Biding Time | 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.

    How good it is to say, that I have attended the "early service" for the past two days. The relaxed work schedule, I am observing, has afforded me this luxury, and I have taken full advantage. Some people wake and charge into the day, quite naturally. I on the other hand, do not. First, I do not rise with the full use of my facilities. It is best for me, ad all concerned in my path, if I am allowed to slip quietly in to the day.

    Before, my husband died, he would bounce out of bed and be halfway dressed before announcing, "I have been thinking about our car insurance . . ." and I would look at him, incredulously , and ask "how?" , for I was still processing the concept of things like, "Today is Tuesday." The "early service" is a blessing in more than one way, for me.

    In September, the early service is a gentle affair. Leaves are fluttering, just as the moths do, in the evening. Both, moths and leaves, make a big production, about their flight. They both twirl and dash madly, but silently, before their landing. I have been mistaken, knowing which is which . . .in September.

    Even the sun behaves differently, these days. The sky slowly turns a buttery shade, while the cicadas chant their choruses. A lone bird may sing out. Today it was a cardinal. I go over my prayer list and just in case, I include the whole world. My dear friend, Julie asked me the other day, if I was still praying about my own personal predicament, with the move from the rabbit patch. I said "that is not my business" anymore. Julie laughed, for she understood that I had given the thing to the Father, after all. This does not mean, that I am not very curious, for oh how, I wish I knew the details. It does not mean, that I do not burn with wonder, but it does mean, anticipation and trust can go "hand in Hand", I have learned.

    Every time Jenny calls, I feel a pang of senselessness. The baby could be hours or weeks away, after all. I am packed and ready. Lyla has a pocketbook with a pacifier, a tissue and a little toy, packed too. Lyla, has also started "preschool". On the second day, Lyla did not want to join her teacher in "circle". She told the teacher, she wanted to continue playing. After a bit, the teacher told Lyla, she would need to sit with her in the hallway, while the other children enjoyed the "circle time". Lyla took her hand and obediently walked out. Lyla, surveyed her surroundings and told the teacher, that she " liked the hall, for she could see everything!" . . .so that didn't work. Oh, it may "take a village to raise a child." . . .but it also takes the "wisdom of Solomon" .

    I have decorated the farmhouse porch with a bit of autumn foliage, a lantern and a wreath. It is very hot and humid, still-quite undesirable conditions for me. Some people love hot weather, but it makes me wilt. I am in no way denying the wonder of summer, for the night sky is dazzling in months like July. There is also the wild honeysuckle, magnolias, roses and cape Jasmine perfuming the air with the most intoxicating scents. No other season smells like summer. There are too many extraordinary details about summer, to dismiss it nonchalantly, without gratitude for the dewy mornings and the gardens' bounty, but when autumn is just in the wings, I fall headlong into the prelude with great expectations.

    Just now the floss flower blooms as the oak fades. Now and then loosened leaves fall in empty nests, abandoned in thickets. . . and some fall to cover the little garden path. Though the grass still grows, it lacks the former vigor of June. The roses in the Quiet Garden are few and far between. Nature seems in a lull just now. It is as if the rhythm of life, has slowed enough for every living thing to "catch its' breath".

    I pack at least one box everyday. In this way, I hope to avoid the scrambling and rushing, as often comes with moving. I think I may be setting some sort of record, as the longest move in history. I started seriously contemplating this idea two years ago. It took me a year to decide and now finally here I am waiting on paperwork. What an ordeal! I carefully label each box and to keep my spirits up, I imagine unpacking them in some cozy cottage. Something is simmering in the kitchen and often it is raining, in my day dream.

    Other times, I imagine an expensive moving truck, honking the horn, while we are all cross and eventually, someone drops the box of the beloved Christmas china.

    Imagination can be a wonderful tool in life. . .or not. I was blessed early in life with the opportunity to develop skill in this . My cousins and I were expected to entertain ourselves a good deal of time. We were not poor, but toys were not lavished upon us. Besides, we had trees, fields and woodlands that served as a playground. We made up all sorts of dramas and games. We were always exploring a newly discovered path made by deer, an abandoned shed or at least once an old moonshine still, we were sure belonged to a great uncle. We were quite resourceful, for we had to be. We solved our disputes and made up rules of what was fair. I do not know, even now if the adults knew they were imparting such a valuable gift to us, but it has served me well.

    In the midst of a problem, I can imagine a positive outcome. If something doesn't work the first time, then now I know better, how to proceed. How many forts fell in shambles before the one that made it through winter, I remember? When something takes longer than I expected, what might I stumble upon, while waiting, I wonder? If I am going to invent some event, you can rest assured, I am expecting something wonderful to happen. Doom and gloom serve no purpose, as best I can tell, except to make us "worried sick", truthfully. Even when I feel melancholy, I know it will pass. Regret and loss, are the burdens, hardest to shake for me, I have found.

    Tomorrow is Sunday, and since I am at the rabbit patch, I hope to cook a Sunday dinner. The kitchen remains mostly intact. (I did bravely packed the bundt pan and some measuring cups.) At any moment, Jenny could call with the arrival of her new daughter, possible. There is also a hurricane that may make landfall here, on Wednesday. (I did not pack the lamp oil nor the flashlights.) Until then, I will bide my time, waiting for so much to happen, while I watch the grand finale of summer . . .and imagine all sorts of beautiful things to come.