Tonight is my last night in Wilmington.  We have a nice dinner out planned and maybe a breakfast in the morning.  I have said good bye to the ancient oak and to the splashing fountain that sings to me while I write.  They have become familiar and I will miss them, but leaving my boys,  that grew and flew-now that’s another story.

The truth is they are but a few hours away and we will visit more this summer.  Some more truth is I got used to being with them again on a daily basis and it felt wonderful.  I love having a good meal ready when they get home.  I love when we sleep under the same roof.  I love waiting for them to get home, even!  

I have thoroughly enjoyed my visit.  I am not in the habit of  going out much-but I have done so this week.  I can not convince my children that I am “pleased as punch” just staying at home.  I wear comfortable clothing and watch old black and white movies.  I love reading and writing.  I have taken a lot of walks about the village.  I have met some nice folks and some friendly dogs.  I am older now, and I am quite content with such things.

You would think, that by this age, a person would know something-but as it turns out, a lot of what I have learned has changed up.  The tools are different.  From washing machines to coffee makers- I need a manual to know what all those flashing lights are about. Car keys are odd looking and using a phone can be a nightmare.  The televisions have three remotes and that’s a nightmare too.  My generation grew up without microwaves, without cable and cell phones-so a lot has changed. It is no wonder, I am content at home peeling potatoes-the same way my grandmama did, because I know how. It is often said that the older generation is “set in their ways” and that they don’t like change.  The truth is, we are the experts at change.  We have done it all of our lives- and honestly, it is tiring.  I miss those days when the kids were little and I really did know how to make coffee.  Well, I just miss those days in general.

I have missed the rabbit patch too with its’ country air and song birds flying.  I am sure that my younger boys missed me like I missed them.  Cash and Christopher Robin have probably been pining away-and I bet Christopher Robin broke something while I was gone. The tomatoes will be ripe and the grass will need mowing.  The rabbit patch is very “set in it’s ways”  and demands a fair amount of attention on any given day.  I will take a walk  around when I get back to see what is blooming.  I will go the “Quiet Garden”and I will be glad for  my time by the sea, with my  children who “grew and flew” in a most delightful way.  . . and the world is a better place because of it.

 

Longfellow’s account of an ocean, is my favorite.  It sounds like music when read . I never see the ocean that I don’t  think of “The Song  of Hiawatha”.  We were there on Wednesday, by that ” shining big sea water” and I remembered again that Longfellow was right.

Wrightsville Beach is about ten minutes from Brant’s house.  The sand is white and feels like powder, there.  The water is especially clear and  on that day, a cool wind blew acrossed it.   I watched Lyla play where the waves rolled up  and became gentle, for a long while . Later I took a long walk.  A little girl was collecting purple shells and I gathered a good many for her as I strolled along .  

I loved hearing the sounds of children laughing and playing in that big sea water.  I saw older couples walking hand in hand and young men on surf boards riding the waves in with the confidence that youth affords. It was beautiful.  People are friendly at the beach and though it isn’t organized, we all watch out for the children-and help them find shells.

It is a humbling experience to walk by an ocean.  I felt small, but not insignificant.  An ocean is a mighty force, but I did not feel weak.  Instead, I felt a great sense of comfort knowing that the Spirit that makes the moon rise over the ocean, also makes it rise over the rabbit patch-and over Africa and every place in-between.  The crashing waves, splashing fountains and the still, hidden  ponds in the woodlands are born by the same Hand and somehow, fear can not abide  in me when I consider that -so the stroll does me good.  

I returned to our “camp” with my pocket full of purple shells, to find Lyla in deep concentration, staring intensely  at the shining big sea water.  She was  still and silent-quite a contrast  to the liveliness around her. I have noticed this is a habit of very young children.  They will stop in their tracks when they see a thing of beauty.  Their heart recognizes authenticity -whether it be an army of ants , a feather or a pretty rock-things than man can not take credit for and I vow to never rush Lyla when she discovers such treasures. 

The little girl with the bucket of purple shells was happy with my own collection.  She pointed out how many different “kinds” of purple there were-and she was right.  

