It Happened on Sunday


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On Saturday night, I was in the rabbit patch kitchen- the same could be said of Sunday morning.  This past Sunday, was no ordinary Sunday.  It was Mothers’ Day, after all.

Mama and Daddy were coming , my sister, Delores, and my niece, Dana.  I set out to  serve something everybody would love.  I ended up with  Jo Dees’ barbecued chicken, as the main course.  Everybody enjoys it and once you put it in the oven, you can just forget about  it and go about other things.  I had peeled at least a peck of potatoes, Saturday night and made potato salad.  Mama loves my potato salad.  I had also concocted a trifle of strawberries, pound cake and cheesecake dressing-because, Mama likes strawberries, too.  On Sunday morning, only a big pot of green beans had to be cooked and cheese biscuits made-because Dana loves cheese biscuits.

While the kitchen filled with aromas that foretold of  a “special” gathering . . .I washed floors.  Later in the morning, I went out to gather roses.  Right on time, the “Mothers’ Day” rose was in full bloom.  It is a rambling vine, with small pink roses that cascade over the picket fence, in a delightful fashion.  When paired with red and white roses,  and the white fragrant spikes of the spice bush, it made a lovely arrangement.  

The cheese biscuits were made at the last possible moment, so they would be piping hot , as biscuits ought to be.  A few of them were eaten just as everyone arrived-and before the blessing was said.  As, we were eating, Delores said she had finally made it to Sunday Dinner and I suspected, she thought that ought to be mentioned in the Rabbitpatch Diary.  She  was right, as she lives several hours away, and besides, this was no ordinary Sunday.

We had a nice visit . We ate the trifle and not long after, we said our good byes and vowed to spend time together in the summer.  The kitchen seemed especially quiet.  My oldest sons had to work, but called in the afternoon.  I couldn’t help but miss them.  At some point, I felt too sentimental, and so I took a walk around the territory.  Taking a walk, is as therapeutic  as peeling potatoes or washing dishes and  my spirits were soon restored.  Besides, I reminded myself,   in a few short weeks, they will all come home for the “Memorial Day” holiday.

The moon took its’ sweet time rising last night.  It was a particularly beautiful shade of amber.  I had walked by the fields of clary sage, earlier and decided I had to see them in the moon shine.  I stood before them, moments later and was glad I had come.  The fields seemed aglow as if a spell had been cast -a spell that rendered a stillness and a sense of well-being.  Fireflies flickered here and there -and all I wanted to do was pray, under such conditions.  It was a wonderful grand finale to the day.

Dear Diary,  I am glad for roses and fields of clary sage.  I am glad for slow rising moons and strawberries . I am glad for tables laden with foods served in pretty dishes, with loved ones gathered around-and I am glad for Sundays- all of them, but most especially the ones that are far from ordinary.

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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.