In tribute to the life of Paul Brandt, who passed away this month doing what he loved best—berry picking. The Blueberry Patch Globes of purple, pale green and blue, hidden beneath small-toothed leaves; Subterranean rhizomes pursuing acidic soil, perennial wild low-bush blueberries. Elixir for life, infused with sunlight, we feast not alone… boreal creatures savor the star-shaped dimpled delicacy; Succulent flavors burst, concentrated and tangy, overcompensation for diminutive size. Gathering blueberries, one of Nature’s sweet privileges; a few gentle plucks, “One for me, two for the bucket.” Three-pound coffee can, filled to the brim, holes punched for helpful strap; “Pick with two hands,” Dad would say, berry-picking mentor to three boys, and molder of men. Rewarded with fresh blueberry pie, proportioned under three sets of watchful eyes. Resourceful provider during the Great Depression, Wild blueberries plucked from the vine. Eighty-one years of memories in the blueberry patch, where he chose to be during this year’s delayed harvest. Sacred meadow, piney forest clearing, come lay me down upon this carpet of green; anointed understory of the cathedral forest. Indigo-colored bell-shaped messengers, flared crowns reaching heavenward; now toll your celestial chorus: “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?” When, from within the blueberry patch, I rise to greet my King.
Garry Gamble
Grand Marais, MN
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