All in a Week | 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.

    It was raining Sunday morning, when we woke. I knew snow was a long shot, but I had hoped for it anyway. As the silvery, cold droplets fell, I felt glad that I could linger under my favorite soft blanket, for a bit. At least I did not have to spring up, as I do on a week day. Cash, my dog, and my gray cat Christopher Robin, were snuggled together and what a sweet picture they made. I was happy, that it was Sunday.

    I read, as I usually do on Sunday mornings, but not about "Van Gogh". I read enough yesterday to suit me for a while, on this tender artist. My heart broke with every tragic detail -and there were so many, in his life. I did gather that Van Gogh felt deeply for human suffering and went above and beyond what most of us do, to show it. He believed the purpose of his art was to glorify God. I admired his independent nature, but goodness, how sad he was! I simply can not bear to know anything further, for just now.

    I read the "Sermon on the Mount" which is a favorite of mine. I made a pot of soup and since Christian had a friend stop by, who happens to be a chef, I made apple dumplings. This time I made them in a pot, instead of a skillet. I think I like them better, prepared in a pot. "Jose" noted the recipe, as he was going to make it for the head chef.

    So the cold silvery rain fell all day and Sunday passed gently by.

    As I drove to work on Monday morning, I took notice of the day. The countryside looked so very muted, in colors like gray, and shades of brown. Even the sky was a dull pewter . I thought, that some folks would call this a dismal scene. . . but I like most kinds of days. I do understand how dreary weather can feel like an unfriendly guest, for it seems something tragic may happen, under such circumstances, that could not occur on a bright happy day in June. This is hardly true, but it does feel like it could be . I really miss the comfort of home on such days.

    I am quite sure, this all started in childhood, growing up on a farm. When the weather was bad, we all stuck around the house. We often made a cake and the adults had time to tell us stories. If we needed rain, then everyone was in high spirits . Weather was of huge consequence in those days.

    The wind was acting more sensible, but Monday was every bit as cold as Sunday. Some people declared they had seen snow flurries, but I kept my eyes peeled to the sky and never saw anything but some tiny ice pellets, for a brief spell. I have seen stunning pictures from friends up north. What a wonder snow is, covering every sin, a landscape could have . . and what a hearty lot it takes to live where snow accumulation must be measured in feet. I simply can not imagine shoveling a driveway on a regular basis before going to work. Those folks are a hearty and gallant lot -and nothing less.

    Snow may be scarce here, but frost is not. Lately the countryside is sparkling in the early morning. "Brother Earl" , a neighbor has a fire going most every morning. Smoke rises in curls and tinges the air with the familiar scent of burning wood. The sun rises over the treeline transforming the bare branches to ebony lace and the frost becomes all sorts of shades of orange, pink, peach and apricot. This morning an icy luster even topped the trees and so the day started with quite a spectacular display of nature in winter.

    I drive past the very quiet pastures and the resting fields to work and then back home. Occasionally, I stop at the grocery. Somehow my dog and cat, know exactly what time, I will arrive at the rabbitpatch, for they are always waiting by the door. I usually start a load of laundry, then start supper and at the first chance, change into "house clothes". I prepare for the next day within an hour of walking in the door, for I can not think of such things as sweaters and earrings, in the morning.

    I read while supper cooks. There is little variation in my routine. One day turns in to another and in this way, the week passes. Unless there is an emergency, I am home at night. I am quite content to spend evenings at home. . . and it is not just because I am older. I have never enjoyed a ruckus of any sort.