When we left, the sand was so hot you couldn’t bear to move at a normal pace, even with shoes on.  Still, I noticed the “Joe-bell” flowers blooming in spite of the harsh sun and there were some lavender flowers doing the same.  We came home and finally finished the left-overs.  Will, my son -in-law and heart, left as his vacation was now over.  Brant went to work and Jenny had plans for dinner with friends.  Lyla and I took a walk as the wind was unusually cool for July.   Usually, Lyla rides in a stroller, but I thought she might enjoy walking as we had the time.  She found every leaf and twig along the way.  She examined them and then held them up for me to see too.  We watched a pair of doves for a while and I showed her the moon.

I am realising more and more, that the universe does not “hide” it’s secrets of happiness.  There is no great hunt rewarding only a favored sect of the human race. One does not have to  be a warrior  nor the swiftest  to win the prize.  The treasure is not buried in a remote corner of the earth  with a secret map,but is strewn about, in rocks and hills, in trees and sky and on the shore by the shining big sea water- and it may sometimes look like little shells in various shades of purple.

The sun came up  this morning with all its’ shine and crept in to the windows of a quiet house.  The fanfare of the last four days is over and I already miss it.  Today is just any other Tuesday.

For some odd reason, Tuesday is one of my favorite days.  I nor any of my children were born on a Tuesday, and very rarely does any holiday fall on a Tuesday.  There is no rhyme or reason for my affection for this ordinary day- but this particular Tuesday is the day after a sweet time with my oldest children and that day always requires a recovery period.

It was a grand time.  We shared wonderful meals and enjoyed the time spent in a leisure fashion.  Lyla was the center of attention throughout the holiday.  I get so much happiness just watching the way they all carry on. When Tres left last night to return to Charleston, the road  downhill began for me.  We are staying with Brant-and he had to go back to work today.  Jenny and her family are spending time with Will’s family in a neighboring town today-so this Tuesday seems especially quiet.  The refrigerator is full of left-overs, just like my heart.

When you have five children, you spend a lot of your life raising them up-to become independent  of course.  When it happens, it comes as a shock!  Sometimes, you may feel great liberty and sometimes you may feel stranded. It is quite complicated and nothing short of mysterious.

I often think of the women  before me that sent their children in to unknown territories with the hope of a few letters here and there that told of their circumstances.  Their Grand children were born and not seen for years.  When I do, I am apt to stop whining.

Growing up on a farm, family stayed closed by.  Young couples were given a tract of land, or bought adjoining land.  I had great-aunts and uncles besides the grandparents and first, second , third and fourth cousins, though we didn’t count the difference, close by. This was most inconvenient at times.  Very rarely did a child get by with anything remotely naughty.  I understand the concept that “it takes a village to raise a child”.  Eventually,  small farms got replaced by huge farms.  Young would be farmers started working in factories-often shift work.  Life changed and by the time I was a teenager, the farm was a memory and factories too, mostly.   Still, I got used to family being next door or right down the road-and me being sentimental, well, as I said, I got used to it.

I am sitting by the splashing fountain thinking great thoughts and watching redbirds fly carelessly by.  The water along the shady banks is dark til the fountain draws it in . The fountain makes the water look like silver pearls when they cascade back down to their source. Then they become little glass bubbles gliding back out to the shady banks. The water keeps changing from one beautiful way into another.  A mother has to do the same thing, I remember on this Tuesday.  Life may look different. Farms get sold and children grow up- but love looks the same.. . today and on any other Tuesday.

 

 

 

July is here with it’s fireworks and picnics. People take to the beaches in groves in July.  The yard needs mowing weekly and sweet corn is in abundance. Geraniums are blooming on porches. Hopes and wishes in July are  “midsummer dreams”  and may have a good chance of coming true.

I am in Wilmington now sitting by the splashing fountain and breathing in more salty air.  We are going to have “Sunday dinner” on Sunday this week.  Of course, I am planning the fourth of July menu as well.  Ours’ will be a simple fare with a fancy cake. It has been a while since a holiday occurred giving everyone an excuse not to work-and a while before it happens again.

