Dispatch 24
The light is weak, the sky cloudy, a cold breeze bothers the tip of my nose. I am walking up the back hill with four little sprites. The snow is calf-deep on me and covered with a thick layer of ice from the recent freezing and thawing.
As we walk, my heavy steps break through the ice, plow through the snow underneath, and crash to the frozen ground. My four little companions, ages three through nine, glide over the snow with ease. The youngest, seeing me struggling, offers a hand. “Take my hand,” she says. “I’ll keep you from falling through!” I take her hand. When I fall through again, her disappointment does not last long. Soon she is off, exploring the path ahead.
Before long, we reach the flat between the hills. Today, we are on a mission to see what we can find that we remember from summer forays into these parts. It begins on this flat where we are greeted by blueberry bushes.
We reminisce about picking blueberries in the heat of the sun, clad in shorts and T-shirts, pouring sweat. We laugh that we are now so cold. We notice tracks left by deer, mice and rabbits. Nearly all the summer leaves have gone. Only the dried-up leaves of the oaks still cling to their branches.
Next, we check in on the teapot. Over the summer, we had gathered branches from the surrounding forest and put them together to form a teepee. It was big enough for the girls to crawl into. I don’t know why, but the next-to-youngest called it the teapot and so it remained. It is still standing!
Our wandering takes us past Pinocchio, the large maple tree with one long branch pointing back into the field, then over a fallen stone wall. We are in an old orchard now. There is less snow here and it is easier for me to navigate.
Our talk returns to blueberries. It is almost lunchtime and the girls are getting hungry. There is blueberry jam at home and frozen blueberries in the freezer. I observe that it is too bad we can’t just pick fresh blueberries and pop them in our mouths like we did over the summer.
The youngest says she sees blueberries. “Where?” I ask.
“Right here!” she says.
I tell her blueberries don’t grow in winter and keep walking. Then, suddenly, a thought comes to me and I turn quickly just in time to see her put the blueberries in her mouth. I am too late to stop her.
Immediately, her face turns red and she spits them back out, wiping at her tongue with her mittened hands. I hope that the snow on her mittens helps clear the taste. Her sisters are laughing.
We spend the rest of the walk paying special attention to tracks and scat, especially deer and rabbit scat.
We climb to the top of the second hill and wander back across. Then we head down the sledding path and past the maple sugaring ruins. They are buried in the snow today. The last place to check is Uncle Mike’s fort, which he built when he was younger. We find deer rubs and various kinds of tree bark… and lots more scat.
Then we head back to the house for some hot chocolate. For some reason, the youngest doesn’t want any blueberries.
New to Barn Owl?
