My younger brother Gary and I were just youngsters, about 8 and 5 respectively.
That afternoon our family drove South on 219 to the top of the hill just before Tack’s Inn. At that time the Eastern side of the road, now mature forest, had been logged 3 years previously, the clearcut loaded with blackberries. Dad warned us, if we wanted a pie, to fill the buckets and not eat our berries. We nodded solemnly. Pies were sacred.
Gary and I stayed together. Being shorter than adults isn’t always a disadvantage, being able to see underneath much of the overgrowth, where the biggest, juiciest berries hid.
Picking berries in a tangled clearcut’s hard work. The berries beside and overhanging the skid roads were easy, but 3, 4 or 10 feet deeper into the thickets of berries lurked fallen treetops and logs. Blackberry bushes grow tightly together, so tangled and thick it’s impossible to see the ground in front of you. Forcing your way through the tearing thorns and brush, each and every step’s an effort and you’re never certain just where or what your foot would land on.
Would the ground be flat and stable or would your foot snag, slip or slide on a log, limb, mound or plunge into a depression? Progress is slow as you stagger and fight for balance. Still, the sight of fat, juicy berries lure you ever deeper into the morass of intertwined and tearing brambles. In a few minutes your hands and arms are scratched and bleeding, your footwear filled with leaves, twigs and other debris. Gary and I quickly learned to wear our heaviest boots and a sweatshirt.
My bucket was about half full when two piercing, agonized screams froze us. We looked at each other in alarm. We knew that voice, it was Mom! We immediately ran in the direction the cry had come from and found dad cradling mom in his arms on the grassy trail. Our mother’s face was contorted in agony and her right leg was bent at an unnatural angle. Dad glanced up at our horrified faces and ordered us to remain calm.
He explained that mom was working her way forward through the thick undergrowth and had unwittingly stepped into an unplugged oil well casing. The ground had eroded all around the pipe and mom’s leg plunged straight down as she fell and snapped at the knee. The very thought of that made my stomach crawl and Gary and I looked at each other with tears in our eyes. This was something very serious, our mother was badly hurt, we felt so helpless.
Fortunately, a stout grizzled man was picking berries not far away and, hearing mom scream, came to investigate. He was an older individual but looked as if he was chiseled out of granite. The old blue jacket and jeans needed washing, his face had a 2- or 3-days growth of beard, and his hands needed scrubbing, but his eyes were kind. He looked at the situation calmly.
The only way to carry mom, he concluded, was to sit her on their cradled right hands. Dad would support the unbroken leg by placing his free hand under her thigh and our new friend would hold the bad leg just in front of the broken knee. It would hurt, but it would be possible to carry her 75 yards to the car. We were delegated to carry the berry buckets.
Fortunately, the skid road was level and fairly even. Knees bent, the two men moved forward as smoothly as possible and though mom gasped several times, we soon reached the car. The old red and white ‘58 Plymouth was a four door and built like a tank. After some discussion as to how to best place mom across the rear seat without hurting her, our helper ordered dad to hold her ankles and calves tightly together and he picked her as if she was feather and effortlessly placed her safely inside with a minimum of distress.
We all thanked the stranger profusely for his help. In all the commotion I’m not sure we even learned his name, refusing any mention of money, seemingly only eager to be back picking berries. He was a humble man of few words. Our praise seemed to embarrass him, he shuffled his feet, eager to be away.
“Was mom hard to carry dad?” I asked, being young and having no idea you never alluded to a woman’s weight injured or not. Dad looked over at me with a slow smile at the naivety of my question. Dad was six fee tall and weighed just over 160 pounds. and well-built, coordinated and clever. In the service very few could beat him in the self-defense drills, even bigger men. Dad always prided himself on keeping in tip-top physical shape ever after.
“No, Wade, she wasn’t. To tell you the truth our stocky friend held Mom up almost entirely by himself, one-handed. He was incredibly strong, carried her effortlessly. Did hold her leg up though.” He grinned.
After a month in a cast, mom was back on her feet. But to this day I can never pick blackberries without remembering that far off, traumatic afternoon when the help of an unassuming, perfect stranger made the world a better place.
