Blueberries and Old Boats
It’s a typical north woods breakfast; blueberry pancakes with sausage links and scrambled eggs. The usual weekend assortment of friends and family arrived from the city late yesterday. The kids, who had long ago aged past that nickname, finished with breakfast, are headed to the lake. Trailing them is an assortment of dogs, all eager to get wet. Remaining around the breakfast table is a small group of graying adults, lingering over the remains of the third pot of coffee.
As I make my way to the kitchen for clean-up, I can still hear the chatter and tittering around the table. I suspect that very shortly, someone will initiate a discussion regarding plans for the day. Will the question be “what should we do today?” or will it be “what would you like to do today?” The latter gives me the most dread. I always feel an honest answer will not meet the expectations of my guests.
I swirl my finger around the bowl to scoop up remaining blueberry pancake batter for one last taste before the bowl sinks into the sudsy dishwater. With the last dollop of batter still lingering in my mouth, my mind wanders to blueberries. It’s early August. The weather in the northwoods has been perfect. Blueberries must be abundant this year. But, it’s getting late in the season. Before I hear the inevitable question, I burst into the coffee sipping group. “Let’s go blueberry picking this morning”, I suggest chirpily. The response, as expected, is not nearly as enthusiastic. “I didn’t know there was a u-pick up here” was the first stab at a response. It was followed by “How long will it take?” I knew I needed to provide more details.
After delivering my best pitch, the final vote came in. Two would go with me. Another was off to the lake with the kids. Another feigned a headache and headed off to the hammock for a much needed nap. We put on our shoes, fashioned make-shift berry pails from wire and deli containers, piled in the car and were off.
Blueberry patches are family affairs. That is, once a prolific patch is located; the secret stays in the family. The one I head to this morning is in an area I had explored many years ago. We take a turn off the highway onto a two-lane. Actually, it isn’t really two-lane. There are no lane markings at all. Still, it is blacktop. It curves around hardwoods, pines and occasional lowland areas of Hemlocks. We turn off the blacktop. This time it is onto a road more typical of most roads in the area. My companions aren’t accepting my definition of a road and persist on referring to it as a path. None the less, it is navigable by car. It is the kind of road that has no marked indication of where it is going or where it will end. It is sand. If we were walking on it with bare feet this August morning, the sand would squeeze up between toes and make our feet feel toasty warm. In the center of the road is a ridge of grass which gives the driver a clear indication of where to maneuver the car. It isn’t difficult to find a little area to pull over. Getting out of the car proves a more difficult process for my new pickers. Reluctantly, they slide out, straddling a small birch stump in the path. We are ready to go.
“How do you find blueberries?” asked the one more curious. My initial response is “walk like a bear”. I quickly realize this advice will not suffice. I move on to another approach. “Walk slowly and keep looking down. You will see them.” Doing as instructed, we were all soon rewarded. Leaving this abundant area of berries to the newbies, I move on ahead picking and remembering other times here. As I approach the little lake I see the sandy shoreline with weathered logs half buried in the sand, washed ashore for years. It is peaceful place. This is a place for adults to contemplate life. It’s a place that stirs memories. This is a place where as children we were allowed to walk around the entire lake alone. Early in the summer, we caught tadpoles. Later in the summer we found red maple leaves floating in the water. The notion of those adventures still brings a lump of anticipation to my throat. As I stand on the shore, I have the urge to take off my shoes, roll up my pants legs, and walk in the shallow water lapping quietly against the shoreline. I think better of the idea. Putting shoes on again over wet feet wouldn’t be easy.
As the shoreline curves into a natural cove area there is a boat laying bottom up on the sand. It’s an old boat, the kind that resorts and campgrounds once rented to fishermen; big enough for two and fishing gear. I suspect the oars are tucked up neatly under the seats, ready for the owner at any time. There are no foot prints in the sand or any indication of a recent visit. Still, the boat is there-- ready.
My mind moves decades away from today and picking blueberries. It drifts to another time in the north woods-another lake in the north woods; to our annual family camping vacation. Grandpa came along one year for a week of fishing. We fished every morning. As a child, I was excited to hook and reel in bluegill after bluegill. With every cast another nibble and the bobber would go down. The only interruption came when the hook inadvertently caught the hat of one of my fishing companions. I smile as I still find humor in the situation, perhaps more than the victim.
By mid-day, it was too hot for fishing. It was time for lunch and swimming. We would pack a picnic lunch and head for a sandy beach, down a road much like the one we took today. The road was passable by August. Earlier in the season, rains would have turned the sand into a squishy mess where a car would easily get stuck with no way forward or back.
As kids, we created moats and fortresses from the sand; washed them away and built again. Grandpa didn’t participate. He was moved to take a nap. We thought of him as a very old person. Perhaps it was his slight accent. He came from what our parents called “the old country”. Perhaps he was just tired. An old boat, much like the one I see today, lay on the shore, bottom-up. It was that color of green that is predominant here in the north woods-pine green- but not quite. It’s the same color green for park benches and old boats. Most often, like this old boat, it is chipped and weathered from years of water and sun. The boat provided an ample length for the old man to stretch out. He would cover his eyes from the sun with the old, curled brim straw hat and take a nap.
I’m nearly as old as the old man now as my mind wanders today. Did his mind wander that day so long ago? Was he thinking about another place and time? Was he thinking about the lakes of his childhood? Did he remember, in some far away land, a boat laying bottom-up on the sandy shore waiting for his return? Perhaps somewhere he had a special lake. Perhaps he had a fishing boat waiting for him. Perhaps it was green, or maybe red.
The other pickers interrupt my thoughts, do not notice the boat, and suggest that we should get back as there are other things to do today. Our little berry buckets were full. Tomorrow, blueberry muffins will mingle with our memories….once again.