Little House, Big Family

This is an essay I wrote for my writing class this semester. It was my favorite piece to write, and it meant a lot to me. It is a bit legthy for a blog post, but I hope you enjoy it! ~Diana



Huckleberry Quarry

In every human life, and in every culture there is a painfully awkward stage when a person finds themselves caught between childhood and adulthood. The years between 10 and 14 are especially difficult. By nature, it is difficult for parents to separate their children from infancy, to walk far enough away to see they are no long helpless squalling infants, but instead are silently wrapped in the binding chrysalis of impending adolescence. In some cultures there are rituals to physically illustrate this process. The metamorphosis is subtle, yet violent. There comes a day when a person will wake as a child and lay to sleep as an adult. Physically or symbolically they are marked, so that all who look upon them will know the status of their maturity. These are cultures where spiritual elders will proudly carve into plump flesh; reverently stinging the recipient’s eyes with access into wisdom. In America, we have done away with these outward rituals as barbaric and feral. The rituals we hold are silent and personal; we hold them inside ourselves and hide the evidence.

I remember the summer I was twelve years old. My mother’s best friend was our next door neighbor, Jeannie. These women spent long hours filling our living room with gossip, nagging and cigarette smoke. Jeannie’s voice was a low, bitter staccato, endlessly ticking on about her worthless husband. What a pile of crap he was, and how her boys, as is tradition, never listened to her.

My best friend’s name was Patti Peel. That was what I called her. It was difficult not to say her first and last name together. She lived with her single father who, aside from being slightly creepy and sexually inappropriate when he was tipsy, I liked. He let us do whatever we wanted as long as we stayed out of his way, so we did. We watched dozens of movies my mom didn’t approve of, stayed up all night, ate junk food. One time she taught me how to shoplift, and we used our new skill to stock up on candy for slumber parties. For some reason we were rarely asked any questions that weren’t easily lied out of, and spent most of our time ducking under the radar of all the adults around us.

I was skeptical and surprised the day my mother invited me to go out with her into the woods. I was a child who was used to being ignored by adults. They had their interests I was not old enough to be included in, and I had Patti. Our circles hovered near each other, but they rarely intersected. Jeannie had told my mom about a huckleberry patch she wanted to explore, and they wanted to bring me, not my brother, father, or Jeannie’s hyperactive sons. “Just us girls,” she said, her eyes sparkling like it was supposed to mean something fantastic to this sneering tweener child. My only thought in response was what I could do to get out of it. I had other plans, I was sure. When it became clear that this invitation was accept-only, I demanded I be allowed invite Patti. She consented, realizing that would be the best deal she got, or else she would have to deal with my whining and snottiness the whole time.

The road was awful. It was declared that Jeannie was too large to sit in back so I was of course—as usual—shoved in the backseat, despite my tendency toward carsickness. The road twisted and curved through the thousands of shining green leaves as it curled up and up the mountain. I felt my face drain more with each turn. I shut my eyes and rolled down my window. I begged them to stop, moaning out of my swirling head. Finally the car stopped about ¾ of the way up, and I heaved my dissatisfaction into the dirt. I was embarrassed to be sick in front of my friend, but she didn’t care. I heard Jeannie escape a slight “tch” in impatient annoyance, as if we were missing something great and important. As if the berries would get up and walk off if we made them wait too long. My mother breathed her patience in, they exchanged “The Look” but she remained silent until I was ready to move again.

When we reached the top of the mountain, there was a small makeshift quarry where they had gouged a chunk of the earth to grind into gravel for the logging road that lead to the west. The scar was slowly being reclaimed by grass and bushes, but will always remain. The hillside was glorious. The air was crisp and smelled of pine needles, sunshine, water, earth, and the faintest hint of dark, sweet berry. Smelling that air instantly revived my circling stomach, as I breathed in the peace of the wilderness.

The women did not stop talking. They jumped from the car, reached in the trunk and handed us buckets. They were uncharacteristically ambitious. To the left of the quarry, along the logging road, there was a soft hill. We were led by the women, chattering on about ice cream and cheesecake, muffins and pancakes. We reached the apex of the hill and my breath caught. There were at least 3 solid acres of huckleberries there. It would take days to pick them. There was nobody else around, and the bushes were all untouched, waiting for us, full of huge, pregnant purple berries. This was ours, our secret place. So naturally, we scattered into our respective age groups.

