Henry McCabe, 35, is the owner of the Chesapeake deadrise. Attempts to locate McCabe have been unsuccessful. So far there are no signs of foul play. The discovery of the abandoned boat deepens the mystery around McCabe, who was a person of interest in the disappearance of his 8-month-old son, Skyler, in No charges are being filed at this time.
Such a simple invitation. Folks tend to forget how intimate the act is, how vulnerable you become when you surrender your palm to another. Especially to someone like me. The tender flesh of your wrist, the meat of your palm, the peninsulas of your fingers. Their secrets hidden from you but exposed to me. The Brandywine Farmers Market has been around since I was a little girl leapfrogging over the headstones in the cemetery behind Shiloh Baptist while my mother bought her greens.
Even longer than that. Each parking space hosts its own stall. Farmers pull in well before the sun even thinks about rising, just so they can snag those hallowed spots up front where the foot traffic flows freely. Truck beds become rusted cornucopias of fresh tomatoes, sweet potatoes, ears of corn sheathed in leathery green husks, cucumbers covered in a fine dust of dirt, broccoli, zucchini, pumpkins, strawberries, and baskets of blueberries.
Some even offer jars of pickled okra and peach preserves. The local fishermen bring their bounty from Chesapeake Bay: blue-shells, oysters, herring, shrimp, mussels, clams, glass-eyed shadβall packed on beds of ice that slowly melt into a briny broth as the hours slip by and the humidity thickens. Hand-painted signs line the highway for a mile out on either side of the peninsula, luring in passersby with promises of local produce and seafood.
People who call Brandywine home still live off the land and water. I live off your hands. The lines in your skin. The folds in your flesh. A palm reading sets you back twenty bucks. I provide a full- or half-deck reading. Aura cleansings. Used to be my gram. I spot good tidings heading your way, sugar.