When I was growing up, the fourth of July often meant the first day of harvesting-and shucking corn.  Corn does not allow you much time to work with it.  It quickly loses its’ softness after being pulled- and do not think I am talking about enough corn for a meal or two.  I have shucked a small pick up load of corn  in a day, with help.  It takes a crew of folks to put up corn. I can remember  as a child, the men shucking the corn and cutting the ends off with a hatchet outside in the shade.  The women would be in the kitchen taking the corn off the cob with sharp knives.  Some would be blanching the kernels, and then some would pack it in freezer bags and  start filling up the “deep freeze” with bags of gold to feed the family in the winter.  It was a big mess to say the least and a noisy event.  I wonder how many problems got solved in the kitchen that day, amongst the women- and how many deals were made in the shade of the oaks while the men  shucked corn. 

Fruits and vegetables, home-grown and harvested just after picking them, have an entirely different flavor than the ones found in a freezer section at a grocery store.  Maybe, it is the touch of the human hand in the process.  Maybe it is the laughter or the shade of old oaks .  Whatever it is, it shows up on the table-and  the memory of those long ago Julys  remain alive and well, with me.

School has been out a few weeks now, and the feeling of  that has finally settled in.  I do not think there is a clock that is working on the rabbit patch.  Their batteries need replacing and I refuse to do so in July.  We will eat Sunday dinner when it’s ready and go to bed, when we are tired. I will do all things as I do with my writing-“when the spirit moves me”.

July is a time to listen to mockingbirds showing off-and they always do.  I heard one a few summers back, that could even sing like a purple martin, which is no small feat.  The purple martins are a long time favorite of mine.  My daddy  has faithfully had “martin boxes” for as long as I remember.  The descendants return to the house they were hatched in, to raise their own and they bring their song with them, learned in South America, where they winter.  It is a distinctly tropical sound and a mockingbird shows quite a bit of skill to copy it.

The crepe myrtles are in full bloom in July.  I like their colorful spikes  that are shades of pink, lavender and white. I was not too fond of them as a child. Their trunks are “slick as glass”,  making them about impossible to climb.  They are small trees that grow upright, so to a small child they appear quite useless. Now, I find them lovely, especially when a mockingbird is perched there and bragging on a midsummer evening.

July is a noisy, busy month with fireworks and evening thunderstorms.  It starts with a holiday that brings us together.  I was thinking recently, that this holiday is quite remarkable in that it belongs to all of us that call this nation home  and also the whole planet in some way.  We are a country formed, by residents of many countries and cultures.  People who came together and shared the soil.  People who were able to unite regardless of external factors.  I am grateful for the many cultures that have contributed from “sea to shining sea” .  They came bearing gifts.  My hope is that we will all remember how we came about and that every nation on the planet had something to do with it. My own midsummer dream is that we will all be grateful for the people that built our home and to remember- there were many.

I don’t know of a tree that I don’t like.  I especially love old trees.  I don’t see an old tree without being glad for who ever planted it, be it man or God.  I love  the flowering varieties, from the elegant magnolia to the mimosas on the ditchbanks.  When in bloom, they fill the air up with sweetness so unselfishly.  The fruit trees -well, they do it all and I love them for it.. .There is also a tree that whispers.

The long leaf pine is scattered around the rabbit patch.  They of course, are evergreens.  I  always cut branches of pine at Christmas and decorate the old house with them.  They are a simple sight to behold in vases and wreaths with some holly and a bow-but I like the pine.  It smells like Christmas, even in July.  When the wind blows through a pine, it does not rustle, but whispers in a hushed way.  No other tree can sing like a long-leaf pine.  The pine sings a lullaby.

Not everyone is a fan of the pine tree.  They are likely to topple over in severe weather and they drop cones steadily-but the song of the pine “covers a multitude of sins”  for me.  I heard the whisper when I was a very young child.  That was a long time ago and  the world was a lot quieter then.

