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She always had to take her little
brother along and keep him alive too. She was maybe 12, if that old. He was 6,
maybe. A totally useless age, in his case. The second child, a girl, didn’t go
on these expeditions. The baby stayed home too. So, it was older sister and
little brother.
The family ate a lot of jam. Why go out into the wilds to pick blackberries for jam when there were perfectly good raspberries at home? Well, blackberry jam is better, according to this family. Then there are the pies and so forth. The mother was a whiz-bang pie maker, and she wanted blackberries.
Oh, it helps to give characters names. Let’s call big sister Polly, eh? Little brother shall be called Dirk.
Polly carried her mother’s biggest soup pot, the one with the bale type handle. Dirk carried a re-purposed Easter basket. This didn’t suit his own sense of personal dignity as a man.
It was late July, and it was hot. But the kids didn’t take particular notice of it. Summer was hot. Winter was cold, and in between it rained. So, anyhow the best place to pick was down the road half a mile and then into the bush. This steep hillside had been logged twice. Once long ago. The huge stumps remained. And then the second growth had been taken maybe in the late 50s. It was ideal for dewberries. They hadn’t ever heard this name. They called them blackberries. The kind that grow low to the ground and can be quite a tangled challenge to get at.
They didn’t carry food or drink; they figured on being home for lunch at some time. Besides, berries are food and drink together.
The morning went on. Polly soldiered away to fill her mother’s soup pot. Looking around, she saw plenty of berries, so she figured on filling the pot in a couple of hours. Dirk sat down in various little shady spots picking and eating most of what he could reach while sitting. Sometimes they would find a ripe huckleberry bush closer to the tree line. Huckleberries like shade. They would throw some of the tiny orange fruits in with the blackberries. That combo looked good in a pie or in jam.
Dirk carried his most prized possession in his jeans. Front, right side pocket. It was his folding pocket knife. Well, he had been fooling around with it, and he lost track of it. But he didn’t know where he had been sitting when he lost it. Then he dumped the two cups of berries he had in his Easter basket.
The truth of the matter is that big boys of 6 years do cry when they lose their best thing of all, and then dump the fruits of their labor. He was hot and tired and tired of eating blackberries, and he had to stay there with his sister while she worked, and it was all too much. He wept. He cried like a toddler almost. He cried until he was all cried out. He sat there glumly and then the sun, and weariness got to him, and he lay down in a little bit of shade next to one of those grampa stumps and he went to sleep. Polly was grateful. She was getting close to done.
The sun had moved, changing the shadows. Trees loomed near the berry patch. Polly stood up and looked all around because something had changed and she wasn’t able to put her finger on it right away. Then she noticed that all the bird chatter that they had been hearing was silent. This had never happened before. It felt strange and she experienced a whisper of fear.
But everything looked OK, so she bent to get a few more berries. Something moved in her peripheral vision. Something tawny, just barely moving.
In those days, there were still cougars in the woods, though most had never seen one. Polly knew what it was when she looked carefully. She had no idea what to do. Her brother was out cold, she had nothing to protect them with, and the cat came on, slowly, low to the ground, carefully. This cat must have been very hungry, or have kittens to feed, to make her so bold as to approach even immature human beings. Polly stared open mouthed.
Finally, Polly said out loud, “help us, please!” The cat continued on for a few steps, then she stopped. Her focus changed to something besides Dirk or Polly. She was looking behind Polly, and now stood upright, not crouched. She sniffed the air, shut her eyes and bowed her head. Then she turned and walked back under the cover of the alders and firs further downhill.
Polly had no idea what had turned the cat around. She even looked behind herself, searching for anything to explain it. Nothing. She saw no one. It was a mystery that Polly couldn’t solve for many years.
“Wake up, Dirk,” she said. “We have to go home now.”
The boy sat up and rubbed his eyes, taking a minute to realize where he was.
“Bring your basket, it’s okay,” Polly told him.
They started back uphill, going through places where they had been before. Once more, motion caught Polly’s eye. From out of nowhere a small pebble hit the ground to the right of her feet. Where it hit, she saw something colored yellow, with metal bits. It was Dirk’s pocket knife of course. She almost laughed. None of this made any sense.
“Did you throw that little rock,” she asked her brother.
“What rock? I didn’t throw anything!” he said.
“Well, Dirk. It landed on your knife, so pick it up,” she indicated with her toe. “I think it’s time to get out of here.”
Up the hill, through the scrub and stumps went Polly and Dirk. She carried the soup pot of berries. He carried his basket, but kept his hand on his knife in his pocket lest it fall out again. When they got to the dirt road it was easier going and they were home in just a few minutes.
She didn’t try to explain to her mother and father. She didn’t want to frighten them. Plus it would have been hard to explain. And the bit with the pebble landing on Dirk’s pocket knife was totally impossible to explain.
