair again, he told me-and he was right.  There went the mowing . . . .and the hopes of buying chrysanthemums for the porch.

That was not the end of it.  I received some unpleasant news in late afternoon.  Nothing “earth shattering” but “timing is everything” sure rang true, in that moment.  Something or other, just seemed intent on disturbing the peace of the rabbit patch, this particular day.  When the loose tin on the barn rattled in the breeze, I felt it sounded like a hateful chuckle at my predicament-so I decided we would at least hang the door that had been waiting a month.  You know it didn’t fit-so, I did what I could do-I called mama and complained.

We ended up cancelling Sunday dinner and sadly, but rightly so-as with great hesitation, I plan to mow today.  My friend Jo Dee, has had a crisis of some sort, the past two summers.  On those occasions, she makes pickles!  Pickles do take a long time, so I suppose it is a  sort of therapy for her.  I have never made pickles that were really “fit”   -so  at such times, I take to the woods and fields.  I did so yesterday.

I must have had the face of despair, because Christian asked me what I was going to do, as he caught me in a trance, in the yard.  I said, ” I am just going to walk” and headed for the fields.  Cash came with me.  No rabbit was going to get me this day!  I walked slowly.  I was going to present my case with precision-but I came up on the grapevine, and started picking the very few ripe  ones.  The fields lie just beyond  the vines.  I stared at them a while.  It is hard to be grumpy in their presence.  They are just so quiet and so unconcerned about things like mowers that are out of gas.  I looked around.  The huge yard is untidy, but at some point it won’t be, I thought.  I sauntered on to the young woods, where the rabbits live.  The bright fuschia berries of the French Mulberry were in all their glory.   To say the woods were lovely  is an understatement-what with the berries and loosestrife randomly blooming- and the wild butterfly bushes had little yellow flutters all about them.  It did not seem such a bad lot, to be “stranded” in such a place.

I never did “state my case”, but instead I felt like I had. The light was fading, when Cash and I made our way back to the old farmhouse.  Cash walked with a great sense of pride, that no harm had come to me on his watch.  I walked back, restored in spirit and regretted ever thinking that this day was less than any other, in greatness.  I had been where all things are wild and beautiful. . . and that had made all the difference.

I spend a good part of a day finding beauty.  The more I look for it, the more I find it.  Often, it jumps right out at me, from a place I didn’t know to look.  Other times, it shows up in familiar places.  I always love when morning comes gently-a morning like this one.

Light comes in the window by the “morning table” without causing a sense of hurry.  I have coffee when I want, and as much as I want.  I think my thoughts like I have all the time in the world and then I take to writing them down.  Maybe in January, I will need to remember that a mockingbird was here in June or that the star spangled sky in August is still overhead, just hidden in winters’ shadows.

I do have lofty plans today.  The yard needs mowing-after the debris has been cleared.  It will take the afternoon to do so-but there’s no telling what treasures I will find in those hours.  I am wondering what stage the french mulberry is in.  The young rabbits living in the patch of loosestrife will be disturbed, as they always are, when I mow-and I will see how much they have grown when they abandon their ship!  The “autumn joy” flowers from Miss Susie are blooming-right on time, this year-I will tell them they are beautiful and thank them-without a bit of shame.  I will check to see if the grapes are turning when I mow back behind the barn, and if they are, I will thank them too.

I may buy chrysanthemums for the porch, if all goes well.   They should get along nicely with the geraniums .  This depends heavily on the lawn mower, of course.  I will plan Sunday dinner today, no matter if  the mower behaves poorly. 

I see the loose tin on the barn through the window by the morning table-as I make plans to buy flowers.  There is a door waiting to be hung, too.  Sometimes the rabbit patch shows no mercy on my predicament.  I declare I will downsize one day.  Somewhere there is a little rabbit patch waiting, and it has my name on it.  I used to be so fearful just thinking about it-but somehow the fear left me.  I don’t care which rabbit patch, I end up in-it will be every bit as magical and every bit as peaceful as the one I have now.  I have found beauty on the ditchbanks and in the back yard.  It does not hide from a seeker.  I have not had to visit the four corners corners of the earth nor be of royal descent to know that this world is not short on beauty.  When the morning comes gently, I think of such things.

I will be glad for today with the autumn joy blooming and the smell of grapes ripening.  I will look for the kitten that Christian has seen this week-a tiny little guy that it seems Christopher Robin has taking a shine to-and I will  hear what the french mulberry is saying about September. . . and,  I will thank them,  too

I am in the habit of listening to the world.  Maybe it is because I am a musician, or maybe it is because I am curious by nature, and have the notion I might miss something beautiful if I squander a moment.    I have heard September’s song.  The prelude to autumn is the sound of September, after all.

