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Gaian Rants | ||||||||
Grandfather’s Blueberries There is a picture that hangs in my parent’s house. It’s black and white picture but has turned brown over time. Eleven people are in the picture, all brothers and sisters, sitting along the side of the farmhouse. The women’s long dresses puddle over the ground and the men sit with their legs folded beneath them. The one farthest to the right is Earnest Brooks, my grandfather. His wavy blond hair is combed perfectly and he is quite thin. But when I knew him he had a jolly belly and he leaned back on his feet when he stood strong. He was always proud, and illuminated and nurtured every person and place he touched. | ||||||||
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In the 1940s, my grandfather brought blueberry bushes to the farm from his home in Arlington, MA. He planted them just up the field past the barn and they flourished. He seemed to draw the bushes up out of the ground with his fingers. When I was young and would visit for the summers, I would harvest those berries with my grandfather. Together we’d huddle in the bushes and fill our baskets. The berries grew in plump clusters and felt soft and cool against my fingers. The occasional taste was irresistible. The smooth flavor hung in my mouth and the sweetness made me smile. My grandfather smiled back every time I indulged. When I was seven years old, my grandfather passed away. It was a warm day in the Vermont springtime when my grandfather came back to me. I was now 22 years old. I was walking at the farmhouse and my journey led me through the grasses and into the field behind the barn. I was drawn to a heap of brush and dead branches that ran along the edges. My feet planted themselves firmly. I could feel the wind move against my skin. It wasn’t until I heard the voices from within that dying brush that the memories awakened and came back to me in waves. I knew exactly where I was standing. My feet had nestled here before, when I had shared smiles with a man whose fruits had been forgotten. In that moment I realized it had been years since my grandfather’s fingers had tended the berries, and the bushes had become overgrown. When he left fifteen years before, the forest slowly began to claim the berries. I was sad for my grandfather and my eyes traced the line of trees to the back of the farmhouse. I could see the window to the kitchen and the wild roses that grew up around the telephone pole. I could see the slate stone that stood tall where we had lain my grandfather to rest. My eyes absorbed the hundreds of shades of blue on that stone and a warmth swept through my body. I closed my eyes and filled my lungs. The smell of clover was in the air and I could taste the sweet berries of my memories. I bent over and began to pull away the dry, dead branches smothering my grandfather’s berries. I had no idea how to prune the bushes but my hands moved assuredly, as if they were being led. I pinched the unhealthy branches and snapped them at their bases. When I had uncovered the beautiful berry bushes, I could hear their song. Their branches were dark, their leaves green - the juices had not stopped flowing. I slowly returned to the farmhouse, my feet treading lightly across the grasses. The sun was already beginning to set behind the mountain. Four hours had passed. To me it felt like five minutes. Later that summer my father came to the farm. The blueberry bushes were strong and ripe. The dusky berries splashes of color in the bushes. My father was amazed. “It looks as if your grandfather was here,” he said. When I huddled with my father to harvest the berries once again, they hung plump and cool against my fingers. I couldn’t resist. When I tasted their sweetness I couldn’t help but smile. | ||||||||
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