I was 8 years old the first time my older sister, Megan, and I were allowed to pick blackberries on our own. It was a big deal because it involved crossing a road, walking two miles through groundhog-hunter infested woods, and closing a few horse gates. We didn’t take it lightly, and we didn’t spare any energy. It was also the first time that I had to listen to my older sister which, let’s face it, I wasn’t thrilled about.
We prepped the night before for our first unchaperoned adventure, for inclement weather, for wild animal encounters, for anything really. We sat down at the dining room table and Megan, being the artist she is, drew a map of our quest. She traced our journey onto a piece of paper in case we were to get lost, and she drew an “X” where the blackberries were because, as any true pirate could tell you, “X” marks the spot!
Since Dad was always preaching about responsibility, we included the horse gates on the map just so we wouldn’t forget to close them. Speaking of Dad, being the forester he was, he warned us of poison ivy, oak and sumac. I, being the inquisitive child I was, asked for pictures, and Mom, being the doctor she is, put calamine lotion, anti-bacterial wipes, and a few Band-Aids in our book bag. We also made an inventory of everything that we ought to take with us, but we got a little carried away when our list ended at 42 items (20 of which included blank papers to log our travel). We ended up dwindling the list to 13 items (not including the medical assortment from Mom).
List of Necessary Items:
- 2 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
- 2 water bottles
- 2 pens
- 12 pieces of blank paper (6 each)
- A handkerchief
- A watch
- 4 apples for horses
- A long rope
- 2 buckets
- Walkie-talkies
- A small blanket
- Binoculars
- “A Naturalist’s Guide to Field Plants”
We packed our bag, organized our food in the refrigerator, and laid our clothes out. We had dinner—chicken and biscuits, if I remember correctly—and Megan and I tore through it like we hadn’t eaten in five years. I can’t speak for Megan, but I was too excited to enjoy a family dinner. I couldn’t sit still, couldn’t think about anything except waking up and hitting the dirt road. It was like waiting for spring on the first day of winter.
***
Twenty years later, I have lost my love for the hunt, and I realize this as I slave over a blackberry pie. Fingers stained, shirt stained, and I realize that the only part of this delicious dessert that I worked for was the money it took to buy the ingredients. Surely, I know how to make my own crust, my great-grandmother taught me that, and I know that the park down the road is rich with blackberry bushes. What has changed? Have I changed? Of course I have. I’m stuck in the humdrum of everyday life. Work-school-family-work-school-family—and the cycle continues. I’m not sure where I left my love for the hunt, but, if I had to guess, I would say it’s lying somewhere in the middle of my life. I’ve considered going back and trying again. After all, I’m older, and I don’t fear the horses that inhabit that space anymore. Why won’t I go back then? What am I afraid of?
I place the last row of frozen dough across the top of this pie, and I realize that I can see my life’s path in the rows of the uneven top crust. Somehow, searching for the meaning that I’ve lost, I stare at the crust. Its jagged edges that I haven’t cut down yet and the deep holes where the blackberries lie, like the Grand Canyon of fruit pies. In an instant, I get angry—asking myself why I’m comparing my life to a pie. Considering all of the possibilities, I take the butter knife and cut my mistakes from the edge of the pan, and they fall on to the unsuspecting counter to smother what’s left of my dreams. I take a final look at my creation, and I realize that I’ve grown. I’ve adapted to adult life—I have responsibilities far greater than closing a horse gate.
I lick my finger and the sweet nostalgia of tartness thrusts me into the past again.
***
The morning was humid. The kind of stickiness a thief would understand. Mom made us blueberry muffins to supply us with enough energy (as if we needed it) for the hike. We headed out by 9 A.M. and handed Dad a walkie-talkie as we walked out the door. They both watched us cross the road and as we made the sharp left onto the dirt path we lost visibility of the house. We were on our own.
The ground was soft and with each step we could hear the grinding of loose dirt and gravel under our feet. The first gate was locked so we jumped it. We followed the map exactly as it was drawn out. We briskly walked around every corner, hopscotched around mud holes, and kept our eye out for that dreaded ivy plant Dad warned us about. According to the map we were close to the second horse gate which was, in essence, the gateway to the berries. We stopped for a quick drink and to radio Dad to let him know we were almost there.
Just after we radioed Dad and told him that we were alive and well, we heard some rustling in the bushes next to us. Megan insisted that it was just a groundhog or a rabbit, and we continued on our way. Every step we took I could hear the rustling of leaves like something was following us through the woods. We began to walk faster in fear that this silent creature would surely catch us and have us as lunch and no sooner did we begin to run we saw the gate. I can’t speak for Megan, but I do believe that gate began to glow a golden yellow as if we were rounding the final corner to the finish-line in Mario cart. I turned to see if the creature had presented itself – it hadn’t.
We approached the gate in a hurry and with shaking hands I unlatched the lock. As I turned to close it the beast had made its appearance. Galloping from the woods came the elusive horse. White body with a black nose and tall with broad shoulders and veins that protruded from under its hair. It stopped, and so did we. Megan grabbed an apple out of the bag and threw it on the ground in front of the beast. The apple landed with a resounding thud right next to its left hoof. The next few moments are a blur. The horse reared back and let out a terrifying noise. We ran. The horse ran behind us. All I know is the gate never closed. We never made it to the berries. We never ate our sandwiches. We never looked back.
The days that followed seemed to run together. I don’t remember seeing Dad that upset before. Maybe once or twice when I forgot to feed the dogs, but not like this. He made us walk to the horse owner’s home and tell him what happened. I thought for sure that he would understand. That he wouldn’t be angry, and he would let us go back to our innocent, responsibility-less life but I was wrong. I’m guessing that he didn’t accidentally drop his cola because when it hit the floor, he hit the roof. We searched for that horse high and low. Through wooded areas and creek beds, through dirt roads and paved. We searched until we couldn’t search anymore. Two days had passed. Two days with no TV, no playdates, no fun. Two days of nothing but the four walls in our bedrooms until, finally, the search had ended and Mr. Black’s horse was found grazing about 3 miles away. No harm no foul, I thought.
Dad had always preached about responsibility; always told us that we needed to think about the consequences of our actions. What consequences could we have thought of for not closing a horse gate? If you think about it, we gave them more fields to graze in, a little slice of unchartered land. No one told us that beyond the gate where the blackberries grow there are no more fences. There are no more gates. There are no more property borders to keep the horses from crossing. Nobody told us that it wasn’t just a horse gate.
Jeniffer Brenneman graduated from Penn State Harrisburg in December 2015 as an English major with a minor in human development and family studies. She works now as an intellectual disability caseworker.
