~Gone Picking
This story took place during the summer between the fourth and fifth grades. That would mean Heywood had somehow miraculously survived to the ripe old age of 9 or 10 years of age. There existed any number of locals who would have lost money betting that he could not possibly live that long considering the messes he always seemed to be getting into. His presumptive spiritual advisor and uncle, the preacher, even put a few greenbacks down on Heywood not making it.
As Heywood recalled, his fellow explorers (meaning any kid stupid enough to get involved with him and his weird sense of adventure) always looked forward to the latter part of the summer as it meant blackberries were ripening all over the county. Blackberries were a cash crop for most all the young lads in the area who suffered from a dearth of ready cash. An energetic kid could get fifty cents for every gallon bucket of fresh blackberries he brought to market. This was a sure thing. Easy money if easy money ever existed. All they had to do was scout out the area and locate the most promising looking patches. It made no difference whose land the selected patch was on. Heywood and his recruits could reasonably expect to get onto the property, do their job, and get the heck away without being caught. The group bided their time by readying their equipment - that being any bucket-like contraption with a handle capable of carrying big, fat, juicy berries. Then when the day came, they met up early in the morning and set out, forthwith, to make their fortunes.
Usually the same guys went along every year. The reason this fact is mentioned will become clearer as the story progresses. They were a merry band indeed that one particular August morning as they met up at Wilson’s Grocery Store for another attempt to gain riches via the red hot blackberry market’s hunger for fresh picked berries. There was Lester and Fester (brothers), guys Heywood thought of as cousins (even though they were not) probably because he spent about as much time at their house playing as he did at his own home. They were about the best friends a kid could grow up with. Sometimes his cousin, Henry, went along as well as Morgan, the mayor’s son. It’s never a bad idea to have friends at City Hall. Morgan had polio and needed to wear braces but that never slowed the kid down. He could shinny up a tree, run with a big pilfered watermelon, or throw a rock at old Miser Claxton's tin-roofed barn as well as anyone. Plus he had a really cute little sister. She had pretty blond hair and a smile that would light up the night sky. Heywood didn’t recall her paying much attention to their desultory observations, but he did recall the first time she ever smiled at him. That was just before she asked him if he really was as stupid as he looked, and acted. He was so taken aback with her actually talking to him that he started giggling uncontrollably until he farted, which he blamed for ending any possibility of their building a more long term and personal relationship. Just bad timing, that’s all.
Getting back to the original subject of blackberries, the group covered the couple miles distance to the selected patch in little time. They were eager to get their pails filled and head back to town where they could easily sell their treasure for ready cash. Everyone set right in as the prickly vines were weighed down with what looked like a gazillion lush, ripe blackberries. As every bush looked to offer up a veritable feast, there was very little jockeying for field position. Heywood, being always on the alert for a more favorable position or opportunity, hurried to a location that looked as if the sun’s burning rays would not be a problem for some time. Therein he set to work making his fortune. This time, he told himself, he would not be the one who went home with the fewest berries. This time he would come away as the big dog. He would be the one saying thank you to the nice people for slipping a couple of warm coins into his deserving palms in exchange for the biggest, ripest, blackest blackberries ever produced in the county.
Heywood started off at a feverish pace, and within minutes, the bottom of his trusty pail was covered with beautiful, tasty-looking berries. That’s when things started to go wrong. Already his hands were bleeding and stinging from so many thorn scratches. Plus Heywood had worked up a thirst from all the walking to get there. He figured it wouldn’t hurt for him to take a drink of water and rebuild his energy levels by eating a few of the berries already in his bucket. All he had to do was pick a little faster when he finally did get back to work, and he would have his empty bucket filled to the brim.
