Paper Hearts, Old Lace & Wilted Flowers | 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 drove home, from Elizabeth City, a bit later in the day, than I usually do, on Sunday. The sun was a buttery shade of yellow and was descending on the pewter horizon. It was not bright enough, to cast a shadow of trees in winter, on the barren fields. The low, golden glow of the evening gave the landscape a kind of serenity, as if the heavens were singing a benediction.

    The weekend had been full and busy. On Friday night, I had stayed home with Lyla and Brynn, while Will and Jenny attended the wake for Miss Claudia. All was going fine, til Brynn started a crying jag. As I was walking and singing to her, Jennys' elderly and beloved dog made a puddle on the floor right near the back door. Within seconds, Lyla came running and stepped right in the middle of it. She slid several feet, which sent her to wailing - and of course, the phone rang. I could not hear a word of the caller and simply said "please call back". Brant and Sydney came in ( a welcomed sight) and got Lyla in the bathtub and cleaned the puddle. Brynn remained on her mission to "disturb the peace", til Jenny came in about half an hour later.

    The services for Miss Claudia, were held on Saturday. It still seems so shocking to write that. It was comforting to see the large attendance. Many had driven several hours to pay their respects, and I think that speaks well of my friend.

    Afterwards, I dropped in on Miss Thelma, while I was there. Miss Thelma lives right across the street from Jenny, in a rambling old house on the laughing river. She lives with her husband, who is ninety six and bed ridden. Miss Thelma will be ninety five in March, and she was planning a birthday party for herself, on this day. Despite her advanced years, Miss Thelma seemed so youthful as she planned her event. Miss Thelma is very sharp in mind, but terribly confused about the ways of modern society . . .so am I.

    It was pitch dark, when I pulled in to the rabbitpatch, for I had stopped by Mama and Daddys', first. This is Mamas' birthday week. We will celebrate on Sunday, so there are lots of secrets just now.

    Christian helped me get my things in while Cash pranced around and Christopher Robin purred. I was in my "house clothes" within minutes. Now, it was time to "wait for Monday", which always changes everything.

    I have not yet chosen my next winter study or else I would have read. All I know, is that I am going to study some light subject- I am not in the mood for any subject that requires me to dwell on anything that can be even remotely gloomy -or that requires a lot of complex thinking.

    I noticed, that the he spirea bush is just beginning to blossom. I love the delicate masses of fairy tale flowers. The stark white flowers appear before the leaves and so there is an illusion of floating flowers. It is mighty early for the spirea to show off, for we are likely to have at least a "hard frost" from now to April. The last weeks have been spring like, and it seems the spirea does not "look before it leaps". I am hoping against all odds that the peach tree does not follow suit, for the palest pink blossoms of the peach, are some of my favorite. I think I could sell the farmstead, quite easily, if the peach tree stayed in bloom.

    It seems to me that February just arrived a few days ago, but alas, Valentines' Day looms just ahead. I like this day, though I do not participate in any ridiculous expectations of the day. To me, that would spoil every thing. Besides, I have fond memories of paper hearts and wilted wildflowers, that I hold dear -and remember in February. Mama used to make a heart shaped cake for us on Valentines Day. I thought they were beautiful and so fancy. I will probably bake something or make heart shaped pancakes at the rabbitpatch for supper. . .and maybe I will bring a sprig of that spirea in, too. Simplicity keeps holidays so pure - and manageable. "Big productions" just wilt me, anyway.

    Speaking of "big productions" . . . I do not watch the evening news, as I used to. I do try to catch the local weather, so I will know whether or not to warm the car up, the next morning and what kind of clothes will be suitable, too, but I have tired of the relentless negativity. I am always shocked at the types of crimes being committed, for they are quite bizarre and unnatural acts. Then there are the "band wagons", loaded down with a slew of unhappy folks. It seems to me that everybody is fighting about something. There are more "life styles" out there than I dare to imagine . Health scares are a dime a dozen and on and on it goes, til at long last, thirty minutes have passed, and dinner is ready, if you can still eat.

    If I sound old, it is because I am that old.

    Oh how grand that the sun til sets in the west as it always has-lighting up the sky with ceremony at the end of the day. The stars take their familiar places and somewhere, little paper hearts and scraps of old lace adorn a kitchen table . . . and maybe there is a mother, making a fancy, heart-shaped cake.