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09/22/08 - (1)
The Berry Pickers
My excursion from Lake Nebagamon, yesterday afternoon, Was worth every second of the hour-and-a-half drive To Brule, then east, along Lake Superior's south shore, Through the unincorporated communities Of Port Wing, Herbster, and Cornucopia, to Bayfield,
Not so much for allowing me the opportunity To contemplate the oceanic immensity of that freshwater body But for letting me luxuriate in reminiscence, Cast back to my first summer at the boys' camp, When I, an introverted, self-conscious ten-year-old,
Spent half of one day, each week of the two-month session, Picking blueberries, at Brule, with other less active kids, Led by the camp's legendary director, Max J. "Muggs" Lorber himself, Who enticed us with promises of pies, that night, for dessert.
By the time I arrived at Blue Vista Farm, Just outside the charming harbor-resort town of Bayfield, Parked, surveyed the apple orchards overlooking the lake, Admired the large, stone-and-wood-sided barn, Where I got my requisite waxed box, I was primed,
Fully poised to indulge myself in a forgotten pastime, Find, perhaps, in not-quite-idle preoccupation, Something I might have left behind, in my haste to grow up. And there they were: row upon row of blueberry bushes, Waiting for me to contribute to the harvesting. I set about fumbling among the branches of one. The berries let loose of their stems, with the slightest prodding From fingers that had last performed this task Fifty-seven years before. After a few minutes, my back asked me to sit down,
Continue my gleaning from a position more suitable to my age. Then it was that I saw that berry picker from 1951, Walking, groping, with his pail, through the wilds of Brule, Searching for the sporadic laden bushes (Things weren't so orderly, so guaranteed, in those days).
For an undisturbed hour, doubtless more, With the sun's bracing chill warming my skin, I exulted in filling that box, with those ripe indigo fruits, Stopping, occasionally, to place one on my tongue, Taste the mildly tart sweetness of its succulent meat.
Next thing I knew, my bounty had been weighed, paid for, And my Bayfield idyll was finished. All that was left to do was drive back to my cabin, With my blueberries and that shy little boy, Both of us happy again, liberated by such a simple joy.
09/22/08 - (1)
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