Eventually Heywood did recommence his berry picking and wouldn’t you just know it, somebody smacked him upside the head with a big juicy berry. Well, that could not go unanswered. Nobody got away with smacking Heywood in the head with anything, much less a juicy blackberry. He looked around but couldn’t tell who the offender was, yet he had his suspicions. It must have been Morgan, the kid with the braces. He was a known troublemaker. It didn’t matter anyway as they all had done something to Heywood at some time in the past that he needed to get even for.
The next several minutes became one big let’s all pummel Heywood with handfuls of big juicy blackberries. Heywood later admitted to being shocked at the animus displayed by individuals whom he’d always thought of as a support team. Now, everyone was throwing at him, Heywood, their spiritual leader, the guy who worked night and day to come up with the interesting and, very possibly, character building adventures they were so often involved in. Without him they were just a bunch of snot-nosed pre-post-adolescents, and not the local gang that had the attention (if not the respect) of every homeowner who owned a cat, dog, chicken, an apple, pear, peach, plum tree, grapevine, watermelon, strawberry patch, hay barn, big oak tree with a stout limb, or a creek with a hole deep enough for swimming. The guys always got a stern look from the local constabulary as they cruised by any location that served as a place to congregate. All their names were written down in those little notebooks the officers always stuffed into their bulging, sweat-stained shirt pockets. If any mischief occurred in Heywood’s part of town, they came looking for him. Local adults knew their names: that Hanks boy, that goofy-looking Carter boy, that kid with the gopher teeth, etc. And what did Heywood get for all his hard work in bringing their existence to the attention of the town elders? Apparently squat. No respect. He was being assaulted with big, luscious, good as gold blackberries. They were throwing money at him.
When it was finally over, everyone started blaming everyone else for starting the fight. Heywood didn’t say anything as he knew he didn’t start it. He simply sat back and started eating all the ruined but still eatable blackberries on the ground around him. Soon all his former pals were doing the same thing. No one talked; they just ate. So the bruised berries were partially covered with loose dirt - who cared. Half of the kids regularly dined on most any varmint you could skin and put in a skillet with some flour and bacon grease anyway, so a little pasture dirt wasn’t going to hurt anybody.
The next thing that happened, as it did every year, was they argued loudly for several minutes as to who owned the blame for starting the blackberry fight. Heywood knew he certainly didn’t do it, but his loud disclaimers of any wrong doing soon fell on deaf ears. He tried to tell them it was Morgan, the kid with the braces, which he was sure it was. But the group became even more incensed at his temerity of foisting the blame on an unfortunate kid forced to wear leg braces just to walk around.
Well that did it. Heywood couldn’t let them get away with disparaging his veracity so he displayed his extreme displeasure at having been so unjustifiably blamed by throwing his empty bucket at his accusers. That turned out to be another bad idea. It meant he was now defenseless and surrounded by scowling juveniles packing buckets empty of the group’s only cash crop. The buckets were immediately launched in retaliation towards Heywood. Heywood got lucky as only a small bucket actually glanced off of the back of his head. It hit the back of his head because he was on his feet and already heading for civilization where he was sure there would be adults around who would prevent his pursuers from prosecuting mayhem upon his person. These guys had had visions of quick riches dancing before their eyes only a short while back and now the dream
was shattered, and Heywood had been elected the chief shatterer.
Heywood had learned much earlier in life that leadership positions amongst juveniles were precarious at best. Kids will turn on another kid in a big city second. They will steal a piece of pie out of your lunch box, swear to a bug-eyed, angered adult that it was some other kid who threw their cat up on the neighbor’s roof, eat all the low hanging apples off the tree out close to the road, or simply fill their moms' laying hens' rear ends with BBs. By Heywood’s reckoning, if you were not the fastest runner in the group then don’t ever volunteer to be the leader. If you can’t out run’em, then don’t try to lead’em. Plus, there would be another crop of delicious blackberries next year so Heywood would have plenty of time to plan next year’s expedition while also finding out who started the blackberry fight. That young man would rue the day he let loose a blackberry in Heywood’s direction. Yes sir, something special indeed would be in store for him.