I’m headed East on 58 from the City of Norton to a place that doesn’t have a name. It’s nowhere really, nothing more than a wide spot in the road. To tell you the truth, I’m not even sure how to get there… I couldn’t point to it on a map… but I’ll know it when I see it. Past the chipped blue coal tipple I used to imagine was a waterslide, past the Lonesome Pine Raceway (phantom engines roaring), past the Virginia Lottery billboard with rolling numbers that put the Powerball jackpot at $203 million, there’s a hillside overgrown with wineberries. That’s where I’m going. Wineberry heaven.
I didn’t bring much with me — a bottle of water, a pair of leather work gloves. Beside me, in the passenger seat, there are a couple of Daisy Cottage Cheese containers I ran through the dishwasher last week. Glancing over at them, I think about the stacks of rinsed and recycled tin foil I saw once in an old timer’s kitchen pantry. All of us are holding on to things we think we might need. We are always imagining other futures.
On the radio, there’s a tune playing that I don’t recognize. Later, I find out it’s Lukas Nelson and Promise of the Real. “Trust builds trust,” Lukas croons, “Don't you wanna be happy? Turn off the news and build a garden.” It makes me wish I’d tried harder to get mom to come along. Years ago, when my mamaw and my great uncle were still living, the four of us went blackberry picking on an old strip job near McRoberts, Kentucky. My mamaw wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and crossed her hands elegantly on her lap. My uncle carried peppermint candies in the front pocket of his short-sleeved button-up shirt and — when I let some of the berries spill — claimed he was at fault. No one believed him. I was careless. He never was. I doubt that anyone will love me that stubbornly again.
I slip my iPhone out of my back pocket and dial mom’s number. No answer. I try her cell — an act of optimism. When she carries a phone at all, she carries a busted up Motorola job held together by a single strip of duct tape. Still no answer. Her time is hers. I respect that. I’ll stop off and leave one of the Daisy containers in her fridge later. I play the song again. “I just want to love you while I can.”
I’m lost in the blue-green kaleidoscope of midsummer when I spot the little red clusters on a hillside up ahead. I slow down and pull in behind a blue Ford Ranger, the only other vehicle around. There’s no one inside, and at first, I wonder if the truck was left here… the aftermath of an Independence Day drunk stop. Then, when I get out of the Chevy, I see a couple carrying buckets halfway up the ridge. We exchange waves. Cut from the same cloth. I open the passenger side door, grab a container, and head in the opposite direction.
There was a time when I wore cuts from the briars like badges of honor — proof to myself and to everybody else that I was capable of something besides staring at a computer screen. Now, I think they’re just poor planning’s love marks. “Why in thee hell did you wear shorts?” I say this out loud to myself. I’m not afraid of snakes, but I hope there are none out here. That’s another reason to have worn jeans. I don’t need the hassle of a hospital run. I used to know a guy who did rock work around here. Copperheads got him twice. He had a scar on the back of his hand between his pointer finger and thumb that looked like a burn mark, like his own flesh had turned against him. Nah, don’t need that.
I’m in luck, because some enterprising fellow has been out here clearing paths to the high-up bushes with a weedeater. I climb straight up the ridge and make a foothold with loose dirt, wedging a boot in sideways, and trying to keep my balance. I grab a branch with a gloved hand and start picking. The berries have a sticky, almost rubbery feel to them that sort of broadcasts their sweetness. Like the kudzu that’s consuming trees and old school busses and long-abandoned houses around me, the wineberry brambles are invasive. They keep other plants from growing in these thickets. Eating them is one of the more enjoyable ways to address the problem.
Last summer, I saw a photograph of a berry with a little worm on it. The caption said something like “this is why I NEVER eat wild berries.” Everybody wants sterile berries from a sterile environment. That’s what the hell is wrong with this country. Mom and I laughed about the photo. “Price of doing business,” she said. “If you can’t digest a worm or two, then what’s the point?” I answered. I’ll admit to looking them over more carefully now before I pop them in my mouth.
Now and then, a car goes by on the four-lane that sounds like a swarm of bees. I look up, anticipating a dark cloud overhead, but it’s nothing… just an old Chevrolet.
I fill up the Daisy containers, take them to the car, and look around for auxiliary Tupperware. I decide on my coffee thermos. I rinse it with water from the bottle and get back to work. The sun is halfway across the sky. The shadows have turned. It’s cool now. I take my phone out and put on an old Jimmie Rodgers tune. “Where the whippoorwills sing me to sleep at night, and the eagle roosts on the rocks of spontan, I’ll feast on the meat and the honey so sweet, away out on the mountain.” When I look at my hands, I see mom’s hands, my grandmother’s hands, my great uncle’s careful hands, and the hands of many others.
There will come a time when I miss this, when I can’t make it out to this stretch of road to pick wineberries. But that won’t be this year.
Wonderfully written as always. Sorry if this is unforgivably corny, but there seems to be this through line in your work where it's almost like you're gathering evidence and making the case that this life is beautiful in spite of everything, and when I read it I feel like that might be right.
There's always a lukas nelson song