A Tea Cup and a Ginger Lily | Eastern North Carolina Now

    Publisher's note: Please join me in welcoming Author Michele Rhem, who presents us with her poignant mémoires 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.

    I have a beautiful drive home from work. Past fields and through woodlands, under big sky, I journey on to get back to the rabbit patch. No matter how good the hours have passed, I want to get home. While there is light, I begin supper. I find I need to start supper, before I even sit down, if not , depending on how long I sit, chances can get mighty slim for us to have a home cooked supper.

    Cash, my boxer , has not yet started going to school with me, this year. I am still conducting classes with new students and I take great pains to instruct them on proper behavior around dogs, before Cash attends -so for now, when I enter the old farmhouse, there is a greeting ritual with Cash and Christopher Robin too. On the hardest of days, it is good to be home.

    I notice what needs to be done in the yard, and make mental notes to plan accordingly for the weekend. The entire territory is most untidy now. There are fallen branches now, from the storm and the grass needs mowing again. I declare there is no rest on this rabbit patch.

    When the kitchen starts to smell good, a feeling of sheer contentment takes hold of me. Years back, the rabbit patch was a full house. My grandmother and my three younger sons lived here at the time. The kitchen was busy and we all talked while I was peeling potatoes. Supper is a lot quieter now. I am glad for the occasional commotion that Cash and Christopher Robin cause. Sometimes it is only the three of us. At such times, we all have supper at the same time. They are good company and wait patiently for me to wash dishes. We go in to the den afterwards and they nap while I relax at the morning table.

    I do like the peace and quiet of the rabbit patch. I like coming home where things make good sense-where things are familiar. The old oaks and the breeze blowing through them seem in cahoots to keep the place a sanctuary of sorts. In the presence of the oaks, I find restoration .

    I go out at night to bid the world sweet dreams and to reflect on the contents of the day. Last night the moon was especially colorful, though it only showed a glimpse of its' fullness. The sky was black otherwise. It is hard to feel anxious about anything under such conditions. The complexities of the day, pale in comparison, to the serenity of the night at the rabbit patch.

    When all is said and done, this is the way a day passes at the rabbit patch. In this fashion, I spend my life - and I am quite content to do so.