Читать книгу Rover - Barry Blackstone - Страница 14

I am recording these memories of my beloved, boyhood, dog Rover in the midst of a heavy wet snow storm in the middle of a March blizzard in Maine. I do not know the reason one’s mind skips seasons, but for me I suddenly was again on my family’s farm in Perham, Maine picking raspberries with my dog Rover; not your typical cultivated raspberries, but wild raspberries. The thing that makes this memory so strange is that I don’t even like raspberries, but what I liked was to pick raspberries with Rover.

It is late July somewhere in the early 1960’s. It’s hot, very hot and muggy. Dad would say: “good haying weather”, but on this particular morning I would work for Mum not Dad. To beat the heat I tell Mother I would go and pick her some raspberries for lunch. She loved raspberries and I knew just the spot to find them in abundance; big, bright, beautiful ones, and I also knew the perfect companion to go with.

As I made my way through the woods towards the Salmon Lake Road with Rover by my side, I felt better already. Walking in the woods with a dog is the surest way I know to cool off on a steamy summer’s day. The gentle breeze through the cooler trees is nature’s natural air conditioner, and if you live in the city like I do now, man has yet to come up with an adequate substitute, in my opinion. As we emerged from the forest about a half a mile up the road we headed straight for the rock and tree line that separated our farm from Abel Brissette’s land. Along that hedgerow grew the biggest wild raspberries I have ever seen. Maine Black Bears, and I’m not talking about hockey players, often feasted along that hedge. They know where to find fine dining in Perham. To my knowledge there was only one other place better than this for raspberries, and that was also on my Father’s farm; another place only known to Rover and me.

As I moved into the raspberry bushes I found the canes were loaded with berries. The weight of the fruit had bowed the canes to my knees. As I picked, I moved slowly through the harvest before me. Moving a scrawny bush aside, I discovered an inconspicuous cane bent very low in the back. When I lifted it up I found on its underside no less than twenty-five ripe raspberries. But they were not your ordinary raspberries. All I could think of was that cluster of grapes the twelve Hebrew spies brought back after their exploration of Canaan: “And they came unto the brook of Eschol, and cut down from thence a branch with one cluster of grapes, and they bare it between two upon a staff . . . .” (Numbers 13:21) Isn’t it funny how a Sunday school lesson and a trip to get berries for your mother merge? I knew nobody would believe me, but through I couldn’t bring back the branch I could bring back the berries. As I took them from their home one at a time I marveled at their size, and then my eye fell upon the raspberry of all raspberries. Tucked away at the very end was the granddaddy of them all. It was bigger than my thumb; now that’s a raspberry!

After I picked several quarts of these wonderful, perfect berries, Rover and I headed home for lunch. For dessert that day I enjoyed watching my family add sugar and cream to my morning’s harvest. Though I didn’t enjoy eating any of them myself, I still thought and think to this day I got the best end of that experience, the better of the deal. Berries and blizzards do go together, just like boys and dogs! The sermon is clear to me: anything you do is more pleasant with a companion. Like me, Rover didn’t like raspberries, so the more we picked the more ended up in the jar instead of in our mouth. More for the family than more for me: “Look not every man on his own things . . . ” (Philippians 2:4)