Yesterday would have been my father’s 88th birthday. He died 21 years ago from COPD, the result of a lifetime of smoking.
I wasn’t doing well — missing Daddy, missing Ellen and missing Mike — so I decided to go up to Black Balsam, where we scattered Mike’s ashes. I had to take a roundabout route because part of the Blue Ridge Parkway was closed, so it took me over two hours to get there.
But the weather was beautiful and the scenery gorgeous, so I turned off the radio and enjoyed the quiet.
When I got there, I took the side trail and immediately found a wealth of blackberries and blueberries. When I was a kid, Daddy used to take us into the woods during blueberry season and we gathered gallons of wild berries. They’re smaller than cultivated berries, but they have a more intense flavor. We ate as many as we put into our berry pails, and what we finally brought home was used for pies, muffins and pancakes.
Blueberries were Mike’s favorite fruit, so it was appropriate that we scatter his ashes there.
I was about 100 feet from the main trail, filling gallon bags of blueberries and blackberries, thinking about how much Mike would have loved this, although none of the berries would have made it back to the house.
It was comforting to be there. I could almost imagine my father, Ellen and Mike there with me, laughing, our fingers purple from the juice of overripe berries.
I made a blueberry pie today. Yum.
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