“What is dive bombing?” Beren asks.
“I know what dive bombing is with birds,” Jared says.Read More
Her cart was in the middle of the aisle. Her boyfriend said ‘hi’ to me. I mumbled a reply, not even words, really. That cart was in my way. She stared at me. I navigated my cart between hers and the shelves. She did not move.
She was wiping down the gas pumps while I pumped gas. I said ‘hi’ just as squatted down to continue her work. She looked up, smiled, and asked how I was. An honest smile. I returned her smile with my own and wished I said hello while she was standing.
I had the expectation that she might not be friendly. She had disappeared when I entered the store. She was friendly. My hair was messy. Hers was not. We talked about wildflowers, clothing, Ocean City, Maryland, and paying the rent. She asked if the shopping was good in New Jersey. I said no. We both wished we had longer torsos.
At night, when we settle down to sleep, my son is not ready to sleep. Sometimes, I ask him a question, to focus his mind, and help his body let go of the day.
“What kind of farm animal would you chose to have?” I ask.
“A jaguar,” he replies.
I laugh and think of how I’d prefer a jaguar to a hog or a chicken or a horse.
“He could be best friends with Mountain*,” he adds. “And, protect him.”
This is a sight I see regularly when I check on the plants. This image is very different than those I present on my business’ website. As a photographer, I find this image interesting. As a native plant grower, this is the kind of image that gets cut.Read More
I had a premonition that the Marty’s Silver Dollar beer mug would be broken. It was. Just a couple days later. Today, broken. My son’s favorite glass, from one of my grandparents’ kitchens. Busted.
My son has moved on, it seems. I’m melancholy.
Long nights, short days.
Yesterday. My word. Yesterday was a day. After it was nearly all over, Jared and I drove out to pick up Beren, and I asked, “Was it just me? Or, was today crap?”
“Well,” he answered. “About seventy percent of the things we tried turned out badly.”
That’s a good batting average, but a crap day.
Quickie, shortie. That’s how I refer to… writing a short blog post. Like this one.
I am a cubicle worker. Maybe less than a cubicle worker. I have about, shoot, ask my husband, he does all the measuring especially once we get into the square and cubic measurements, but he’s not home… so, I got about this…Read More
As the drizzle picked up, so did my pace. My basket was filled with a meal’s worth of chickweed, field garlic, and a bit of cutleaf coneflower from down field. I came around the bend and up the hill. Jared and Beren stood before a nearly empty clothesline. As the drizzle picked up, so did their pace.Read More
9:06 p.m. We’re on our way back from the grocery store. As we drive down the rainy road, I notice a mother in a window illuminated by florescent light. She loads her dryer. Her hair is tousled. She our neighbor down the way. Don’t really know them too well.
A partly dried lump of laundry waits in my dryer. When I arrive at home, I will run downstairs and turn the dryer back on. I will haul the groceries in on multiple trips through the never-ending mist and rain.Read More
Just sat down to write, after a day of potting up plants and doing the books and the inventory and the laundry. I listen for sounds on our quiet road. I hear our truck 'round the bend bringing Jared and Beren home. Bye.
Rachel Mackow is a photographer and writer who resides on a ridge in the New Jersey Highlands with her husband and son.
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I'm a writer and photographer, observer and keeper of memories in this space, The Shagbark Speaks. In the other spaces of my life, which take most of my time, I am a wife, mother, native plant grower & natural lands restoration practitioner, and laundress.