I wanted to fill my bucket to the top. In the years to come, this would be my yearly goal, but I never reached it. I was lucky if I hit the halfway point. I wanted all those pancakes and cheesecakes, but more than that I wanted to see my mother’s eyes as I help up to her the brimming bucket. However, with my stomach woes a distant memory, I think for every berry that hit the bottom of the bucket, 2 more went in my mouth. Soon I was full and distracted. I’d collected about a cup or so, and that was better than nothing.

Across the way I heard the women begin their usual cackling, smoking and man hating. It seemed wrong and inappropriate here. I wondered what was down the road. I wondered if I could go far enough to no longer smell their cigarettes, cheap beer, or hear their stories of how men use and demean women. The irony was as dark and rich as the berries they were claiming.

Patti and I were too old to play “pretend,” but we were still young enough to be interested and play an older version called “stories.” We both found great comfort in escaping and twisted up elaborate storylines full of romance, adventure, betrayal and revenge. When I realized the women had lowered their voices to hush and giggle, I knew what they were talking about. I decided with an emphatic eye roll that that was exactly what I would rather be doing.

We were probably about 20 minutes gone. Its hard to say exactly, because by that time we were deep into some dramatic story I’d swiped off one of the soap operas my mom always changed the channel to during the day. There were infinite versions of the same script. First, there was love, which meant a lot of making out and sex. Then, the conflict: the eventual “slip up” that all men did—accidentally sleeping with the woman’s best friend. She was angry at first, and understandably, but came the resolution. It was a mistake-- boys are boys after all, she softened her heart to let him back in.

I still don’t understand why I had this formulaic relationship in my head, but I remember absolutely believing that that was how all adults romances were. So much so, that when I became older and faced with this exact scenario, I believed that was the correct resolution. I blame the soap operas. I don’t watch them anymore.

At this stage of life, I was, and still am, a dreamer. Easily caught up in the web of my own mind. I was deep into this fantasy script and reality started peeling away from me. I was also a bit of a late bloomer, and had yet to reach my full potential in height. I became aware suddenly that I didn’t know where I was. I lifted my head to only see thicket and tall grass all around me. I analyzed a moment and became positive of one thing: that Patti was approximately 10 feet away from me, although I couldn’t see her. I also decided that this thicket was only a few feet deep, and I would push through to the other side. I took a couple of steps and heard a loud Pop Snap of a branch breaking— a big branch, not the kind of twig a 80 lb best friend pops with her feet. I stopped moving. Stopped cold and still as that branch. My ears lifted to attention with my neck hairs. I heard a low, soft grunting sound. With a chilling awareness, I became positive of one more thing: there was something 10 feet to my left, but it was definitely not Patti Peel.

I choked out the whisper, “Patti?” and discovered my throat was full of sand. Adrenaline had rushed to my throat without my permission, and all I could muster was a thin squeak.

My answer came in a shaking THUD. The something smacked the ground in a great gesture of interspecial agitation. The quake shocked through the earth and hit my knees and stomach through my feet in an electrical circuit, registering as a weakening reverb. There was a snuffling of some great muzzle in my ears and rustle of leaves and more twigs snapping under the weight. My mind saw a huge furry and triangular head sniffing, smelling the air, filtering out sunshine, water, and berries until the only one left was me.

My mind searched its small inadequate database for an appropriate response. All I could remember was the rattlesnake training I’d received when I was 5 and we lived in the desert. I didn’t know if this applied to grizzly bears, but it was all I had. I backed out of the thicket slowly, deliberately, terrified. I knew if I ran or if I turned my back, I’d be vulnerable. When I got to the road, there was Patti. Smiling at me, laughing at me. She saw me wander into the thicket and told me to stop but I hadn’t heard her. She thought it was hilarious. I looked at her and tried to allow my eyes to express the danger since my throat was still full of sand. I remember reaching for words, opening my mouth and finding none there. She was still giggling. I grabbed her shirt and told her to run.

When we reached the women, the sand finally poured from my throat. We gathered up and left. That night, Mom took me in her arms for the first time in years. For the first time in years, I let her. Her fingers were purple. Her hair smelled of sunshine and pine needles, with the faintest hint of dark sweet berry.