Many years later Polly began to understand.
The family ate a lot of jam. Why go out into the wilds to pick blackberries for jam when there were perfectly good raspberries at home? Well, blackberry jam is better, according to this family. Then there are the pies and so forth. The mother was a whiz-bang pie maker, and she wanted blackberries.
Oh, it helps to give characters names. Let’s call big sister Polly, eh? Little brother shall be called Dirk.
Polly carried her mother’s biggest soup pot, the one with the bale type handle. Dirk carried a re-purposed Easter basket. This didn’t suit his own sense of personal dignity as a man.
It was late July, and it was hot. But the kids didn’t take particular notice of it. Summer was hot. Winter was cold, and in between it rained. So, anyhow the best place to pick was down the road half a mile and then into the bush. This steep hillside had been logged twice. Once long ago. The huge stumps remained. And then the second growth had been taken maybe in the late 50s. It was ideal for dewberries. They hadn’t ever heard this name. They called them blackberries. The kind that grow low to the ground and can be quite a tangled challenge to get at.
They didn’t carry food or drink; they figured on being home for lunch at some time. Besides, berries are food and drink together.
The morning went on. Polly soldiered away to fill her mother’s soup pot. Looking around, she saw plenty of berries, so she figured on filling the pot in a couple of hours. Dirk sat down in various little shady spots picking and eating most of what he could reach while sitting. Sometimes they would find a ripe huckleberry bush closer to the tree line. Huckleberries like shade. They would throw some of the tiny orange fruits in with the blackberries. That combo looked good in a pie or in jam.
Dirk carried his most prized possession in his jeans. Front, right side pocket. It was his folding pocket knife. Well, he had been fooling around with it, and he lost track of it. But he didn’t know where he had been sitting when he lost it. Then he dumped the two cups of berries he had in his Easter basket.
The truth of the matter is that big boys of 6 years do cry when they lose their best thing of all, and then dump the fruits of their labor. He was hot and tired and tired of eating blackberries, and he had to stay there with his sister while she worked, and it was all too much. He wept. He cried like a toddler almost. He cried until he was all cried out. He sat there glumly and then the sun, and weariness got to him, and he lay down in a little bit of shade next to one of those grampa stumps and he went to sleep. Polly was grateful. She was getting close to done.
The sun had moved, changing the shadows. Trees loomed near the berry patch. Polly stood up and looked all around because something had changed and she wasn’t able to put her finger on it right away. Then she noticed that all the bird chatter that they had been hearing was silent. This had never happened before. It felt strange and she experienced a whisper of fear.
But everything looked OK, so she bent to get a few more berries. Something moved in her peripheral vision. Something tawny, just barely moving.
In those days, there were still cougars in the woods, though most had never seen one. Polly knew what it was when she looked carefully. She had no idea what to do. Her brother was out cold, she had nothing to protect them with, and the cat came on, slowly, low to the ground, carefully. This cat must have been very hungry, or have kittens to feed, to make her so bold as to approach even immature human beings. Polly stared open mouthed.
Finally, Polly said out loud, “help us, please!” The cat continued on for a few steps, then she stopped. Her focus changed to something besides Dirk or Polly. She was looking behind Polly, and now stood upright, not crouched. She sniffed the air, shut her eyes and bowed her head. Then she turned and walked back under the cover of the alders and firs further downhill.
Polly had no idea what had turned the cat around. She even looked behind herself, searching for anything to explain it. Nothing. She saw no one. It was a mystery that Polly couldn’t solve for many years.
“Wake up, Dirk,” she said. “We have to go home now.”
The boy sat up and rubbed his eyes, taking a minute to realize where he was.
“Bring your basket, it’s okay,” Polly told him.
They started back uphill, going through places where they had been before. Once more, motion caught Polly’s eye. From out of nowhere a small pebble hit the ground to the right of her feet. Where it hit, she saw something colored yellow, with metal bits. It was Dirk’s pocket knife of course. She almost laughed. None of this made any sense.
“Did you throw that little rock,” she asked her brother.
“What rock? I didn’t throw anything!” he said.
“Well, Dirk. It landed on your knife, so pick it up,” she indicated with her toe. “I think it’s time to get out of here.”
Up the hill, through the scrub and stumps went Polly and Dirk. She carried the soup pot of berries. He carried his basket, but kept his hand on his knife in his pocket lest it fall out again. When they got to the dirt road it was easier going and they were home in just a few minutes.
She didn’t try to explain to her mother and father. She didn’t want to frighten them. Plus it would have been hard to explain. And the bit with the pebble landing on Dirk’s pocket knife was totally impossible to explain.
Many years later Polly began to understand.
🤎
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