The song of September drifts through the rabbit patch like an old fashioned lullaby sung in a hushed voice.  I recognized the familiar melody yesterday evening.  As long as I have called this place home, I have heard it-yet , I forget to expect it.  

The music is first conjured up in the corn fields. The drying stalks rustle in the breeze soft like a whisper.  I heard it last night, when all the rest of the world was quiet.  

The songbird community has dwindled on the rabbit patch and that shows up, this time of year.  There is very little chatter at any time of day.  The trees do not have the secrets they had in May. The mornings are quiet but,   in late night hours, the killdeer still fly, as is their habit .  If a falling star made a sound on its’ descent, it would sound like a killdeer crying out .  The owls will call out gently to one another at night and I like their way of that.  Often, the nights of September are foggy and I can only see a half million stars, now.  It is quite serene and it feels like the passing moments are sacred, when I am out on the rabbit patch,  in the very late evening.  So many times, I “save up” questions, during the day, to ask about at night.  Most often, I get caught up in the peace and the beauty-and it seems that’s why I am there.

It is Friday-an insignificant day  to me, in summer.  Friday feels different, now.  I came home today and heard the sound of a combine rumbling.  It is not unusual to hear one a good part of the night.  I have seen them in distant fields most of my life til late autumn.  Many farmers are friendly and will let children ride in the cab with them, for a while.  At night, the farmer rides alone in massive fields , especially if there is the threat of rain.  When you get up, the next morning, you see that he has opened the sky and it will make you feel a bit smaller.

One night, this week, some neighbors- young people made a small fire to sit around.  This is not a bit unusual in Farm Life or any rural community, I bet.  I heard the lilt in their voices  and could tell they were cheerful.  I smelled the wood smoke and saw it rising just under the moon. It is about impossible to be anything but content, when you sit around a fire, on a misty September night.  It will make your heart open and you are liable to cast your cares in to the ashes, like you would a pine branch.

September has a song-and the melody is pure and sweet.   There is a verse about kildeer and owls-fires and those who tend the earth.   It is first sung in the fields and it is gentle enough to make you weep-not because it is sad. . . .but because it is just so very beautiful

I have a beautiful drive home from work.  Past fields and through woodlands, under big sky,  I journey on to get back to the rabbit patch.   No matter how good the hours have passed, I want to get home.  While there is light, I begin supper .  I find I need to start supper, before I even sit down, if not , depending on how long I sit, chances  can get mighty slim for us to have a home cooked supper.

Cash, my boxer , has not yet started going to school with me, this year.  I am still conducting classes with new students and I take great pains to instruct them on proper behavior around dogs, before Cash attends -so for now, when I enter the old farmhouse, there is a greeting ritual with Cash and Christopher Robin too.  On the hardest of days, it is good to be home.

I notice what needs to be done in the yard, and make mental notes to plan accordingly for the weekend.  The entire territory is most untidy now. There are fallen branches now, from the storm and the grass needs mowing again.  I declare there is no rest on this rabbit patch. 

When the kitchen starts to smell good,  a feeling of sheer contentment takes hold of me.  Years back, the rabbit patch was a full house.  My grandmother and my three younger sons lived here at the time.  The kitchen was busy and we all talked while I was peeling potatoes.  Supper is a lot quieter now.  I am glad for the occasional commotion that Cash and Christopher Robin cause.  Sometimes it is only the three of us.  At such times, we all have supper at the same time.  They are good company and wait patiently for me to wash dishes.  We go in to the den afterwards and they nap while I relax at the morning table.

I do like the peace and quiet of the rabbit patch.  I like coming home where things make good sense-where things are familiar.  The old oaks and the breeze blowing through them seem in cahoots to keep the place a sanctuary of sorts.  In the presence of the oaks, I find restoration .  

I go out at night to bid the world sweet dreams and to reflect on the contents of the day.  Last night the moon was especially colorful, though it only showed a glimpse of  its’ fullness.  The sky was black otherwise.  It is hard to feel anxious about anything under such conditions.  The complexities of the day, pale in comparison, to the serenity of  the night at the rabbit patch.

When all is said and done, this is the way a day passes at the rabbit patch.  In this fashion, I spend my life-and I am quite content to do so.  

There was no better place for me to be in all the world, than on the rabbit patch, this last Sunday.  My “valley was green” and I knew it.  The kitchen table was laden with good food and the folks sitting around it were the dearest treasures of my heart-and that sweet vase of zinnias made the perfect centerpiece for the occasion.

