Blueberry Hill.
Somewhere in northern Minnesota, beyond the gravel trail, sits
Blueberry Hill. Because of an overabundance of blueberry plants, the
land inherits its name. This is where I grew up. This is where my
mother would send the older kids on sunlit summer days. "You can
come home when you have enough blueberries", she would say, and
send us along with empty cottage cheese containers and a jug of
kool-aid.
A trip to Blueberry
Hill was always an invitation to play. The gravel trail through the
woods would spur our imaginations, and each journey would turn into
one adventure or another. And, suddenly, the woods would open up
revealing the beauty of Blueberry Hill. We would pick and we would
play. We would sing and we would fight. Since I was the oldest, it
was my responsibility to rally the troops, eventually, and get mother
her blueberries. We would march home, triumphant and thirsty ( the
jug empty for some time ). "Here we are, mother dear, and here
are your blueberries", we would cry. "We worked so hard in
this summer heat". Mother would reward us with more kool-aid and
something sweet to eat.
There were seven of
us kids. The youngest, Sean, was too little for blueberry-picking
before I left home. I never shared forest adventures with him. Years
passed and young adults moved out and on. I don't know if Sean ever
had berry-picking adventures.
On a cold, numbing
January day in 1995, Sean took his life. Winter's chill was a fitting
backdrop to my very existence. With the new birth of spring, my
spirit began to thaw. Once again, we gathered together and walked the
gravel trail through the woods. A curtain of sunlight invited us to
our destination. We laid Sean's ashes among the blueberry bushes.
In my dreams, Sean
is having forest adventures with the rest of us. In my dreams, Sean
is there with us. On Blueberry Hill.
