Dear Diary, I love Sundays


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

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

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

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

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

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

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