The essence of summer up north is berries on the deck. Way out on the end of the Old Mission Peninsula my sunset deck at The Gathering faces the waters of the Grand Traverse West Bay and the opening to Lake Michigan. Looking straight north I can see the lit marker which stands sentinel, guiding boats through the very rocky and very shallow waters surrounding the tip of our peninsula and the historic Old Mission Lighthouse. It is to this deck I bring my berries each summer morning. With just a little cream to blend and soften their sharp sweetness the berries give to me joy, appreciation, and meditation in the landscape that surrounds my being and permeates my soul. Wendell Berry said, "Better than any argument is to rise at dawn and pick dew-wet red berries in a cup."
I begin as James Whitcomb Riley describes, “Long about knee-deep in June, ‘bout the time strawberries melts on the vine.” Back a few years when late June celebrated the end of the school year for me as a teacher and my children as students, our first strawberry shortcake announced that summer was officially here. Now strawberries greet us as the first fruit of the season at the Kalkaska Cherry Street Market (pictured above) as we journey M-72 from downstate. They travel with us in anticipation of another joyous summer up north. The first sun drenched morning I carry my bowl of strawberries to the deck I salute the marker; I salute the lighthouse, I salute the blue waves. I cheer mightily, “I’m back!”
The jewels of the summer are the raspberries. A few summers ago my daughter, Beth, and I decided to take her daughters raspberry picking downstate. She remembered fondly picking raspberries in northern Oakland County. No raspberries that day! Her favorite raspberry field was now a subdivision. The following year I found a raspberry field for my granddaughter on Old Mission. The woman who owned the farm on Center Road kindly explained to Claire how to pick only the ripest, reddest berry, pulling it gently from its white core. Claire’s older sister, Claudia, missed the experience. She was at camp. No matter, Claire gave her explicit instructions on the art of raspberry picking when she returned. I will covet the memory of eating “our own picked raspberries” with Claire the next morning as a dazzling highpoint of the summer.
From deep appreciation, my mood turns meditative in August. It is time for the blueberries, as Robert Frost describes them, “Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb,/Real sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum/In the cavernous pail of the first one to come!” Perhaps it’s the intense blue-black contrasting so sharply with the smooth creamy liquid, but blueberries poke at my inner thoughts demanding I give words and voice to them. A sick friend, separated family members, lives in turmoil; it is in August I often must sort out my feelings and determine actions. Perhaps it’s remembering how the locusts of August always call me back to summer’s end and winter’s reality. The locusts are easier to hear when I am popping round blue balls into my mouth surveying the swans on the bay. Blueberries take the edge off my sadness and guide me smoothly toward resolution.
Caught as a miniature up north moment, berries on my deck magnify it. The scene secures the essence of the experience: safely capturing the joy, the appreciation, and the meditation until next summer.
