Things that Grow Wild | 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.

    July is not meandering-in fact, it is going along at "break neck" speed. When I was younger, July did not pass "in a twinkling", as it does now. I make it a point, not to concern myself with clocks and calendars in the summer. As I write this, I do not know the date, however, the mailbox has been full of August bills, so it is impossible not to at least be vaguely aware, that July, is in its' latter days.

    The farmhouse on the rabbit patch is still "a work in progress". I shutter to think of how many bags of things have been thrown away or donated. I took a large donation yesterday to an older couple that run a second hand store. They are generous and have helped members of the community, in hard times. Yesterday, they implored me to find something to take as a gift. I was in mid sentence, declaring that "I was not bringing any thing in the house . . " when my eyes landed on a piece of "carnival glass". I have been collecting this glass for a decade. It is quite hard to find and too expensive, for a teacher, really. So, how could I pass up the pretty dish, in good conscience? I accepted the gift and added it to my collection, after all.

    Christian and I spent the afternoon, cleaning out his room. Christian is an artist in every sense. He is an accomplished musician, a writer and he draws beautifully. This means, that hours are spent filing sketches and songs . . then there are the journals and the guitar strings, not to mention the guitar picks and sketching supplies. Well, that took a good while. As I painted the bathroom, he sorted through the piles. Ever so often I heard him playing the piano, though.

    He too, has some things to donate, but I will send him to do the deed. Obviously, I shouldn't go and I cannot send Kyle, either. Kyle has always had a hard time parting with anything. When he was little, he did not even want to part with clothes he had outgrown-and the last time I sent Kyle . . he came back with the box of stuffed animals still in the car.

    The good news is, we are but a day away from being finished with the cleaning out. Tres may come home this weekend to put the new ceiling in the hallway (which has become a storage for bags of trash). Then I will need to paint that area, which does not scare me. Of course, I am expecting a "proclamation" of sins from the appraiser, following the visit, that will need tending.

    In all the commotion going on inside the old farmhouse, I have managed to admire the "black-eyed-susans" blooming like sunshine in the far corner of the "Quiet Garden". Morning Glory vines are growing with great vigor, though not one has bloomed just yet. . .and the ginger lilies have made no promises. . . but, the lowly mimosa blooms faithfully, and makes its' presence known on soft breezes. My grandmother loved mimosas. Brant laid under a mimosa as an infant-and so did Lyla. Jenny loves them as I do. Beautiful , sweet memories can cause such an endearment to common things, like the mimosa, that mostly grow on ditch banks and at the edge of fields. The same can be said of the Queen Annes' Lace, a lovely wildflower that is likely to grow anywhere it pleases. The rose is fairer, when coupled with Queen Anne and July is better off, because of the mimosa. I love things that grow wild.

    Dearest Sweet Diary, I am glad for seasons to work and dream, I am glad for a son that plays music, at any given moment. I am glad for mimosas that tinge the air with sweet scent- and flowers that are not planted by man. . .and grow where they please. I am glad for the morning glory that tangles where it can. I am glad, for I love things that grow wild.