CHAPTER 2
“Can I eat some while I fill my bucket?” Waaboo asked.
“A few,” his father, Daniel, said. “But leave some for the rest of us.”
“And for the animals,” his uncle Stephen added.
Waaboo looked confused.
“Always leave plenty of blueberries on the bushes for the other creatures we share the forest with,” Cork, who was his grandfather, explained.
They were driving down an old logging road just south of the Iron Lake Reservation, heading toward the patch that had been the locale of wild blueberry picking for the O’Connor family since before Cork was born. Many families in Tamarack County, Minnesota, had secret places for picking, patches whose locations were passed down as part of the heritage from one generation to the next. This outing was for the men of the O’Connor clan: Cork, the patriarch; Stephen, his twenty-three-old son; Daniel English, Cork’s son-in-law; and Waaboo, Cork’s seven-year-old grandson. The little boy’s real name was Aaron Smalldog O’Connor. It was Stephen who, long ago, had given him the nickname Waaboo, which in the language of the Ojibwe people meant little rabbit.
“What eats blueberries besides us?” Waaboo asked.
“Bears and skunks and deer. And other waaboos,” Daniel said, ruffling his son’s hair.
“And lots of birds,” Stephen said.
Waaboo’s little brow furrowed in concern. “Maybe they’ve eaten them all by now.”
“Don’t worry,” Cork assured him. “Our blueberry patch has always produced enough for the animals and for us.”
It was mid-July of a summer that had so far been ideal. The morning air was sharp with the clean scent of pine. The sky was an arch of pure blue. Cork’s heart was full of gratitude. Stephen had been gone for two years, or mostly gone, finishing his degree at the University of Minnesota. Although he’d returned for brief visits, his focus was on his education. And on his girlfriend, now fiancée.
“Nervous at all about the wedding?” Daniel asked. “Still six weeks to change your mind.”
“Belle’s the best thing that ever happened to me,” Stephen said. “Besides, all the arrangements have been made.”
“If you ever decide to leave this family,” Cork said, “we keep Belle.”
“Leave?” Waaboo said.
“Just kidding, little guy,” Cork said. “And here we are.”
They’d circumnavigated a bog area and Cork parked on solid ground among a stand of birch. The men and the boy got out and grabbed their pails from the back of Cork’s Expedition.
“Where are the blueberries?” Waaboo said. “I don’t see any.”
“We have to walk a little,” Cork told him. “We don’t want anybody passing by to see where our patch is.”
“Nobody’s here,” Waaboo pointed out.
“You never know who might be watching,” Daniel said with a wink. “A good blueberry patch is worth more than gold.”
They skirted the bog, following a path almost impossible to see because it was trod only in July, when the blueberries of the North Country had ripened. As they walked, Cork studied the ground with growing concern.
“Somebody’s been here,” he said quietly.
“How do you know?” Waaboo asked.
“See all those broken plants?” Cork pointed toward a growth of rattlesnake ferns in front of them. “Somebody’s trampled their way through. And there.” He pointed toward a footprint in soft dirt.
Waaboo looked up at his grandfather. “Were they after our blueberries?”
“We’ll know soon enough,” Cork said.
The patch lay on the far side of the bog. When they arrived, Cork and the others stood staring at the ravaged bushes.
“They picked everything,” Stephen said.
“Didn’t even leave something for the animals,” Daniel said.
Waaboo looked devastated. “Who were they?”
“Hard to say,” Cork replied. “Six-one-twoers, I’m guessing. Folks from around here would be more respectful.”
“Six-one-twoers?” Waaboo asked.
“It used to be the only area code for the Twin Cities,” Cork explained. “Not true anymore, little guy, but up here we still call them that, the people who come up from the Cities and trample everything.”
“No blueberries,” Waaboo said, clearly distraught.
“We’ll get blueberries, don’t worry,” Cork assured him. “I know another place.”
In dismal silence, they returned to the Expedition and Cork started back toward Iron Lake.
“Where to now, Dad?” Stephen asked.