In the presence of love, all else fades.  The flat tire on the car this week, seemed like it never happened on this day and even the the very old farmhouse didn’t seem nearly as shabby.  It is true that “love covers a multitude of sins.”  On this day,  I was wealthy-with no fear of my assets losing value. In fact, the rabbit patch kingdom is growing, I realised.  Lyla sat beside me and spent the most of the time, learning the mechanics of how to use a spoon.  I watched her, so determined.  She would not accept help and would not resort to using her hands.  It is a joyful event when a baby is at the table.  Her dad, Will became part of the family, a few years back-now, I do not recognize when, as he is such a part of us.  It seems like he has always belonged to us.  I call him, my “son -in- heart”. . .Kelsey already feels like family. Tres and Kelsey met a few years ago and I loved her right off.   I loved her even more yesterday, when she wanted to pick grapes after dinner .  I was glad she took enjoyment in such things.  It says a lot about her, I think.  Mama and daddy were there too.  Mama told stories and said sweet things while daddy worried that I don’t have a spare tire at the moment.. . so all was well as it could be at Sunday dinner.

September itself,  lent its’ blessing by way of a cool breeze that blew through the open windows.  The sunlight was muted and cast dappled faint shade beneath the pecan trees.  Butterflies  were out and about on their mission to find the last roses of late summer.  They looked like live confetti,  I thought.

I am older now, and like everybody before me, I spent the first half of my life looking for what it took to make my life a happy one.  Nothing I ever bought-or even made payments on lasted for long.  Things have a temporary value and are liable to to break or get lost somehow.  Whether “rust corrupts them or thieves break in and steal them” is insignificant-things are just debris collected in youth, I realise now.

This past Sunday, I saw what authenticity looks like.  It was in the faces around the kitchen table-from the ones that had worried over me in the past to the one trying to use a spoon-and all those in between .  After dinner, in the yard around the farmhouse, I watched mama showing Lyla a butterfly.  The men were looking at the tire that had gone flat and deciding its’ fate.  Kelsey and Tres were walking  out to the grapevine by the time shadows fell long and low.  

This was the grand conclusion of our time well-spent.  It was as good a time as I have ever had. . . and it all happened on the rabbit patch- on Sunday.

Sometimes, there are bright and shining moments.  Today , the rabbit patch has been full of them.  One thing happened, and then another-and it was all good.  

Late last night, in the midst of the storm, I found out that Tres and Kelsey were coming for a visit.  Jenny, Will and Lyla decided they would too.  This makes it a holiday at the rabbit patch-and nothing less.  I love the eve of any holiday and went to work planning out the details.  I went to sleep knowing I would use pumpkin somehow in the Sunday dinner, as Kelsey loves it.  Mama and Jenny should have fresh baked bread and the farmhouse needed to be cleaned thoroughly.  The rain fell all night long on the rabbit patch and the wind blew steadily.  I slept as good as I ever have.

The morning dawned gray and cool, and woke me as gently -as a grandmother would.    I started washing sheets and then decided the curtains too, while I was at it.  I was able to raise the windows for the first time in a long while.  A September breeze filled the house while I had coffee at the morning table.  I read the comments on my last post.  The sentiments were lovely and kind so that I cried at their beauty.  It was like receiving a gift and the generosity washed over me, like the rain had done so,over the rabbit patch, in the hours before.

The day unfolded and tasks presented themselves, as they did- I made a firm decision  to work at a sensible pace.  I received good news today and so I found the energy to wash the windowsills, in addition to the rest of the chores.  Will and Jenny  surprised me with a quick ,early visit. Lyla was more interested in Cash and Christopher Robin but she managed some hugs and kisses for me.  She said “Honeybee” with her mom’s coaxing and that was another bright moment.  

Jenny handed me a bouquet of flowers sent by her friend that started her own business a short while back.  She named it Pansy & Ivy and has already made a fine reputation for herself. I remember the first days of her venture.  She was so full of excitement.  I saw her passion and it made me glad.  Here, I thought is one that has found her purpose-that is a lovely thing to behold.  Her arrangements feature whatever is blooming at that particular time, which I find a unique idea.  My bouquet was full of zinnias and they are just so cheerful.   They will add a beautiful touch to our Sunday Dinner. 

I still have a floor to scrub and I have not figured out what I will make with pumpkin, but I did get the porch decorated.  Tonight I will go out to say goodnight-I will  stand in the mud  and proclaim my gratitude for a day full of bright and shining moments -for a holiday that came about all on its’ own-and for the sweetest  bouquet of zinnias to ever grace a table.

