When It Rains . . . It Pours | 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.

    The old foiks were right, when they said "when it rains, it pours." I found out first hand, Tuesday night. A storm came across the fields, with roaring and the sky was snapping like the fourth of July. With it came rain that fell hard and mightily. The roof repair was hardly finished and so it rained in the old farmhouse-not leaked, but rain poured in. I was up on a ladder painting a high ceiling in the den, when I first heard the commotion. Kyle and Christian were scrambling and using loud tones, so I scrambled as best I could and found myself in the midst of a ruckus.

    Christian was running from the pantry with every big pot he could find. Kyle had gathered the towels we use for the dogs, and then raided the linen closet. No matter, how resourceful they were, there was a large puddle of rain water on the floor and it was not letting up. There was thunder and lightening and wind, when Christian ran out and got on the roof. He stepped on a nail within three minutes. I was sure he had been struck by lightening and nearly fainted, when I heard him yell out. When I found out, he had not been electrocuted, I commenced to fussing. I knew it was a terrible idea that Kyle had gone to a cook out on Friday. I fussed because he went fishing on Saturday. I fussed because I lived in an old house. I brought up a lot of things in those moments.

    Cash, my boxer, and the cats, Christopher Robin and Moon Shine assembled, like a choir in the corner. Moon Shine was skittish and jumpy. Cash seemed nervous and worried and Christopher Robin was calm and I declare he had all sorts of judgements about us, on his face about the predicament. I came close to crying, when there wasn't a dry towel left in the house. When the worst was over, and the water was reduced to a leak, I examined Christians' foot and decided he would live, after all.

    I was exhausted from the excitement-and throwing my fit. I decided I would not climb the ladder again and began putting things away. . . That is when I spilt the pristine white paint on the hardwood floor. What a horrible shock to remember, there wasn't a dry towel in the house, at that particular moment. my feet felt fastened to the floor-when I could move, I ran to the kitchen, taking care to select dish towels that had seen better times. When that was over, I just wanted to go to bed.

    Of course, I couldn't go to sleep right off-I had a lot of confessing to do. The more I listed things to beg pardon for, the drowsier, I got. I even remembered to be glad about the lilies. I thought of the blessed gardenia which is in full bloom and the Mimosa tree with its' feathery blossoms that are one of my very favorite scents. I remembered laying with Brant, when he was weeks old, under a mimosa decades ago, on a soft blanket. I thought how I can't wait to show Lyla, these beautiful trees, that her great grandmother, loved too, as does Jenny.

    Yesterday, the boys worked on the roof, with an experienced roofer. This morning, it rained again, but the old house did not get wet. The towels are all washed and sorted. Supper is simmering, on this day that is cool enough to be one in late September. I bought a new can of paint, today. I also picked out the color I want to paint my cottage door, one day.

    Dear Diary, I am glad to remember that a leaking roof . . .is just that. I am glad that in moments, when I do not act properly . . .it is just that, too. I will hope to take the high road, more often than not, which is strewn with things like mimosa trees with soft pink blossoms and gardenias in full bloom . . . and surely, I must "consider the lilies".