Today I drove through Shea Heights on my way to Cape Spear.Although the landscape had been greatly altered, certain sites looked familiar and I found myself going back in time to the year when I was nine years old. That was the year I was finally old enough to accompany Dad on his annual blueberry picking outing. For months I was filled with anticipation and impatience, waiting for August to arrive.

For several years I had listened as my older siblings talked about the long walk they made to reach the blueberry site and I could recall how tired they seemed to be on their return. Despite this, I somehow sensed that they had thoroughly enjoyed their day with Dad.

August finally arrived and on the day we were due to go I was filled with disappointment for you couldn't see the Southside Hills for fog. I thought for certain the outing would be cancelled but Dad said the sun would burn away the fog and it would turn out to be a beautiful day. Sure enough...by eleven o'clock the sun shone brightly out of a clear blue sky.

Dad had taken his old fishing creel off the back fence the night before where it had been airing out and, lining it with heavy brown paper, he set it down in a corner of the kitchen. A well-worn knapsack was retrieved from the cupboard under the stairs and into it went several pieces of newspaper which would be used to help get the campfire going.

Three of Mom's chipped plates and cups and a large tin of Libby's deep-browned beans followed as well as a small brown paper bag filled with loose tea and tied with a piece of string. A small glass jar was filled with sugar while another held tinned milk. These items were tucked inside as well. Spoons and several slabs of homemade bread, buttered on one side were carefully placed on top.

After eating a hearty dinner, I kissed my mother good-bye and threw a smug glance in the direction of my younger siblings. My older brother Herb would accompany us this time and ,considering himself a seasoned veteran, insisted on carrying the basket. As Dad attached the knapsack to his back, he looked at me and said,"Are we forgetting anything?" Noticing the twinkle in his eye I knew we had overlooked something of great importance. As my eyes scanned the kitchen, my eyes fell on the camp kettle...its exterior blackened from years of use.I ran towards it and exclaimed,"I'll be in charge of this!" We were on our way.

The short walk down Leslie Street and across Mill Bridge brought us to the foot of Blackhead Road. It looked like a steep climb but eagerness and youthful energy spurred me on. Halfway up the hill, we stopped by an old bridge and as I gazed across the city, I was overjoyed to be able to see my home in the distance. When I pointed this out to Dad and Herb they acted surprised, yet somehow I knew this was a ritual that had been reenacted many times before I arrived on the scene.

Continuing on, we passed several houses where children were playing in the gardens and when I waved at them, they waved back. Trees and bushes grew in abundance on both sides of the road and, although some of the berries on them looked inviting, dad pointed out the ones which were edible. The chuckly pears were my favorite and although they were dusty from the passing traffic, a quick rub on my dress remedied that. As I continued to pick and eat them, I was admonished by Dad. "You'll get a stomach ache",he said. I quickly stopped, not wanting my day spoiled in any way.

The unpaved road seemed to go on and on. Small pebbles bit their way into the homemade soles of my shoes and, after stopping several times to pull up the socks that kept riding down into my shoes, I gave up. This act of laziness on my part didn't escape Dad's eyes. "Pull those socks up! Your heels will blister!"

The sun grew hotter and I was getting thirsty. I was relieved to hear Herb tell Dad that we were nearing a spring where we could rest and slake our thirsts. It seemed a long while to me before we reached it but it was well worth the wait.Perching myself upon a large rock, I saw dad remove one of the cups from the knapsack and, filling it with the water, he held it out to me. As the cool liquid slid down my parched throat I thought I had never tasted anything sweeter. After Herb and Dad had their fill we set off once again, somewhat rejuvenated.

We turned so many bends in the road that day that I thought we would never reach our destination. I was tired and sweaty and began to regret my eagerness to accompany Dad and Herb into this seemingly endless wilderness. When Dad's pace slowed,then stopped,I thought that he too was tired but after taking several steps to the right, he entered a narrow path. Herb and I followed close behind and after walking another half mile or so, we came to a large clearing. I could hear the rippling of a stream and saw birds flitting among the trees in the distance; their sweet warbling interrupted now and then by the raucous caw of a crow. We had arrived! The three of us sat for a while and breathed in the woodsy smells.

The next few hours were spent bent over the blueberry patches which grew there in abundance.Little was said in the way of conversation except when one or the other would point out a hawk that soared high in the sky or the odd shape of a distant tree. Beads of sweat rolled down my face and into my eyes and my cotton dress seemed plastered to my body, yet each time I carried my filled cup to the basket to empty it.I saw the pile grow higher and higher. Finally, the basket was filled. Looking at the berries I pictured thick slices of home made bread smothered with jam. Maybe Mom would bake a pie or two. Thoughts of those culinary delights made me realize just how hungry I was.

While I had been daydreaming,Dad had been busy placing newspaper between two large rocks and had cut a limb off a tree on which he would suspend the kettle over the fire. Herb called to me to help him fetch dry twigs and branches to place on top of the newspaper. With a strike of a match, a fire was soon blazing, sending swirls of smoke into the air. Herb filled the kettle at the nearby stream while I rinsed out the cups we had used to hold the berries. The kettle was positioned over the fire and Dad, using his hunting knife,cut three branches off a tree, forking them at the top. These would be inserted into the slabs of bread, held over the fire, and toasted. In the meantime, the kettle bubbled over and made a hissing noise as it hit the fire. This was the signal for Dad to open the brown paper bag filled with tea and, scooping out a handful, he tossed it into the kettle. The tin of beans was opened and plates,cups and spoons lay in wait while the tea steeped.

My first attempts at inserting the pronged limb into my slice of bread made for some laughter from Dad and Herb.The bread just wouldn't hang right and kept falling off but despite the charred sections and pieces of ash, it tasted like manna from heaven. The tea was as strong as bark and I'm sure my inner jaw linings connected but three cups of the scalding liquid found its way into my stomach that day.

While Herb gathered our things together, I saw Dad remove his tobacco and cigarette papers from his shirt pocket. After rolling a cigarette, he leaned back against the trunk of a tree and tears sprang to my eyes when I saw the look of pure contentment on his face. He looked at me and smiled and as I returned his smile I felt a closeness with him like nothing I'd experienced before. I wished I could have stayed in this moment forever but the sun was sinking low and the air now held a chill. It was time to go. After dousing the fire and leaving a slice of bread for the birds, we began the long walk back home.

Dad passed away several years ago. During times of sadness at his not being with me any longer I like to think that somewhere he's leaning against a tree, smoking a cigarette and maybe thinking back to the day when he walked up Blackhead Road beside a child in a thin cotton dress,who clutched a blackened tin kettle in her hand.

Eileen Power
copyright 1999


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