Twinkleberry Morning

IMAGINE A MORNING IN LATE NOVEMBER. A morning before the sun has even had a chance to peer over the horizon. Here is Gregory pulling wellies over his footed pajamas, then donning jacket and scarf, then tucking his little flashlight in the pocket of his coat. There is his father yawning and putting on his loafers. Near the door, Gregory’s mother hums Maple Leaf Rag as she pulls three fishing creels from a closet and lines them with gingham cloths.

All righty, are we ready? she asks, but before Gregory can answer yes! yes! I am!, she says to his father, Francis, you will absolutely freeze in just that sweater, and your feet will get wet in those shoes. But Francis says, Nonsense, Margaret Ann! On with the adventure!

His mother shakes her head and hands a creel each to Gregory and Francis, and the three tumble out the door and into the dark and the chilly air.

They are going in search of twinkleberry bushes to pick fruit for their holiday pie.

GREGORY COULD SCARCELY BE MORE EXCITED. He is only four and he has never ventured outdoors at a time when morning was still night. Nor has he ever tasted twinkleberry pie. His mother declares that he will squeal with delight when he finally tastes it, however, and says that early morning is the only time to harvest twinkleberries if one wants to bake a pie worth eating.

The three tramp single file across a dark grassy slope toward the woods — Mother, then Gregory, then Father bringing up the rear. Francis mutters something quietly (could be home ... warm ... coffee and paper ...), but Gregory is too excited to pay attention. He has never ventured out when morning was still night, nor ventured into woods with a basket and instructions to look for twinkleberry bushes.

Gregory is not sure he will know one when he sees one, yet he is determined to be the first to spot one.

IMAGINE, HOWEVER, that they are just a few short steps into the woods when his mother’s flashlight beam falls on a short and unimpressive bush. Voila! she exclaims, and then, Oh. Hummm. Well.

She sweeps her flashlight over the scraggly bush, which bears a mere pittance of berries. She plucks one and pops it in her mouth and says, Very good, though. Very tasty. So Gregory tries a twinkleberry, too.

It fills his mouth with a sweetness that is somehow both like and exactly the opposite of a raspberry, and, yes, it twinkles. Gregory’s ears feel warm.

Margaret Ann instructs Gregory and his father to pick what they can from the meager bounty.

Gregory finds only five berries and puts them in his basket.

His mother collects a few more.

And now his father, walking around to the far side of the bush, suddenly steps in a dip in the ground, which is filled with water from the recent rain.

GREAT GALLOPING GAZELLES! Francis shouts, and sloshes away toward a shadow form, which turns out, fortunately, to be a log. There he sets a spell and tips the water out of his shoes.

THEY CONTINUE THROUGH THE WOODS, which grows a little brighter because the sun has begun to consider waking up. Gregory’s mother scans the surroundings as they traipse along to the sound of his father’s teeth chattering. She says without scolding, I wish you’d dressed better, Francis, and his father says, I’m fine, I’m just fine. I come from hardy stock!

Now that Gregory no longer has the opportunity to be the first to spot a twinkleberry bush, he becomes distracted by interesting forest forms. He breaks a magnificent mushroom off the bark of a tree. Finds a small rock wearing a mossy overcoat. Retrieves a twig with a wide flat leaf still attached.

Every time Gregory finds a treasure, he stops to set his creel on the ground and place the object inside with the gingham and five berries.

This is how a small snake — just a baby, really — finds its way into Gregory’s basket.

But the good news is that his mother soon finds another bush, this one larger than the first, and with a few more berries, so they all gather around to pluck.

How many berries make a pie? Gregory asks after they have picked what they can from the second bush.

We probably have enough now, answers his father. Shall we head home?

We need seven-hundred-and-ninety-two, his mother says. Walk on, my loves. I promise you this pie will be worth the work! It tastes like the stars flickering in the autumn sky! It’s the flavor of running into an old friend, or a unicorn leaping over clouds! Francis, here, put on my scarf.

Gregory doesn’t know how a scarf will warm up his father’s cold, wet feet, and anyway Francis insists he is fine, just fine.

