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A Little Piece of Heaven by Jim Barton July 5, 2007 ...in Spring, juices flow anew, and love-songs sweep from field and fencerow-- from "Blackberries" The first time I set foot in Heaven, it was nearly 100 degrees and my arms were coated with sweat and dust. I had ridden in the back of an old Ford pickup down dirt roads that wound through pine thickets and clearcuts. We had crossed Buckhorn Creek, little more than a whisper in the heat of summer, as it saved its full voice for Fall and Winter. Just past the old McLemore place, we had turned off on a winding road adjacent to the Louisiana line. All along the ditches of the dusty road were tall, slender blackberry stalks loaded down with sweet treasures, and high in the pines, muscadines slowly growing in the sun. There were five of us that day, my wife and two young sons, me and our guide, my father-in-law A.J. In his late seventies at the time, A.J. was very familiar with these parts. He knew all the back roads and pig trails, all the shortcuts, and most importantly, where to find the best blackberries. He had told me of this place, Eagles' Nest he called it, but I would soon find out his description didn't do it justice. "Lord, there's more berries there than an army could pick in a month," he'd proclaimed. "There's berries as big as your thumb, ripe for the pickin'". I'd nodded in agreement and chalked it up to his advanced age and tendency toward exaggeration. When the pickup sputtered to a stop at a natural cul de sac between two cutovers, we stepped out, buckets in tow, and followed the old man down a narrow trail that ran along the edge of some tall pines on the left and vines and bushes on the right. The blackberries were everywhere! Several times I paused and began picking, but A.J. kept going. Laughing, he said, "The big ones are down here around the bend. Blackberries are a lot like people; the really plump ones hang out in the shade!" The berry patch at Eagles' Nest covers approximately twenty acres, give or take a square foot, and as promised, could have fed anybody's army for a long time. We finally reached the bend, and soon we had all scattered to claim our own little sections of this heaven on earth. It's been said that it takes a long time to fill a bucket with berries, no matter what size the bucket. I knew this to be true as I looked around at our little group, all purple fingers and purple lips. I asked A.J. why this spot, now high and dry, was called Eagles' Nest. He said that way back before the government locked and dammed the river, floodwaters would back up in here, and several eagles were known to winter in these tall pines. From his old boat, he used to watch them fish the river and backwaters. Our buckets finally as full as our bellies, we set off for home, the late evening sun settling easily behind the tree line. I would make many more trips to Eagles' Nest over that summer and in the years following. Once, lost in thought and elbow-deep in a tangle of berry vines, I heard a dry rustling in the tall grass at my feet. The rustling became a sort of thrumming, and I grew alarmed. Easing backward, I scanned the ground, hoping to see a rat or an armadillo. Suddenly, I came to a screeching halt. There, not three feet away in the shade of the bushes, was a thick, coiled, surly-looking cottonmouth, his tail stuck out and vibrating its warning to frighten me. It worked. It seems these berry fields are excellent hunting grounds for all sorts of predators--snakes, foxes, coyotes. My berry picking was over for that day. One year, I decided to check out the situation a little early. I set out one late Spring morning, the dew still heavy on the grass. Pulling up at my usual parking spot, I gaped in wonder. There among the blackberry vines in full bloom, it was as if the sky itself had begun to shed. Everywhere I looked, little pieces of blue were flitting and flicking among the briars. Thousands of bright blue butterflies covered the field. Quickly, I hopped back in the truck and went to fetch the boys. When we returned, the butterflies were moving across the road in a mass migration. We watched in wonder as the sky washed over our truck. The smiles stayed on our faces all the way home. In early summer, night shakes its blanket out over the field, and stardust becomes a shower of fireflies, trading the stars twinkle for twinkle. Furtive deer ease out to sample the tender grasses along the trails and the sweet berries at the edge of the patch. The persistent "Whoo-whoo" of the big owls is a question best left unanswered by the field mice and young rabbits. Moonlight paints the back of the skunk, the tip of the fox's tail, and inspires the coyote chorus to sing their plaintive lullabyes. Snakes carve their deadly "S" in the grass in near silence; nightjars and whip-poor-wills moan like a rising wind. A fingernail moon scratches its way toward dawn and a new day in this patch of sweet summerkisses, this little piece of Heaven on earth. But in timber country, nothing stays the same for long. Heaven moves. Today's clearcut is tomorrow's berry patch is the next day's tree farm. Pine seedlings take the place of berry vines, another section of mature trees is cut, and the process starts over. Eagle's Nest today is on its way to becoming another batch of company pines bound for the mill. But Heaven hasn't gone far. The recently cut section is already seeded with purple love songs, berry vines just waiting for me, offering another taste of Heaven. About the author: Jim Barton is a poet and story teller living and writing from the Ouachita River bottoms in southern Arkansas. He loves the outdoors and regularly explores the woods and creek banks near his home. He has had poetry published in many national publications such as The Timber Creek Review, Mississippi Review, Louisiana Literature and The Lyric Review. He and wife Cathy are parents of seven children and two grandsons. Jim has read his work on NPR's KUAR in Little Rock. He hopes someday to ride an elephant. | | | |
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