Brambling

When I was little we didn't have much money. There were five of us: my mom, dad, my two older brothers and me, the baby. I should probably say that my life was a little unconventional. There was quite a bit of violence in my house. I mean, I had seen my dad (a police officer at the time)beat the father of one of my classmates on his front lawn for no reason. I very much doubted most kids had seen the same. So, it was volatile to say the least. But, once in awhile, we would find ourselves on the same page. Just to be in the same book was a happy surprise but being on the same page, that was unheard of.
I don't remember a lot of my past. There are big chunks cut out and things are really vague. Mostly my recollection is just like fuzzy videos being played in a really terrible theater. Or maybe a theater that Tyler Durden worked in and instead of splicing in the snuff, he left these gaps where there is just nothing. Which, don't get me wrong, in a lot of accounts it's comforting to not be able to remember. Some memories though, are fairly vivid, still in soft focus but in a sort of technicolor.
I remember the ebb and flow of seasons. Each one distinct in sight, sounds and smells or linked to specific activities. Winter to me is sledding and putting snow sodas instead of ice. Spring is a series of wildflowers growing on the hillsides and my birthday. Autumn was always my favorite because of Halloween, bonfires and the smell of dead leaves, spicy and reminiscent of cloves. Now summers are BBQ and riding my bike until 9 because the sun refuses to set. And then there's the suffocating humidity.
Summers in the Midwest are described by polite people as being "sticky". The rest of us feel that these summers are best described as being "balls hot". Generally, people worshiped their AC, TV, any other number of abbreviations really and if we wanted to be fancy we would take a trip to the city pool. There were times though, we would shake off the heavy coat of languor that summer would weigh us down with and become somewhat more industrious. In our crests of these brief moments we would venture outside and forage.
Just a mile down the road from my house, maybe a little less, was this maze of brambles adorned with the biggest, juiciest, blackest blackberries that yuppie bullshit people will never find in their nearest whole foods super center. (Because that's the thing about whole foods stores. They aren't these small, quaint, mom-and-pop owned places. They're actually enormous, corporate and just as pretentious as you would expect them to be. Also, shopping in one of these cash cows will save your soul about as fast as it will save you money.)Anyway, the blackberries.
The patch was just off the gravel, as most things tend to be in towns of a thousand people. The berries next to the road couldn't be picked because they were covered with an impermeable layer of dirt and grit. So, we made our way past the barbed wire fence, which in the country seems to be more a cautionary device for cows rather than a serious deterrent for trespassers. Then again, it was several years ago and in a town where everyone knows everyone else. I would not suggest trying this now as yes, it is true, all country people have guns, big ones. They issue you one as you come out of the birthing canal. That being said, the blackberries in the back were the money berries.
When you begin a task that is mindless like this, something happens to you. Barring the occasional start from a black snake underfoot, you could almost be hypnotized. There's this wonderful combination of the repetitive motion, the humidity cradling you and your dehydration that coaxes your brain into mush. The brambles twine and spiral around each other becoming a puzzle or like that trail out of Hansel and Gretel. You convince yourself that you really haven't gone that far and even if you do you are perfectly capable of finding your way out but this equation has an answer. Maybe it does and maybe it doesn't.
Either way this artful, tangled distraction, so like the hair of that one girl in your office or in your class, careless and deliberately tousled all at once, lures you in like a helpless lamb. The leaves are broad and flat with serrated edges. They provide a measure of protection, shading their delectable charges until they droop with sweet maturity. The sunlight catches on the berries themselves, tantalizing the eye. You reach. Then you notice the wicked looking thorns curving protectively en masse. While they are cause for hesitation, these sentinels are docile and really aren't all that big.
That day, I gathered berries like a zombie, shuffling this way and that. Or maybe it was more graceful. Maybe I was a hummingbird, lighting for a moment or two and then moving on. Probably not but eventually I realized that the sky had become overcast and ominous. The bloated clouds rumbled out their message; a storm was coming and it was time to go. My family started calling to me and that was when I noticed that the brambles had become walls of green, trapping me. My fingers began throbbing as my panic welled up. I hadn't realized how many battle wounds I had received.
The once dormant thorns now seemed to be reaching for me. When had they gotten so big?! The last thing I wanted to do was panic and stumble into the clinging vines. I imagine that falling into a blackberry bush feels like being stuffed into a bag with 15 angry cats. I stood anxiously, feeling small, shifting from foot to foot and willing an escape route to expose itself. For a moment I felt like a princess in a fable. Except, well, my mom insisted on giving me a mullet and no princess I had ever seen had sported a lady mullet (Also known as the fullet, female mullet.) Also, my family was screaming at me to get the hell out of the bushes.
I hyperventilated a lot as a kid. How much, you ask? I could have instructed a class on paper bag breathing by the time I was 8. I could feel my chest tightening second by second. I was going to cry, which my mom hated. She said it made a person look weak. I could see why. I mean, what exactly did it accomplish? On the other hand, sometimes you didn't have much of a choice. You could either cry or break your hand punching something. I have done both and the first one definitely doesn't satisfy in the same way or give the same cool bruises but when the pressure changes and my hands ache, I'll take the crying.
As the tears welled up I tried desperately to squelch them. My home life was already a wreck and I didn't want to give anyone one more thing to deal with. Luckily, I was saved, in more ways than one. My brother crashed through the thicket, snatched me up and grumbling the entire time, deposited me safely away from the snatching bushes.

This is where I tie things together. Where I say that life and bramble bushes are the same. You reach for the berries of life, get stuck by the thorns but just keep reaching. Then we all laugh, there's a freeze frame, a star wipe and boom, credits roll. The thing is, I just don't know. So far my life has been a series of broken mirrors and briar patches. I don't know when the bad stops and the good starts. Or if the bad and the good are like one of those swirl cones you get from ice cream parlors; separate but intermingling. I'm jealous of people who have the good things. The only thing I ever seem to do is wreck everything and attract the worst case scenario. I take a lot of steps in these dances but they're all the wrong ones. The good things I can count on one hand. Some people peak in high school. I would just like to get on the chart.
At the very least I would call for a little balance. I'm fine with the bad as long as I can get a chance to surface every now and again. I am not ungrateful for the things I do have. I just wonder, is it someone's idea that these things are all I get and the rest of my life is spent in punishment? I am also a whole within myself that deserves a break, to win the lottery occasionally, to not stumble so much at the very least or maybe an apology. I want to make my own way. I want to be able to choose and I don't want to be crushed under a heel every time I try to look up. I am not trash.