As "Happy as Larks" | Eastern NC 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.

    Slowly, but surely the prelude to autumn glory is making its' presence known. Even the ragweed is pretty enough to write about. It fills the ditches and acts like a garland around the woodlands. Ragweed does not have a good reputation, as many folks are allergic to it and are apt to get headaches, because of it-but the bright, deep yellow plumes are truly beautiful. I do not know of anyone who cultivates the ragweed. Ragweed, like wild violets, grow where they please. I have some uninvited ones in a corner of the "Quiet Garden" growing with the roses. The two are unlikely companions, but they are a striking pair, so I haven't the heart to disturb them.

    The landscape is the only proof that it is autumn. It is so hot at the rabbit patch, that I drug the window fan back out of storage. Thunderstorms form in the afternoons, just as they do in summer, and bring relief to the hot and very humid afternoons. This morning, I left my sweater home.

    I am at last, catching a "second wind" in my plight to fix the old farmhouse up. I have a long list of projects-most involve paint . . .and muscle. Christian and I rearranged some furniture this past weekend and discarded a shabby daybed in the process. I found a chair in my "barn collection" to bring in the house, too. The chair needs painting and so if I am buying paint, I may as well make it worth my while. It is hard to complete big projects, when you have a job and "run the roads" on the weekends, as my daddy always said.

    Daddy did not believe in "carrying on" in such ways, when I was young-and "could" "run the roads". How many times he accused me of "using the house as a hotel". I laugh at that now, as I never did that-he didn't allow it. I had the earliest curfews of any of my friends and excursions were limited to weekends. Looking back, he saved me a lot of grief, in all likelihood. I did a lot of complaining at my "pitiful lot" in life, back then. Now, I thank God for it. I truly was born "with a silver spoon in my mouth" on account of my parents. . .and their love for me has never wavered but abides today.

    Another list, on my mind, as of lately is the "Christmas list". I have already bought several presents. They are stored in the trustworthy "Christmas Closet" at the rabbit patch -which has never given up one secret. I have always bought "along the way" for Christmas. It helps my budget and avoids a last minute quandary in December. I love to shop at Christmas, but not in desperation. Thankfully, my children have never really ask for anything. We are as " as happy as larks" to drink fine coffee after a good meal. We always watch "It's a Wonderful Life" too. I like to think about Christmas, when the house smells like pine.

    I continue to work on the cello. I lose all track of time when I am practicing. At last, the cello feels at least, familiar to me now. I played a song for the kindergarten classes and they applauded . . . as if they had never heard "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star".

    Children spend a good deal of time celebrating, I thought. They celebrate pretty rocks and dandelions quite naturally, without being taught to do so. In October, children collect pretty leaves and share them with one another. The youngest children live life authentically and do not waste precious moments "putting on airs". They are too busy gathering acorns and feathers . . .in October. I hope I never get too sophisticated to do such things. How dreary life would be, to lose all sense of wonder.

    Dear Diary, I am glad for the early autumn landscape . I am glad for the wisdom of those before me-and the ones after me too. . .and I am glad for simple tunes and old chairs to rest in.