Truly, for all the troubles we've had as a country and community, there's still a beautiful world out there. While sheltering at home we've built flower beds and tended to them better than ever because we've had time on our hands and dirt under our fingernails.
From the breakfast table I could see Harry, the boy cat, peering through the picket fence into the perennial garden. You would think by now whenever Harry is transfixed on something, I would check it out.
The day passed hardly without my notice when on June 14, I opened a devotional reading titled "Rallying to the Flag." The American flag that reigned over my mailbox had been whipped to smithereens by the wind.
Out came the bicycles, having been in storage for about six to eight years. Sam aired up the tires and checked over the bikes' mechanics. They were maybe a little dusty and a little rusty. We wiped them down and decided to take a short spin.
Gazing out the sunroom window I noticed movement in the garden's raised bed. Just over the top of the railroad tie, something brown went around and around.
It was 1998 and life was busy, often hectic, when I stepped into a small bookstore off the cobblestone street in Clinton, Mississippi. There I discovered "The Art of Doing Nothing," by Veronique Vienne. I was intrigued by the title and the beautiful cover. I like to judge a book by its cover, so I bought it.
"Mrs. Sharp's Traditions" initial printing was in 1990; the reprint and revision in 2001. I had the good fortune to find a copy. Page 129 describes Mother's Day traditions.
The porch had been pressure washed, furniture cleaned and plants arranged. I invited a friend over for coffee. In advance I directed her to proceed to the back porch when she arrived. There she would find two Adirondack chairs facing each other from a good 8 feet apart.
The sun is peaking in and out from behind the clouds. It's a lovely day, though a wee bit chilly. The roses are putting on a spectacular show.
Searching for quotes on bravery, self-sacrifice, maybe courage, I stumbled into the Derbyshire village of Eyam, England, in the year 1665. English villages fascinate me as I now have a friend living in one and follow a blogger living in another -- quaint cobblestone streets, outdoor markets, small brick homes with flowering window boxes and bucolic pastures, home to grazing sheep.
The coronavirus has given a whole new meaning to spring cleaning.
Why I didn't think of it before, I don't know. Actually, I thought Philip would be retired by now.
It would be so easy to pull up a chair and sit by the window and do nothing all day long except watch bluebirds fly in and out of the bluebird box or watch swallowtail butterflies flit here and there on the wild cherry tree.
If ever there was a good season to draw close to home, this would have to be it. The sun shines, the flowers bloom, the clover multiplies, the birds sing, the bees buzz. Dandelions open fully in the mornings.
There's more about honeybees I don't know than I do know. That's a phrase we use a lot here at the Bardwell abode. Not the honeybee part but the what we don't know part
Within five days, five possums were spotted in the yard. I wondered if maybe water rising in Tibbee and Catalpa Creeks forced wild animals to higher ground. A large rat was hiding in the gardenias beside the porch.
Sixteen years ago, my 10 faith-based articles for Adams Media were published in the "Cup of Comfort" series. A few copies remain in the treasure chest that sits at the foot of my bed.
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