Blueberries

For years Dad and I picked blueberries in the Summertime. Four bushes in the backyard produced overwhelming buckets of blueberries. Often it was my sister and I out there in the summer sun picking and stretching, reaching past limbs inside, wary of wasps and maybe spiders. But after she'd gone to college, Dad sometimes came out there to help. Each bush had its own personality. There was the skinny bush: tall, scrawny, and didn't produce many berries at all but I always checked it thoroughly just in case. A fat bush on the end, usually having the juiciest berries, lump and dark, but it made me nervous to stick my hand past the exterior limbs into the dark interior, fearful that a spider might get angry or wasps come flying out at my face. But Dad said it was important to get all the berries, every single one. So I braved the prospect of getting stung or bitten, pulling out vines that were invading the bush's territory. The other two bushes were mostly non-descript, average height and thickness, average berries, average. Sometimes I could come inside with two buckets of berries, sometimes more or less.

A few times when my sister Beth had friends over they'd join us picking berries. One time a few of us started throwing berries at each other, until someone said that blueberry juice stains and the friend didn't want to get her shirt stained. Nonetheless, I still wanted to play and snuck a couple more berry throws in before they got mad at me and made me leave.

I also loved the washing of the berries. In the sunny outdoors their color seemed dusty, muted and faded, but when the water ran over their skins, bright colors leapt from the colander: shiny maroon, indigo, dark purple, midnight, and speckled blue. As their cloudy skins brighten, my tastebuds craved the bursting tartness of a just-turned ripe berry, and I'd pop one or two in my mouth before someone would catch me sneaking a little snack.

The camaraderie of working together, bonding with family doing the same task, sometimes in silence, sometimes in laughter, was something that crept into my poetry. The reaching for the berry at the top of the tallest bush, tip-toed, leaning into the limbs, leaves in my face, I'd look up and be blinded by sunlight at the same time as I grasped the blueberry. This appeared in one of my poems, "Berry-Picking."

Sunday, July 3, 2011

Louie B. Nunn Pkwy ahead.

After driving through the rolling country of I-40 to Nashville, Tennessee, I pulled off I-65 at Franklin, Kentucky, for a very late lunch. Burger King fries and a grilled chicken sandwich was half-gobbled before I felt sick and disgusted at the meal and how quickly I had attempted to eat it. Back on the road again, I rolled past Bowling Green, and onto Louie B. Nunn Parkway. I stopped in Columbia for gas, hoping the fuel contained no ethanol; There were no signs signaling it was in use or not. When I finally came to Somerset, turned onto 461 North towards Mt. Vernon, I began to see the cut-through rock hills I witnessed the first time I had driven this route. I remembered the September rain, the uncertainty of my Nancy exit and the narrow Highway 80 road taken way too early. I was driving my mother's van heading to Berea for my first archival job and this wrong turn felt like a bad omen on the rest of the adventure; I was wrong.

Remember that Nancy exit...

I kept tabs on my phone and facebook status throughout my trip. Just before turning onto I-75 North I typed "Mt. Vernon." Fourteen miles later, exit 76, slowing down to 35 mph on Highway 25, St. Clare Catholic Church on the left and antique stores on the right, slow to a stop, flip the turn signal and wait to roll down the hill into Old Town Berea.

I stopped across from the skating rink and got out of the car, stretched my legs, and looked around. It was a gorgeous blue sky Sunday. All the businesses here were closed after 5pm, and I heard the train coming down the tracks. I strained to see it pass, thinking of my midnight walks along the tracks and a poem I had written confessing adoration. The depot was under construction and all other immediate view was blocked. I listened as it passed by and saw the cars begin to line up on Jefferson.

Janie and me at Papa Leno's

Legs stretched, I got back in the car and turned onto Jefferson, Ellipse, then back into town towards Papa Leno's where I'd meet Janie for dinner. I park across the street from Main Street Cafe, walked past Berea Coffee & Tea, and sat down on the white steps to type "Berea, KY" as my status. Then I "checked-in" at Papa Leno's restaurant, called Janie, and soon she appeared grinning. Hugs followed. We went inside, meandered over the menu, and settled on a vegetarian pizza. Meanwhile I recognized Chappy and said hellos and introductions and hugs. I was tongue-tied tired and stumbled over saying he plays my favorite cover of Ryan Adams' song "Winding Wheel." I checked my phone and Phoebe exclaimed "I NEED YOUR PHONE NUMBER" on my check-in. She called and settled on coming soon. Janie and I talked about work and life and dating. Phoebe eventually arrived, and finally Adam recognized us (he put his glasses on) after having come and gone several times without acknowledging us when I waved. He sat with us and joked. We had time-warped 3 years earlier.