In those days, we could hear a car coming a mile away.  The men could listen and say who it was.  Daddy knew when they needed to change the spark plugs.  If it was a stranger, the men would say “somebody in a Ford is coming.”  There was an old church not too far away and I remember my sister and I sitting outside listening to them sing.  I don’t know what kind of Church it was, but when you hear hymns coming across a field it’s so beautiful you will never forget it.  I always woke up to tractors in distant fields  as a child  and to this day, I love to hear that far away rumble. It reminds me of home. We knew the songs of the birds when we were so little and I doubt that is considered important now, but it was then.  It was just as important as nursery rhymes and Bible verses and I am glad , because when I remember a nursery rhyme, I remember the voice that taught me.

I suppose my cousins and I made the  the only racket on those peaceful farms.  We played hard after supper, while the adults shelled beans or peas.  We played til we were really tired and always ended up sitting  on the ground and talking til it got dark. We would share the secrets we learned about from the adults when they were unaware.  We would call truce on any disputes that had arisen.  No one was allowed to stay mad because it made it hard on the rest of us.  The night breeze would stir the pines up and we would listen to the whispering .  You can see the stars  shine through pine needles.  We would all get real quiet though we didn’t plan on it.  At some point, we would hear clanging buckets and then our names shouted out frantically by several adults who seemed to just be remembering they had children.  We ran like our lives depended on it, because in some way-it did.

If you sit by a pine in the daytime, you are liable to see a redbird.  Redbirds love the whispering pine.  If you sit by a pine in the evening, when a soft breeze blows, you are liable to hear their song and rest assured, it will be a lullaby.  No other tree  sings like the pine.

 

 

 

Today, I am back at the rabbit patch,  where the air smells sweet, wild rabbits run about and the green grass grows all around.  The only thing that went wrong, while I was gone is that  Christopher Robin broke a cute little bird that sat on a pile of books and had been doing so a long while.  The last time  I was gone, he broke a favorite rabbit of mine-Christopher Robin does not like for me to leave the rabbit patch.

My youngest sons, Kyle and Christian, had held the fort down, other than the broken bird.  They are good housekeepers too. Cash was especially glad to see me. Christopher Robin was too and showed no trace of guilt.

I am only here a short while as I return to Wilmington with Jenny and her family for a week on Friday.  I have a lot to do while I am here.  I wish the garden  would grow in the same way the grass grows.  The yard here is about five acres and shows no mercy for me or my plans.  It’s a good thing I  like to mow .  It is a good time to think lofty thoughts or have a pipe dream.  I do both.  I know I will downsize one day, but I need a yard of some sort, when I do.  I need something to tend.  I need a place to grow roses and “Sweet Williams”.

Every season has something to boast about-the summer is passing with swagger, and rightfully so. The summer garden is hard to beat. A tomato in January, can not hold a candle to the ones picked in July, with zinnias growing around them.  It is a good thing to pick tomatoes in the evening when fireflies are flashing and honeysuckle is blooming.  Such conditions will make you linger and remember the summers past. 

The kitchen smells like summer just now.  A kind neighbor brought me about eight pounds of cucumbers.  He is generous like that and has been every year, as long as I have known him.  It is refreshing to have such a  neighbor.   The community around the rabbit patch is made up of nice folks.  He threw in a good “mess” of sweet corn too-sweet corn is one of the best things about summer.  We are in “high cotton” for supper tonight with sweet corn and cucumber salad.

There is something so pure about rural life.  It’s a shame there are so few farming communities left.  Mowing , gardening and preserving your own food gives one an understanding .  Last year, one of my dearest friends was going through a “rough patch”.  I listened to her predicament-it was heartbreaking. She was heart-broken.  She paused a bit and then declared “I think I am just going to make pickles today!”  She did.  It is a long process to make pickles. We laugh about it now, but I suppose it was as good a thing to do as any-and she did end up with twelve quarts of pickles.

Hanging clothes on a line works like a  charm to calm a weary heart.  I plan supper when I am doing so.  My daughter hangs cloth diapers on her line and it’s a lovely sight. When a shower pops up-there is a mad dash.  On those days, I am thankful for a dryer.

