“Moo?” quoth the cow.
“Moo,” said the other.
“Moo,” said Akiva, spinning from the tree.
and he tried to moo on the blowing-horn but knew not one end from the other.
“Moo is right,” said Iris. She helped him balance. Moo.
“Moo?” said Dan, and the swing creaked, “Moo.”
And “Moo” we said. And “Moo” we all said. And we tucked up our legs.
And we swang in speckles of mid-day sun as the cows sang “Moo” in the shade.
We had such a good time at Clark Reservation yesterday, we went back again.
Then we went home.
Uncle Dan makes for a large horse, so Iris has to help Akiva up.
Plop! Up on top.
And they’re off!
Akiva checks to see if Uncle Dan is prickly. He says he plans on being hairy and prickly when he grows up.
Mom’s vision for her yard is to make a miniature replica of Clark Reservation on her quarter-acre plot in the suburbs.
Over the past 40 years, she’s transformed it from a slope of grass to a miniature wildlife preserve and national historic treasure.
The good thing about having a miniature wildlife preserve in one’s own back yard is that one does not have to go very far to visit it.
When she is not gardening, plastering, wiring, insulating, cooking, sewing, repairing machines, reading, or sleeping (the last of which she does very little of, as far as I can tell), Mom likes lounging on the lawn. She keeps a small amount of lawn just for lounging. If she did not like occasionally lounging on the lawn, I’m certain there would be something more interesting than grass growing in this spot.
Lounging in good company is much more fun than lounging alone.
This is what Mom looks like when she is happy.
In the morning, we went to Clark Reservation. I love this place. Iris calls it “The Place With the Rocks.”
When I was not too much older than Iris, we went here with Pop.
He said to me, “Jessi, do you know how these rocks got all broken up like this?”
I thought about it for a while, trying to remember if anyone had told me. No one had.
“Well, at one time, it was all just one big rock,” said Pop,
directing my gaze across the broad expanse of fissured rock with a sweep of his arm,
“then your mother came by with a sledge hammer and broke it all up.”
I was impressed.
* * *
Later in the day, we explored the gardens surrounding my mother’s house.
They are impressive, billowing over with blooms,
framed by stone patios and walls she built herself from rocks gathered at Clark Reservation.
Turns out, the reason she broke all those rocks up with her sledge hammer
was because she wanted to take a few pieces home.
But that’s not what these pictures are about.
These pictures are about Mom, in her gardens. They are also about photography.
Pop was a photographer.
Photography gives one the ability to capture and hold a quadrangle of light
without allowing in any distracting interference that the surroundings might provide—
leaving the viewer unaware that, just 30 degrees to the right, chaos abounds.
* * *
In the vegetable garden, there are always extra vegetables. You might not hear about them, because usually the woodchucks and the rabbits get around to hearing about them first. But they’re extra, so it’s okay. Sometimes, we get to play with the extras. Usually it’s just things like onions. Bunnies don’t like to eat the onions because they don’t like to have bad breath. So they leave the onions alone.
Akiva uses them to make some onion soup.
On the far side of the fence, Mom (a.k.a. Grandma) gathers berries while eager mouths await.
As she waits, Iris finds some berries on her own side of the fence.
Photo-op with adorable children:
* * *
We had a wonderful day.
Actually, she was born yesterday. Apologies for being a lazy photographer. I took no photos of her.
Location: north side of Gramma’s house
These are the wild days.
In this late June’s late noon haze,
we wander through the wetness left
by June’s heavy rains.
We meander through the puddled woodlands,
troubling the mud and
muddying the waters.
And we wander: mother, son, & daughter.
These are the wild days.
This is our own small wild place.
And this is how we play and these are our faces.
And this is how we keep the small child’s wild ways.
We ramble down between the misty trees
to play. These are the wild days
of mid-summer when faeries play
like children and small humans become fae.
It is here we find our magic place.
It is here we find this great white faerie house
hidden in the weeds. This house is inhabited
by friends.
And these are our friends.
And these are our woods. And these are our bridges.
And this is our river. And these are our bodies.
And these are our ways. And this is our home.
And these are the wild days.
My children are arrows, and magic the bow. And I am the quiver.
These are the wild days.
In this late June’s late noon haze,
we wander through the wetness left
by June’s heavy rains.
We meander through the puddled woodlands,
troubling the mud and
muddying the waters.
And we wander: mother, son, & daughter.
These are the wild days.
This is our own small wild place.
And this is how we play and these are our faces.
And this is how we keep the small child’s wild ways.
We ramble down between the misty trees
to play. These are the wild days
of mid-summer when faeries play
like children and small humans become fae.
It is here we find our magic place.
It is here we find this great white faerie house
hidden in the weeds. This house is inhabited
by friends.
And these are our friends.
And these are our woods. And these are our bridges.
And this is our river. And these are our bodies.
And these are our ways. And this is our home.
And these are the wild days.
My children are arrows, and magic the bow. And I am the quiver.
—Jessica Rose Shanahan
Nov. 14, 2017
Summer on the river. (Favorite spot.)
We walk into the woods on the far side.
This is my little girl.
She does not remember a time before Akiva.
Tho she does get the feeling she used to have her mommy all to herself.
I cannot imagine the lonesomeness of being an introverted only child.
There is no thing that my parents ever gave me better than siblings.
Look! Two!
May they always be together,
& never walk alone.
Hot sun,
Cool shade.
A wee boy went trotting
Upon his white mare
Bumpety bumpety bump
With his sister behind him
So rosy and fair,
Lumpety, lumpety, lump!
A raven cried “Croak”
And they all tumbled DOWN
Bumpety, bumpety, bump
The mare broke her knees,
And the wee boy his crown,
Lumpety, lumpety, lump!
The mischievous raven
Flew laughing away
Bumpety, bumpety, bump!
And vowed he would serve them
The same the next day,
Lumpety, lumpety, lump!
—Mother Goose