Phoebe and Adam

After while Janie had to depart for the evening, get rest for her long road trip back home Monday amid Fourth of July traffic. Farewell hugs, walks around the corner, PT Cruiser smiles, waves goodbye. I missed her a lot.

Meet Harley

Eventually Phoebe, Adam, and I made our way to the back parking lot of Boone Tavern and I met Harley, a great big sweet dog who is apprehensive around men and protective of women, especially Phoebe. Adam needed a haircut and so Phoebe offered up her scissors. She proceeded to cut inches off around his head; Curb Cuts was discovered. One free haircut later we stood around laughing over the pictures I'd taken of them, then Adam shared his charity idea named after a Stephen King story, The Longest Walk. We sorted out all the details, exceptions, specifics, goals, prizes, purposes, media -- all the necessary bits and pieces.

The light faded. I had to take pictures with a flash instead of opening up the shutter and aperture. Slowly the conversation quieted, we struggled to find something we haven't already talked about. We hugged and I said goodnight to Adam. Harley got back in the van and I followed Phoebe out to Owsley Fork, past Big Hill, and over some hills. I was in wonder of her humble abode. A gypsy home, full of scarves and pillows, feathers and plants, artwork in progress. A pallet made on the couch, I found deep slumber from the long day, my winding wheel.

Phoebe's bag

You might ask why this video of Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers singing "Refugee" follows this post. It is the one song I logged on Sunday during my drive for having listened to it from the radio. Other days from the road trip will have better music notation to correspond with events. Enjoy.

Creek Crawling

Beside my childhood home there is a small pond and beyond that is "the woods." It is not a very dense woods, certainly not a forest. I used to follow the creek inside for a long time, walking along the edge, crooked turns and dips. Sometimes I would take off my shoes and socks, tying the shoelaces together and shouldering them as I stepped into the water onto mossy stones and pebbly creek beds. I'd cross from one side of the creek to another side by stepping stones, but occasionally by straddling a log laying across the creek walls, then scooting slowly over the bark until I reached the other side. I was too scared to walk across, afraid that I'd slip and fall head first.

One Thanksgiving a cousin and I went hiking beside the creek. We'd left pretty early in the morning thinking we'd come back in time before dinner. But we became distracted and more interested in following the creek, getting to where we were going, finding out where it went. We weren't even hungry. It was an adventure. We weren't concerned about sharing our own stories about what was happening at home, or about school life. We were only interested in discovering the next turn of the creek or what was beyond the little grove of trees. Maybe it was a really sunny and warm day, just right for creek crawling. Maybe it was a need for a little freedom from everyone else, even ourselves, and hiking through sunlit oaks, pines, maples, birches, and ironwoods. Finding smooth colorful pebbles was like finding a pearl. Sometimes we stumbled upon rubbish, a boot protruding in a sandy creek or a rusty oil or soda can wasting away between vines and mossy roots.

Then we heard our names being called from far away. We didn't have watches on, so we didn't know how much time had passed. But we knew that our names being called meant we were in trouble. We'd gone too far, literally. We had followed the creek about a mile or two away from the house, definitely on someone else's property now. My father and my uncle both shouting our names, concerned, frustrated, and a little angry. We finally caught up with our fathers, and upon arriving back at the house, we were told we could not go into the woods anymore. We could not be trusted beyond the pond's embankment. We might would get lost.

Another creek I used to follow a lot was the one down below my Uncle Tommy's and Aunt Cathy's house. The house is surrounded by trees, and down a short path I found another creek I could follow. This one was bigger than the one at home, prettier moss growing, the sun shining brighter through the oak and pine trees, the sandy creeks seemed cleaner, and I found little flowers, muscles, turtles, and frogs here. It became a personal tradition to go down to the creek either before or after Thanksgiving dinner. After a while my youngest cousins were able to join me. At first my personal get-away seemed less my own, but after a brief interlude I enjoyed knowing others were interested in the same natural treasures.

I have not been in a creek in a long time, where I can get my toes wet and sandy, fingers in mossy embankments, digging for shells or smooth pebbles. I'll return one day this Summer, I'm sure.