I am writing this entry in front of a window fan-another thing I love about summer.  Cash and Christopher Robin station themselves right in front of it.  It is as good as a slow rain to sleep by .

Summer time means a lot of things depending on where you live.  It is a celebrated season no matter what place you call “Home”.  At the rabbit patch, it means clotheslines and window fans.  It is the time when a kind neighbor shows up with cucumbers and sweet corn, and makes me glad that I live on this rabbit patch all over again with its’ old trees. . .  and the green grass that grows all around it.

The days in Wilmington pass in the same fashion as they do at the rabbit patch-without the help of a clock.  I watch the way shadows fall at the rabbit patch . I  see shade claiming the corner of the garden-and I know it’s time to start supper. In Wilmington, time is just ribbons of sunlight on the Atlantic that dance with a cheerful shine  and when they slow to a waltz, it’s time to go home.

My son, Tres came in last night from Charleston.  He lives in Wilmington, but his job sent him to Charleston for a while this summer.    Tres coming home, was the icing on my cake! We had “Sunday dinner” on Saturday at four o’clock.  It didn’t seem to be the least bit odd.   I am as happy as a lark  when I am in a kitchen ,on any given day .

I watched the boys walking back and forth to the pool  while I was cooking and saw once again, that they weren’t  boys   and hadn’t been for a long while.  It has been many years ago, that Tres pushed bright yellow trucks filled with rocks and sticks-and longer still since Brant combed every inch of the woods behind the house , naming the trees as he went.  He would bring back leaves in his pockets for me and we would press them in heavy books .  Mothers  set great store by such memories and  will think about them while they peel potatoes .

I  took my own sweet time cooking dinner- I have done everything all week in the same manner.   The boys ate and declared it was just perfect, so all was right in my world-and it felt good.  We planned on a breakfast for Sunday morning-that is also the day Tres goes back to Charleston and I go back to the rabbit patch. I have missed my two youngest sons. I have missed Cash and Christopher Robin, too. I have even missed the smell of dirt and the way  the wind smells that has blown through the woods.

I will not leave Wilmington empty-handed but instead with a pocket full of sweet memories . I will remember the blue heron that visits the pond every morning and walks stealthily  around the banks  .  There is also a pair of geese, I have spent a fair amount of time watching glide around the water.  It was a sight full of such peace, that it made me drowsy on several occasions .  I got to know some cardinals that live in the wisteria vines at the edge of the woods.  It took them a while to realize there was no harm in me, but when they did, they were quite friendly.   I read some poetry-Longfellow, Frost and Yeats-always Yeats. I didn’t write as much as I had expected, but instead stared “through the looking glass” on the pond for somewhere between twenty minutes and twenty years,  watching the clouds pass by.  I will remember that my boys cast the shadow of young men-and that they walk with confidence-those were golden moments.  There was so much to do with my liberty and I was determined to use it wisely.  

 My account of the last five days may sound “sleepy”.  There are no crimes or politics to read about nor any heartbreaking going on, the diary of the rabbit patch is not intended for such purposes-but I know some of the secrets of the pond and woods out back and I have seen diamonds without measure.  Ones without price ,that shimmer with a shine not found in any store.  You do not need fame or fortune to bear witness to their dazzle. These diamonds give no honor to worldly ranking . No man can bury them and no one can steal them, yet they are there for the taking.   They abide on lazy rivers, lowly ponds and on the vast Atlantic ocean.  I have seen them . . .in little ribbons of sunlight that fall on the waters in a generous manner-and I am better because of it. 

 

 

I am away from the rabbit patch, right now.  I am by the sea-and in the absence of fields.  I am just a few hours away from my country dwelling, but it is a different place altogether with it’s streets full of cars , air full of salt and  its’ “big shining water”.  My niece Hayley and I are visiting my first -born, Brant for a few days. 

Wilmington is a fancy place -especially when compared to the rabbit patch. It  has historical significance and the charm that goes with it.  It is  rich in cultural arts. The residents come from everywhere and they come bearing  their unique gifts .  It is a friendly place by the sea and I like that.  Still, I think my Brant, is the best thing that Wilmington has going for it.

