Etude No. 1

October 15, 2002

            The blackberries are big, juicy and plentiful in Amazon Park, nearly an inch long and sweet almost beyond imagining.  I’ve picked gallons of these berries this past summer, paying for them with blood and flesh left on the vines in place of the fruit I have taken.  The biggest, juiciest berries grow in the shade, necessitating deep penetration into the briars, costing many a scratched hand and arm, even through long sleeves.  Sometimes the thorns seem to reach out of their own accord, snagging denim or cotton or flesh, requiring patience and care to extricate myself without harm.  The large thorns are easy to remove from my skin, but the small ones penetrate further, working their way into the epidermis like a splinter, taking days to locate them all and remove them.

            This is a fragrant place.  As the berries accumulate in my bucket, the smell wafts upward, full of promise of the many delights to come – cobbler, muffins, berries-and-cream, and wine.  The tall grasses that I push my way through have their own fragrance as well - especially as the sun climbs and the temperature soars – a warm, spicy scent, like oregano.  The creek, too, has a scent – the smell of decay and renewal, of breaking down the old and the dead to create the new and the living.

            There are remarkably few insects.  In Georgia, during berry picking, my head would be surrounded by the buzzing of bees, both horse- and houseflies, and yellow jackets.  The scarcity of insects in Oregon seems nearly spooky, and the absence of their noise of highly noticeable.  I must be content with the babbling of the creek and the sighing of the occasional breeze.

            When I have enough, I take my bucket home to freeze some, cook some, and turn the rest into wine.  When the rain and wind comes this winter, I will crack open a bottle and, for a little while, it will be summer.