Publisher's note: Please join me in welcoming Author Michele Rhem, 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.
Night lifted and the day was born-that is how the "morning service" went today. It was a silent affair, without a lot of fanfare-unless you take in to account, that a new day was born, and with it the chance to live it, to love more deeply and hopefully to understand something more.
I grumble every year over the "changing of the clocks", so as is my habit, I will do so again. My regular readers know, I do not like clocks, in general. In fact, I realised again today, that every clock in my house is wrong anyway, save the computer and cell phone. The coffee maker and the stove flash out 12:00 in red light, yet that does not stir me. The one chiming clock, says it is 12:00 too, as it has needed batteries for more than a year. I suppose I will not waste moments changing the clocks.
In the summer, time is irrelevant and somehow, I survive. I guess, it all started when I was growing up on the farm. The clock did not wake me -the smell of coffee and breakfast did. The sound of rain meant, not to rush. The sound of a tractor, meant to hurry. The sun felt hot by mid morning and we were hungry by "dinner time" roughly noon. The school said I had to learn to tell time, with plastic clocks. I remember feeling quite "grown up" when my parents gave me a watch, . . but it promptly became a bracelet. Dogs know what time it is without such contraptions. Cash is always on alert, when I drive up. He and Christopher Robin (my cat) are always sitting side by side looking in the direction, I drive in from. Somehow, they know when it is Saturday too. They sleep later and accept breakfast later-but on week days they are up and whining as if they are starving. I suspect they fear I will leave without feeding them- and it will be a long time til "a clock" says I can come home.
Jenny called this morning to tell me about Lylas' latest dream. We have both, always encouraged Lyla to tell us about her dreams ,when she first wakes up. Jenny asked Lyla today, if she had sweet dreams and Lyla said "No!" Lyla went on to say, that she had taken a yellow letter from Mother Goose and then lost it. Mother Goose was angry and pinched her. Jenny told Lyla it was just a dream-and Lyla replied "well, that pinch hurt- and that goose is angry." Lyla is not yet three.
Because birthdays are more than a day, at the rabbit patch, I fixed pancakes for breakfast. Yesterday, Christian wanted cheese biscuits. I also put on a pot of navy beans for tonight and a pot of chicken and quinoa soup. Kyle is not likely to touch the quinoa, so I added mushrooms too, as Kyle will not eat those either. The weather is cool and gray, so conditions are good for cooking such things. While, the pots simmer, I am scrubbing the kitchen floor and cabinets-and listening to a sermon. Whatever time it is, I am making good use of the hour.
Wouldn't you know the sermon was about dreams? And . . wouldn't you know I knocked that chiming clock off the wall, as I was cleaning? It is a big, heavy clock and the only one I really like. The chimes are low and soothing . . so I scrambled to catch it-and I did -with my shin. I had to laugh, in spite of the aching shin. I think the clock deserves a battery. ..and I ought to stop complaining.
The light was too weak, to cast even the faintest shadow all day. I spent the whole day cleaning and somehow I came up with another box of items to donate. I plan to put the house back on the market soon and there is so much to do to prepare for that. I am not going to even attempt cleaning the territory until the winds of March subside.
I have noticed patches of green grass here and there, in the yard, and every morning, a small flock of robins can be found in the herb garden. The remnants of winter are clearly upon us.
Sometime, in April, the wisteria will act as a garland for every willing tree in the young woods and the scent of wild honeysuckle will be thick in the air. Until then, I will celebrate the last days of winter . . .when the trees do not yet keep secrets and wild violets lie just beneath the soil. . .for no matter how I measure time, it always seems to slip away dreadfully fast.