I expect to spend my days here writing and cooking-two of my favorite things.  The yard at Brant’s townhouse is well-manicured and tended by a staff.  There is not a garden on the premises either.  It seems I am left to my own devices as I am the only one without an agenda.  I brought a few books along as there is a pool to read by and the grounds are a lovely place to take a walk.   I think that the chances of a neighbor showing up with a bushel of stringbeans or cucumbers are pretty slim too, so I must resort to a life of leisure for a while.

I do not drive while in Wilmington.  Thank goodness that Hayley is not hindered in the least by all of the activity in the street.  The best I can tell. ..  everybody is late for something and think they have nine lives.  It is most unpleasant for me to even ride along in such chaos.  Hayley, however sings along with the radio and takes great notice of the shops as we are zipping along-unless it says “ice-cream” I am unaware.  I come back alittle shattered and am convinced that I am an old lady, after all! My commute to work is fifteen minutes through fields and horse farms-and I am very glad about it.

I am a firm believer that isolation is a missing factor in most of our lives.  I make it a priority to have some of it daily, but several days  of writing without interruption and reading til I simply don’t want to anymore, is a happy, but inconceivable notion. I will wonder about a lot of things during my “holiday”. I will call old friends  and write pretty cards.  I will write in Lyla’s journal-and in my own too.  I will visit the ancient oak on one of my walks, which is surely sacred and grows  just a bit away from Brant’s front door. I will cook a “Sunday dinner” on a Wednesday, and make a cake too. 

Best of all, I will have conversations with Brant on late evenings.  We will sit by a pond , with a splashing fountain, outside of his back door.  There is also a small patch of woods with wisteria still blooming!  I will listen to his dreams and he will hear mine.  We will talk about our yesterdays and  the hope of times yet to come.  I will look at this beautiful human,  generous and kind in spirit-a lover of all living things-and  who has enough charm to brag about, and be glad he is my own son.

These are the kinds of things I wish to tuck deep in my heart, for a cold day in January -and again, when ice is falling on the rabbit patch on the longest night of the year and the earth is sleeping through it.  . . I will remember  my time well-spent in early summer away from the rabbit patch and

in the absence of fields.

 

The sound of a “strawberry moon”  sounded like a beautiful event-but it did not start out in that manner at the rabbit patch.  It was the kind of morning that seemed determined to make you think the whole day might be full of  aggravating moments-and it was for a good while. One thing went wrong and then another, but around two o’clock, things took a turn.

I finally made it to my parent’s, having fixed most of what had gone wrong.  My sister and niece from Raleigh were there. Jenny and Lyla were too.  I had already seen my sister and niece, from the Lake in the morning, so things were looking up.

Mama had done her best to have a good meal on the table-and she did.  It was eaten in shifts though, as things had been a bit “off” for everybody in general. Some of them were eating at two, when I got there.  Lyla was sitting in the same high chair that I used to sit in!  Jenny said she had been a rascal all morning, but she was pleasant and cheerful at her great grandparents home.  

We ended up in the yard just after the last of us had eaten.  The shade was so cool and Lyla sat in a swing taking it all in making Jenny look like “a storyteller”.  Daddy was doing maintenance on my car for a while -he was  “born a mechanic”, and remains convinced that I am as irresponsible as ever when it comes to any sort of task involving tools.  He is right. He joined us afterwards, and we sat there a long time.  Jenny had school assignments to do, but she put it off, which is not her nature-but I am glad she did.   It has been a long time that we have all sat in the shade together-four generations, and none of us had another thing pressing.  There were other things that needed doing, but for a while , none of us cared.  Once upon  time,  the act of sitting in the shade with the family was a common occurrence -it was about a daily ritual, unless it rained.  

The adults would sit talking while the children ran around.  We were not allowed in the circle when we were playing games that involved dashing and hollering-and mostly that is what was happening.  Even if you went in to retrieve a ball, we were accused of “disturbing the peace” and those were the exact words.   If you stayed with the adults more than five minutes, you ended up shelling beans  and I  avoided that.  If you ran in the shade to tattle or whine, you had to take a bath and get ready for bed.  We kids learned to solve our own problems.  I remembered that time yesterday and wondered how it had ceased.  I felt very sorry it had.  Sometimes, it seems to me, that modern living , with all of the advantages it offers, is just a” wolf in sheeps’ clothing.”