September is a lovely time. It is the season of relief from the hottest time of the year.  The first of the leaves begin to fall and every day seems brighter than the last, in September.  When it becomes September, we seem to have permission to have lofty notions about the days to come.  It is an especially good time to light candles and bake bread-and to buy chrysanthemums.  

I tend to be cautious about looking forward to anything, too much.  If a person “goes through money” quickly, they are often considered to be poor stewards.  The same could be said of people who spend a fair amount of their time concerned of the future.  Time is much more valuable than money, I think-but in September, there just seems  to be so much to look forward too.  I have to use great restraint to practice living each day mindfully-though I allow myself a healthy amount of “great expectations”.

This September day is full of rain, at the rabbit patch.  A tropical storm is passing .  The rabbit patch does not flood, but I always send the old trees that grow around it, all of the confidence I can muster in a wish.  Years ago, I lived in town.  My neighbor Gayle, and I would cook on stormy days.  We got in the habit of sharing a supper on such occasions, and I think of those times whenever there is inclement weather.  I have found that it is these kinds of memories that my heart recalls more readily and more fondly too. Remembering time well spent, by far outshines any thing material I may have ever acquired.  

When my sons and I moved to the rabbit patch, a decade ago, there was so much work to be done.  We did not have a television or an air conditioner either.  We took to eating supper on the front porch as we didn’t even have a kitchen table!  We ate while the sun was setting over the field in front of the house and  we went to sleep soon after on mattresses in the living room.  One night I told the boys, that kings lived no better than we did.  I am sure the statement shocked them- but we dined well, even if it was on a porch and the view was always spectacular.  The hard work we did in the day allowed us a deep sleep at night.  When you think about it, those are the things we all hope for in a day-from farmers to skilled doctors- and teachers that live on a rabbit patch,  all of us desire those same elements in life.  The world seems a little cozier when I consider that.

The first rain of September is still falling but the wind is only slightly more than breezy.  Leaves will be scattered about the rabbit patch , by now.  I love the smell of leaves that have been fallen for a while.  There is something about September, that makes me want to build a fire any way, so on the first cool evening and many evenings to follow, I will be burning small piles of leaves.  I will make the fires where the tomatoes once grew.  In this way the tree gives to next years’ garden and I will think of that while I watch the flames cast light in the shadows.

The lights at the rabbit patch will be turned on a little earlier with each passing day, now.  We will have supper a little bit earlier . Tomorrow I plan to  make  soup .  It will be the first we have had in a long while.  I will make a loaf of bread- and if it is still rainy and the least bit cool, I will light a candle .  When it becomes September the whole world over, I do such things on any given day.

Today did not start out like any other day at the rabbit patch. My internal alarm is usually quite reliable, still I set an alarm just in case.  Neither did their job this morning.  Kyle came rushing through the house yelling “Mom!” in a bit of a tizzy and I woke up with a start!  His alarm had not worked either!  We were scrambling but, somehow I remembered to let Cash out, anyway.  The coffee is preset as I simply depend on it to wake up.  I poured a half of a cup to go and hoped for the best.  Moments later Kyle and I were getting in the car.  He, without a lunch and me with my tempest in a teacup.  The morning was as foggy as I have ever seen it and I had trouble getting my bearings straight.  Fog does away with time altogether.  It could have been any time of day, I thought. The rushing had to cease-but the state of panic did not.  Then I remembered Cash.

Cash is a boxer, the forever puppy breed.  Boxers never quit playing, even in old age, hence they are worthy of the title .  Cash is just two years old.  He is obedient and dependable.  I call him and he comes, even when rabbits are in his back yard, but this morning was not like any other and so today, in all that fog, he was playing.  He ran by me at full speed several times before he dashed in the door, happy as a lark on Sunday!

The drive to work was tense and slow. We were both about a minute late, but considering all things, we had done well on this last day of August, full of fog.  I did not have the chance to see the quiet pastures with horses grazing and if the morning glory was blooming, then I missed that too.  I did not consider beautiful words or songs on this day and I did not send best wishes out to the world-I didn’t  even know what we were having for supper!  When Solomon, in all his wisdom, said “All is  vanity”  I do think he meant rushing.

When I drove up to the rabbit patch in the late afternoon shadows,  Christopher Robin was sitting in a window as if he had all the time in the world, because he really does.  The rabbit patch is old and time moves slowly here.  It seems to defy the clocks and agendas of man.  It is a refuge of sorts. . . my saving grace.  When I went out at nightfall,  peace was covering the rabbit patch much as the fog had done earlier and all was rightly restored, within me, because of that.

