"Between a Rock and a Hard Place" | 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.

    I got up this morning at five, as is my habit. The world was pitch dark and a brisk wind was blowing. The pines were whispering and for a while, I listened. Leaves are scattered about the territory now. I always find it beautiful to look out and see the yard looking this way. It is a sign of the season - much as pumpkins and marigolds. Sunlight falls now where shade used to, for the wind had stripped a fair share of leaves from the old oaks and sycamores. A few of the roses continue to bloom. They will be faithful til frost. Otherwise, the rabbit patch is quiet, as it always is, in Autumn.

    By the time the light comes to the morning, I had a project in mine. It was the perfect day to take the living room apart and clean. Soon enough, the house will be closed up for cold weather. Windows will stay down and soft blankets will be found on the sofas, within arms reach, for a chilly night. In light of the windy day, I would wash the curtains, as well as the blankets. . .and remove the cushions from the sofas and tackle the baseboards. . . and the windows are so very dirty, I would clean those too.

    Before, I gathered the broom and a bucket, I put on a pot of soup to simmer.

    I had not even started good, when I realised this would be a two day project, more than likely. It would do me good to stay busy, I reassured myself, and besides that, it needed to be done, for I was soon convinced that a good deal of rabbit patch soil was in every place it could be. I was no longer thinking about papers and impending dates, for I was on a mission, now.

    While I was cleaning and scrubbing, my mind forgot, briefly, that I am in between two places. . . like "a rock and a hard place". On one hand, I am here at the rabbit patch with everything possible, packed in boxes. On the other hand, is a little cottage freshly inspected and with a fee paid, to secure my contract. I have settled into this "strange state of uncertainty" with all the fortitude I can muster. We are often reminded to "live in the moment" Truthfully I have always practiced that theory, for I take great note of how the hours pass. Far be it from me, to miss the beauty of a season. I crave beauty as I do air-whether it is being with my loved ones or nature or the peace of solitude . . .but there are some things that do require a bit of contemplation, like whether or not to carry a raincoat, or when you should get new tires . . . or change your entire life altogether.

    By the time, I was washing windows, the wind had become a slight breeze that blew in a friendly fashion. The sky was a powdery blue and cloudless. The spirea bushes are a lovely apricot color now, I noticed. The young dogwood that bloomed for the first time, on the Easter Sunday, that Lyla was born, is crimson, now. The pecan trees are bare, as are the peach and cherry trees. As I surveyed the landscape, I wondered if the fierce wind that came in like it had a score to even, may have spoiled the grand finale of the autumn leaves this year. Like everything else, we will have to wait and see.

    Work, of any sort, acts like a tonic on me. In the summers, the garden would swallow any worries I had. The soil acted like a mother, full of comfort. In springs, there were flowers to plant and weeds to pull. In the autumns, there are the bushels of leaves dropping daily and in winter, I had the barns, that could always stand cleaning.

    A decade ago, I remember feeling angry. I went out behind the oldest barn to tell the heavens about it. I could barely plead my case, because I kept noticing that the shelter off the back of the barn, was so untidy. I started restoring order, as I grumbled. A flock of blackbirds showed up and were chattering so much, I was sure heaven could't hear my fuss over theirs'. I just hushed altogether and got some paint, for some of the boards were looking so shabby. As I painted, the blackbirds started a performance. They filled the sky and started swooping and spiraling. A thousand of them, at least moved in a motion as fluid as water. It was a spectacular sight. I watched them for a while-which could have been a year, as I was so in awe. By the time it was over, I had painted a few blackbirds on the crude boards, and written, "The heavens declare the glory of God" on the leaning shelter. It is still there to this day. So, some sort of work always presents itself at the "rabbitpatch".

    I had finished the living room and even moved the piano and sofas back in place, when Christian came in from work. I had used a rosemary scented cleaner to wash the walls and floors, and so on top of everything else, it smelled like a holiday in the farmhouse.

    Of course, while I washed the windows, I noticed the porch needed cleaning and so that got added on the list of "things to do tomorrow".

    I warmed the caulifower bisque for our supper, which was a wonderful conclusion to the day, we both agreed.

    A crescent moon hung high in the sky, when I went out to say my prayers. Stars were scarce but bright. I had walked into a silence that was so very peaceful, I couldn't complain about a thing. . .and so once again, the heavens were spared, my grievances, for all I could do, was smile back at the moon.