I don’t know how long we stayed under the shade tree yesterday.  I do know we moved the chairs and the swing twice to avoid the bright sunshine.  I know that daddy’s dog, Casper chased a ball til he was tired, much to Lyla’s delight.  I saw my mama so happy to enjoy this time.  She was completely content and I understood.  Lyla “took a shine ” to my fourteen year old niece, Dana and Dana was happy about that.  My Jenny got to sit and rest.  She never had to chase Lyla, the rest of us did and took great satisfaction in keeping leaves, bark and flowers out of her mouth.

Last night, I went out to see the “strawberry moon”.  I really like that name, though the strawberry season is over, here.  It seems like a named moon is a special one.  It was lovely, and the Cherokee did great justice in bestowing such a sweet name .  I stood in the moonshine and declared I did not understand why the morning time was so hateful.  I also declared that the first afternoon  of the summer was too beautiful for words and that I was grateful for it.  I love the moon light.  It has such a way about it that it can make an old pile of wood  look like a  magical place where fairies surely dwell.  I thought to walk back to the field of clary sage behind the big barn.  I wasn’t sorry.  The long and mostly white spikes of blossoms shone fairly in the soft light.  It was like witnessing a secret wonder and as far I know, only me and the whippoorwill were in on it.

So I spent a fair amount of time yesterday,  sitting in the shade with people I love.  I watched a dog chase a ball and heard Lyla laugh about it. I saw mama “sitting pretty” and daddy feeling satisfied.  My sister and niece, loved my grand daughter and claimed their place in her life.  It turns out that the time of the “strawberry moon” was just as beautiful as it sounded. It was a lovely time  and a nice way to spend some of my life.

 

The last Friday of spring dawned gray over the rabbit patch.  I dismissed my plans to mow as it was damp and grass will clump and look untidy under such conditions.  It was a good time to pull grass from around the flowers and I did so for a while.  I watched the clouds passing over the rabbit patch. There was no hurry in them-and I knew it meant rain.  At that moment I had a notion to make a cake.

I called a few friends .  They agreed that it was a good day to eat cake.  We decided on a time-which was “afternoon”,so no one would have to worry about being late-(there is no “late” at the rabbit patch.)  I gathered what I needed to make a chocolate raspberry cake, and then I took to the woods for elderberry.  I was determined to fill a vase with those fragrant, graceful blossoms that the Irish hold so dear.  The woods were “lovely, dark and deep” but that did little to comfort me.  I kept a watchful eye out for snakes and regretted not inviting Cash on the venture, quickly.  I found wild strawberries and blackberries. They have a sinful amount of thorns but I cut some anyway.  They scratched me without mercy and I disturbed a family of rabbits in the process.  They made such a ruckus in the bramble, I was convinced it was a snake and it took me a minute to recover.  I cut some honeysuckle and thought how pretty that would be with the elderberry.  I was halfway down the path and hadn’t seen elderberry, but I smelled it.  It was getting hot and mosquitoes were buzzing about.  I knew my friends did not expect me to take such measures, but elderberry has a short season of blooms, and there is nothing else like them.  I hoped I didn’t get ticks-or redbugs.  Thank goodness I am not allergic to poison vines.  I finally found the elderberry.  It was growing in a thicket  so overgrown that I don’t even think the rabbits could get through it-let alone me.  I resorted to  roses and gardenias, which were growing in more civilized places.  I had  gathered quite a bouquet and  knew it would require a large vase.  I arranged them while the cake was cooking.

The kitchen floor was littered with small leaves and twigs, and I was a mess- and needed to check for ticks.  Somehow I got the floor scrubbed and myself presentable by afternoon.  Things took a turn, and Rae was the only one that made it.  We ate a lot of cake on little china plates- being I had gone to so much trouble and we talked a good long while.  I have been knowing Rae almost thirty years.  Our children were young then, and so were we.  There is an “understanding” between us and mere words won’t do it justice,  but it is beautiful and solid-it is genuine and precious and my heart is grateful for it.

