A Winter Night at the Rabbit Patch | Eastern North Carolina Now

    Publisher's note: Michele Rhem is an eloquent writer who presents us with her poignant memoirs of the Rabbit Patch, where her diaries weave tales of a simpler, expressive life lost to many, but gathered together in her most familiar environs - the Rabbit Patch.

    The weather at the rabbit patch is mild, though it is early winter. Today, I have a few windows up. The air of winter has a clean, fresh fragrance. Often the morning air has a faint memory of woodsmoke from the night before. In the last few months , days have dawned slowly . The silvery fog mutes the suns' first shine and seems to delay the days' arrival. Today, dawned brightly-so morning came early.

    I am still searching for Christopher Robin, a very young, softly gray colored cat. I do not fully understand the habits of cats. I have heard stories of cats that return after a while. I am so hoping this is the case. His young friend, Moon Shine, seems a bit bewildered and wanders about the farm house, past objects that once enticed him, without much notice. Cash, my loyal boxer seems on high alert and stares out the window, I think, with high expectations.

    Late last night, Christian and I searched the rabbit patch high and low. We did not find Christopher Robin - but we heard the pine trees whispering as a light wind blew through them. We stopped a few moments to hear the hushed gentle sound that only a pine makes. The stars were scarce, but they were as big as I have ever seen them. In winter, they are scattered about so that the constellations are easy to find. The starlight was enough to illuminate the old trees-pecans and oaks, the sycamores and sweet gum. There wasn't a single leaf on any of them. I remembered how I love trees in winter as I looked around.

    Christian is my youngest son. His shadow in the starlight, was that of a young man. I couldn't help but consider that . I know the rabbit patch like the back of my hand, where every root lies above ground-where the wild violets will bloom in April, but realising I was walking with Christian, now as young man, made it seem like unfamiliar territory . I saw the outline of an abandoned nest in one of the old trees right about that time.

    We came in without a trace of the whereabouts of Christopher Robin. I was glad the night was not harsh, but unusually warm, instead. We remain hopeful, as is our nature in all sorts of circumstances.

    I am cooking a "Sunday dinner" though it is Wednesday. The boys went to work this morning and will be glad to see more than my fancy china on the table when they come home. Mama and daddy are coming, too. As the oven performs its' duty, I am putting the "Christmas closet" back in order. I will place the wrapping paper and ribbon in the corner. The box of tags, scissors and tape will go back in and I will post a new list on the inside of the door to record gifts purchased through out the year. The porch and tree will remain as they are now til Miss Sylvia has her "old Christmas party" in January. In this way, Christmas does not "vanish into thin air" as if a crime had taken place-but has a proper farewell, instead.

    This day in winter, like the night before it, has been as mild as May. Though, I can write, no matter the climate, I do not feel inclined to crochet when the sun is shining brightly on the morning table. I hope to finish reading "The Mitford Series" this winter . I am hoping against all odds, for snow, too.

    The rabbit patch kitchen smells like a snow has fallen with the ham cooking and string beans simmering-but the open windows tattle that it could be the first day of spring or an Easter Sunday. After supper, I will go out to say good night and lift my evening prayer of thanksgiving for things like A "Sunday dinner" on a Wednesday night in late December, winter trees and seeing my little son become a young man willing to traipse around a rabbit patch on a winter night . . . . looking for a cat.