Memoirs of Blackberry Road

A Gift of Life

Father’s reaction to some of Buck’s and my escapades, were they rumor or reality, was to imprison us within the fenced confines of our back yard. The penalty for escape, he vowed, would be somewhat beyond any known form of torture or punishment.

On one such truly glorious summer day, while confined to the prison yard, all the awareness of my personal existence brilliantly dawned upon me. I awakened to the fact that I was alive and honest-to-goodness for real, a genuine being, able to walk, run, talk, commune, see and be seen, hear and be heard, smell and taste.

I saw myself as a vital part of everyday existence among family, friends, and nature – able to contribute to, wallow in, enjoy, and absorb all of life’s many wonders. Standing alone in the grassless, disheveled yard, adorned in a pair of short, soiled pants, and thoroughly coated with dirt from crusted toes to matted hair, I was forever graced into the society of mankind. I did not know that I was malnourished, underprivileged, and neglected. I only knew on that remarkable day, and ever thereafter, that I was, and am, an integral part of a grand spectacle: the greatest continuous show in all existence, the vivid and endless performance of the here and now.

Forbidden Fruit

It was a given fact that almost everyone owning a fruit tree, a grape arbor, or a backyard garden knew his ripening fruit would not attain maturity unless it was protected from young neighborhood marauders -- usually by a six to eight foot fence. Witness a portion of any branch overhanging the fence, and I’ll wager not one piece of its fruit lasted until full maturity. All it took was one boy to boost up another.

We filled our stomachs, pockets, the legs of our knickers, and any available container, with apples, cherries, peaches, plums, and grapes. Fruit was a necessity.

Today, I see and daily taste fruits of size, color, and beauty beyond compare. Still, that taste in no sense or degree compares with our forbidden fruit of yesterday.

Borrowing enhanced the taste. It mattered not that our precious bounty was runty, stunted, insect-teeth-pocked, wormy and rotten. It had that delicious, undefinable taste of perfection that comes with the satisfaction of worthy achievement. I firmly believe those many worms I bit into and unknowingly swallowed are still alive inside me, hungering for another taste of that borrowed fruit. This would explain the endless, insatiable craving that gnaws within me today.

The Garden

The quest to escape the prison confines of our backyard fueled many schemes, some of which, though honorable in intent, brought devious yet profitable results. One of these was obtaining permission to plant a garden among other gardens on a sloping hillside at the end of Eighth Street.

Father was so cooperative as to accompany us in locating a suitable spot and helping us spade it. We planted rows of lettuce, radishes, onions, carrots, peppers, and tomatoes. Of course, it was necessary to go tend the crops each day. This provided us many days of unlimited freedom to pursue life as we pleased.

I would like to state that our farming effort was a huge success. This was not so, however. I will declare that while our feeble vegetable patch was a miserable, neglected disaster, the surrounding gardens, laboriously fashioned by experienced, dedicated experts, produced a bounty which was the envy and delight of us all.

Not only did we peddle our neighbor’s bountiful fresh vegetables door-to-door in chip baskets, but we also set up a stand each Saturday in front of our home. It was fortunate for us that Father never found the time to return to view our meager little garden. He may have questioned the source of the fruits of our labor.