We strolled leisurely around the rabbit patch afterwards. I showed her the acres of clary sage in the fields behind the barn.  I also showed her the sad state of the garden.  I learned that she calls running vinca “snow on the mountain” and I like that name better.  I showed her the “see through” flowers.  As we strolled from flower to flower, we wondered aloud about some things.  There is no risk when we speak our truth. A friendship, that has spanned decades, is of great comfort.  Life changes are unsettling no matter your age.  I often say, that now  that the kids are grown up, I feel as if I am fourteen again, unsure of how to proceed and needing to find my identity all over again. 

The sky was silver over the rabbit patch when Rae left.  Light had changed very little over the course of the day and it truly seemed timeless without shadows and sunlight.  I went back in the kitchen.  It was a pretty table after all, even without the elderberry.  I washed the china plates and felt happy as I did it.  Only, the cake tattled that a wonderful occasion had taken place earlier, right here in the kitchen, while the clouds passed over the rabbit patch.

 

Today is the first day of summer vacation at the rabbit patch.  This is my eleventh summer here ,on whats’ left of a once prosperous farm. There is a 4 acre yard, a patch of young woods and an old farmhouse, right at one hundred years old. There are seven barns, old trees and a garden. We have peach, fig, apple, pear and pecan trees as well as grape vines that have massive, old  trunks.  This is where my heart calls home.

I have worked day in and day out every summer that I have been here.  I have cleaned barns, cut vines and planted roses all over the place.  I have a nice herb garden that is naturalized well, now.  Perennial flower beds are tucked in mostly everywhere and there’s a white picket fence all around it. The rabbit patch is not short on charm. 

I know every inch of the place personally because I  have been there.  I know the birds that live here and what the sky looks like at all hours.  I know where the wild violets like to grow .  I am rarely surprised here these days with few exceptions.  A few years ago, some tanagers showed up that I hadn’t met-but mostly, days pass in old familiar ways.

It sounds lovely-and it is, but it is a far cry from easy street, to live on the rabbit patch.  By August, I usually have scratches from briers , bites of every sort all over and paint in my hair.  Still, I love being at home painting flowers on my barn and canning tomatoes.

The summer holiday has started off in a beautiful fashion.  Jenny and Lyla came for breakfast.  While Jenny worked on her college school work-I took Lyla to see Miss Sylvia, my neighbor and the first friend I made when I moved here.  Miss Sylvia is well known for her helpfulness to any and everybody-and for cooking “peach jacks”.  Up until recently, she fed all of the widows  in the community every month.  There is no telling what else she has done that I don’t know about.  She is eighty years old and was going to can string beans when I left.

On the walk back, I introduced Lyla to “Ace” -probably the first real horse she has ever seen.  Ace put on quite a show for us. I pulled grass for him, and Lyla laughed about that.  I never did convince her, that Ace wasn’t a dog.  When we were going down the drive at the rabbit patch, I stopped to pull grass from around a rose bush and Lyla laughed again.  I picked some gardenias and white roses.  Lyla smelled them for a while.  It was a perfect way to end a morning-the first morning of my summer.

I have big plans to plant basil this afternoon.  Later I will cook supper and take as long as I please to do so.  Christopher Robin, my kitten needs a bath and as always there’s grass in the garden.  I have to come up with a plan for some home repairs that needed to be done yesterday and I will vow again to downsize after that.

This life is not for everybody-but it is mine and I am quite satisfied.  I would rather be looking for the red tanagers, than taking pictures in Africa. I would rather hear Lyla laughing than hearing the mighty Niagara waterfalls- and Miss Sylvia is as good company as I  know of-Ace too.

This is the way  the summer passes, here on the rabbit patch. If you ask me what time it is, I will tell you it’s “June” and that it is a lovely time- a beautiful, ordinary time at a rabbit patch, with an old house on it that needs fixing. It is the place  where I live. . .  and  my heart  calls it home.