You can best believe that Kyle and I have several alarms set for tomorrow morning.  This world holds  an assortment of beauty and I aim to take great note of it.  There will be a new sky in the morning with clouds I have never seen before.   I  sure hope to have more than a tempest in my teacup when the sun rises tomorrow –  for it is the first morning of September , after all.

The “Morning Table” in my home appears to be ordinary furniture.  It is a small round table that sits on a lyre pedestal. The morning table is positioned by a window and holds things I need to write, books I am reading , a lamp and a coffee cup.  I watch the light change at the morning table, while Cash and Christopher Robin sleep close by.  I write what is laid on my heart at this little second-hand table. The morning table is like an old friend that knows your dreams and keeps your secrets.

I have had the habit of writing for a very long time.  I have journals of letters written to each of my children as they were growing up-and with five children, that is a lot of writing.  I can only write truth, I have learned-and I can only write what I find ” good”. In this way, I have ended up with a collection of little celebrations and records of things that I love.  I find myself looking, at any given moment for things to add to my accounts-and I have found this a good practice.  It seems we often find what we are looking for, I think, so it may as well be something pleasant.

I have learned to find great delight in kind words, sometimes spoken by strangers as well as the cheerful boasting of a mockingbird singing in June.  I love the hushed sound of children playing in the snow-well, I just love snow altogether, it  falls so seldom at the rabbit patch.  I love the smell of woodsmoke in October.  I love rain and Thanksgiving.  I really love the Christmas season-even wrapping the presents. I love the sky at all times and I love poetry.  I love a lot of things and I am always realising more beautiful things to love –out of habit.

The night was foggy when I went out tonight.  I could see but a few stars.  The night choir did not offer a song and the air had not the slightest motion.  Now, I know there is a beauty in silent stillness. There was more life in those moments than I had expected and I will remember that too, as part of my collection.

Living on the rabbit patch has humbled me with its’ extraordinary simplicity.  I do not have to live in a frantic state for I have seen the Hand of the artist, and It never rests or ceases in generosity.  The “morning table” is the place I remember these things .  It is from the “morning  table” that I send my love letters out for the world-my account of things I find “good.”

The rabbit patch in August, is not as tidy as it was in July.  Grass grows unhindered where it ought not to-and the garden is almost abandoned.  Vegetables are in the pantry now or packaged up in the freezer.  There are no sightings of bunnies  in the evenings and the nests of the summer birds are filling up with leaves.  The songs of the night are hushed-and last night, I smelled the corn drying in the heavy air.

If summer was a book, August would be the last chapter-the one read hurriedly, the conclusion of all that happened before it-But August has a story, all its’ own and it is a story worth telling.  There is too much to do and see in August, than to just spend it  waiting  for pumpkins.  There are the morning glory flowers, after all.  They are a cheerful lot-especially if they are the blue variety.  Many consider them as lowly as violets, but I love violets too.  When the yellow butterflies of August flutter around a morning glory vine, it is  an affair to notice. Morning glory, true to its’ name, makes a “big production” of the morning time and it is over by noon. The butterfly knows this and heeds the morning light as an invitation to  attend,with great haste.  The other flowers in the rabbit patch do not impose such  consequences-and the butterfly knows this too.

The “Quiet Garden” in August, is going slowly about its’ business these days.  New roses are more seldom now and there are barely enough of them to fill a vase these days, yet the serenity remains.  The “Quiet Garden” is as steadfast as a sister.

The flowers in the rabbit patch bear certain colors at certain times. Now , the landscape is shades of purple, yellow and blue.  The lantana sums it all up with its’ clusters of little flowers that are  delightful combinations of these colors of August.

I went out last night, in to the heavy air of late summer.  It was a still and moonless night.  I smelled the corn drying in the fields .  Just before the harvest, you can do so but only if the air hangs thick.  The thought “dawned upon me” that I spend a good deal of time, in August, thinking about September. I so love the time when chrysanthemums and pumpkins are scattered over the rabbit patch.  I love the world when you need a sweater in the morning and a light blanket at night.  The next thing I know, I am thinking of the first soup I will make and  the first fire Kyle will build in the wood heater -and then  I am well on the way to Thanksgiving and lighting candles.  

I must remember that August has a story  to tell all its’ own.  While the roses rest,  sapphire blossoms are growing on  vines. Evening comes a little quicker than it did in July, its’ heavy air filled with a soft melody and carrying the smell of corn in a field a mile away,  ready for harvesting.  Butterflies are on the wing like a silent commotion and make me remember that there is more to August, than just waiting for pumpkins.