THEY WALK ON.

They walk some more.

Geese fly in formation above the treetops and honk, but Gregory cannot see them.

He is growing tired. And a little cold. And a little bored.

His father makes a point of slapping branches out of the way even when they are not especially in the way.

Margaret Ann, he starts to say, then, Oh, never mind.

Not too much farther, Gregory’s mother says. You will see. We will find some really wonderful bushes with all the berries we need, I’m just sure of it.

She does not sound all that sure, but Gregory allows himself to feel cheered up by this promise. Fortunately, he is only four, and it does not occur to him that even if they find more bushes, they will have to walk all the way back home after they are done picking seven-hundred-and-ninety-two berries.

And then, finally, the light at the far edge of the woods comes into view.

Gregory’s mother starts to sing a little song about sunshine. Gregory’s father’s shivering settles down. Gregory feels a small smile crawl across his face.

The small snake finds a way to poke its head out from under the lid of the creel.

AND SUDDENLY, FRANCIS AND GREGORY AND MARGARET ANN are standing shoulder-to-shoulder above a sloping field with nothing but twinkleberry bushes in sight for acres.

The sun has emerged to cast pink and golden light on a trillion berries twinkling through a bazillion glimmering leaves. It is like a fairy festival.

Gregory says whoah and grabs his father’s hand.
His mother whispers It’s so much prettier than I imagined ...
His father shouts, WILL WONDERS NEVER CEEE — then freezes.

The small snake, it seems, has wended its way from Gregory’s basket and onto the leg of his father’s not-nearly-warm-enough pants and slithered up the back of his thoroughly insufficient sweater, all the way to the shoulder, where his baby-snake face catches Francis’s left eye.

And while, yes, it is only a small snake, it is still a snake, which leaves Francis no choice but to let out a mighty trumpet blast and begin leaping in a frenetic panic.

The ground rumbles, disturbing the dawn. Birds wheel out of the berry bushes.

For a moment, all Gregory and his mother see is flailing limbs and flopping ears dancing in silhouette against the twinkleberry glow.

THE SNAKE FALLS TO THE GROUND.

Gregory’s father catches his breath while his mother, suppressing a smile, strokes his arm and says, Yes, dear, that must have been very startling, dear.

Gregory spots the snake slithering through the grass. Margaret Ann is still consoling Francis as Gregory secretly picks up the snake and returns it to his creel, because he is only four and he has never had a pet.

Then the three of them go forth among the bushes and pluck to their hearts’ content until Margaret Ann says, I’m sure we have enough. Let’s leave some for the waxwings, and they turn and trudge on home.

IMAGINE A DAY OF THANKS.

A golden late afternoon and a little family inside their home around a table along with a grandmother, cousins and a neighbor from down the way. The meal is done, so Gregory’s parents clear the table and Gregory himself is permitted to deliver each guest a wide wedge of twinkleberry pie.

As the guests savor the berries and Margaret Ann’s flaky piecrust, each takes a turn expressing gratitude for one thing or another.

Grandma is grateful that she has not yet outlived the cobbler who makes her orthopedic shoes.

Cousin Elvis is grateful for his library card. Cousin Carolyn, who paints portraits of fruit, thanks the Lord for pomegranates in particular.

This year as always, the neighbor appreciates being welcomed to a family celebration.

Gregory’s mother exhales and says how very happy she is for adventures in the great outdoors, to which everyone at the table responds with Hear, hear!

Francis says he is eternally grateful for, and gob-smacked by, a never-before-seen-by-him stand of twinkleberry bushes sparkling under a rising sun. Cousin Carolyn asks to see a picture.

And very quietly, because he is only four and still shy around extra grownups, Gregory says he is thankful for his snake. Then he shoves an enormous forkful of pie into his mouth and the flavor is so wonderful that he squeals with delight.

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Homage

The first line of this story was stolen from Truman Capote’s story “A Christmas Memory.” Here’s a link to a 1959 recording of the tale, read by Capote. Have a wonderful Thanksgiving, friends.

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