With All of My Heart | Eastern North Carolina Now

    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.

    It has become a tradition for me to complain about the time change, every year. Several days have passed and I am just now feeling a bit acclimated to the "changing of the clocks". I dislike it as much as ever and find it just as ridiculous. It does not help one bit, that mornings are pitch dark when I rise. It could just as well be midnight. Stars are still shining, over a silent world, for things like mockingbirds, have better sense, than to stir in the pitch dark.

    True, to the forecast, the weather has been mild during the day-and it has not rained for several days. Oh it is hardest to work inside, when the days are fair. My thoughts turn to things like the "laughing river" and what a grand day, it is to have a picnic. I wish I was home, hanging sheets on the line or gathering branches of Pops' "golden rod" blossoms . . . or reading something delightful, in the sunshine. It was the same, when I was young.

    I tolerated school fairly well . . until the first, silvery days of spring. Then I got "homesick". I knew Pop was plowing a field and I could almost smell the earth. In those days, the classroom windows would be open, but there was no chance of smelling apple blossoms, in town. The air smelled like fuel and pavement, and the cafeteria food being cooked, just never smelled "right" to me.

    I had several problems with lunchroom behavior, for while I didn't want to eat that "canned stuff", I was certain the birds might. I put the peas and carrots, in my milk carton and this worked for most of the year, until I dropped the carton, one day and peas rolled right to where the teacher was standing. This landed me in a tight spot for I was accused of wasting food, which ironically, I was trying not to do - and after that, the teacher had to check my tray every day. there were many more infractions, for I was likely to eat my dessert first and I refused the vegetable soup altogether. They served it on Fridays and I was sure they were using "scraps" to make it.

    It is no wonder that I wanted to stare out that window, and imagine that beautiful place called home-which "got recorded as day dreaming".

    The classroom smelled like "math books", lest I ever forget "modern math". The books were brand new and filled with nonsense about how to add simple numbers. It was the only book, that I was tempted to leave out in the rain, or cut into paper dolls, but I knew better than that, for even a two cent library fine, was shameful, in those days. None of the adults liked "modern math" either . It was an awful waste of life, after all. I announced it to my teacher, who told Grandmama the next Sunday morning, as we attended the same church.

    I am older now, and realise that I had wonderful teachers, really. I was just a bit too untamed to appreciate all of the civilization, that schools forced. . . and the library did cover a multitude of sins, as far as I was concerned.

    Besides the fields and quiet pastures, I drive by a vacant lot, on the way to and from work. It is a short and peaceful commute that allows just the right amount of time to collect my thoughts. A vacant lot in the country is just a patch of land, usually void of buildings, though sometimes, there is an old barn or shed. More than likely, there will be a grove of pecan trees, or some old shade trees. Somebody will keep the lots mowed, but for them to be deemed vacant, means no one is ever seen there. Such lots are few and far between, in the country. There is one such lot, though a few miles from the rabbitpatch. It is covered now in daffodils, as it is every year. What a sight to come across! I can not imagine how this happened, but there it is, a field of daffodils. They are coming up carelessly, with no rhyme or reason, to any order. The buttery petals fill the ordinary lot, transforming it in to something spectacular. In other seasons, one might not give the place, a second glance, but in the spring, this is not so.

    Though the calendar does not proclaim it, it does seem like spring has been declared. I am not sure what to make of, such an early arrival. I do not remember a spring so well under way, at this time of year, ever. I do hope a hateful frost does not come along and spoil everything. I love every season and most every kind of weather. In the winter, I love to see a bit of snow, and I will declare it the most beautiful sight of all. I love the autumn, when the countryside is painted in amber and gold and apricot. The smell of wood smoke and the skies of October make me fall hopelessly head over heels, with the season. In early summer, there is the wild honeysuckle and fresh cut grass. I love the garden and the morning glory climbing up old sheds and fences. In the summer, when stars number in the millions overhead, I am swept away in the beauty . . .and now with the return of the song birds and the Quiet Garden turning green, and all of those daffodils, then I say spring must be the best of all. I am surely fickle, but Dear Diary, I love everything wildly and with all of my heart!