Foraging for Huckleberries

Huckleberry Story from Joe

Bob’s and Joe’s Huckleberry Hike

Many years ago in the fall of the year, or maybe it was still late summer, Bob and I decided to take a hiking trip up the ridges to the north of Highway I-90 this side (the west side) of Snoqualmie pass.  Neither of us had been there before but figured it should be interesting and not crowded.

It was a strenuous walk up the hillside.  Near the top the vegetation became huckleberries; well that’s what I remember, acres and acres and acres of huckleberries.  We began eating and eating and eating those very tasty berries.  It was obvious bears or other critters spent time in that field feasting on the berries too.

We discussed how there were so many different varieties of huckleberries there.  Although it was many years ago I can still remember there were tall plants with shiny berries and short plants with shiny berries; there were both tall & short plants with frosty berries; most of the berries were of the blueberry type but there was a few red huckleberries as I now struggle to remember.

I think we thought we could clearly identify 7 varieties of huckleberries atop that mountain, and I’m sure we believed we could identify each by its unique taste.

That was a good hiking/camping trip.  I’m sure we did and saw more than just a mountain top full of huckleberries, but years later it’s only that part of the experience I remember.

Joe Greenwell
October 17, 2007

oil spill

I loved talking to him. I loved picking up the phone and talking to him. Sometimes I would just call randomly. I loved the sound of his voice, far away in Germany, when he would realize it was me. He would answer the phone somewhat nervously, “Allo, Bob Reineke here,” and I would say, “Hi, Dad,” and he would respond with an almost audible sigh of relief, “oh hi Robin, I was just putting some granola into the oven,” or “I was just listening to that nice CD you gave me.” He would always tell me what he was up to, in a little ritual before we would start to talk about what was going on, how we were doing, what was new.

I can feel defensive of him, and completely not mad. I don’t feel angry at him, I can’t. Its not in me. I mean, the anger is in me, but not at him. I feel that he is innocent, and was just manipulated by medications, and injured by the world. He would gingerly rescue birds that had been hit by cars or had been in the wrong place at the wrong time for an oil spill. These birds weren’t equipped for that. There was nothing in their biology to tell them how to deal with an oil spill, how to recognize pollution, violence, destruction. I wonder if they pondered what had happened to them. How they interpreted the fact that the water they expected would support them, like it did every other day of their lives, had become lethal on this one particular day.

He took me out to the coast, near Hoquiam one day to spend the evening helping out at a school that had been converted into an animal rescue zone after an oil spill in Gray’s Harbor. I remember birds and an oily smell, and plastic combs and latex gloved-volunteers. And the hallway with lockers.
——–

I remember the buckle of the bike seat, mustard yellow and with little teeth that would bite down. I remember the cordoroy baby belly backpack. I remember “what does the baby monster say?” he says (small little voice), “roar.” I remember the nasty monsters eating their yucky dinner at the bookstore, and “bad dad” and chartreuse was his favorite yucky color to bring up as an example of what color hair I might have when I become a teenager. I remember being outside and he asked me which was my favorite, “Sesame Street or Mr. Rogers,’ and I definitely like Mr. Rogers more. He asked me why while I was jumping from rock to rock and I said, “because its quieter,” and he said, “then why don’t you be quieter,” and smiled, and mom scolded him, laughing, “Bob, that wasn’t fair!”. I remember the oily earthy smell of baby crows. Kind of stinky but good, and dad’s pudgy fingers and how they were so gentle and a little trembly. He would always trust me so much to hold the little birds. I would hold them against my belly while he fed them kibble soaked in water.

Bainbridge

Rare Spring Rain

From Robin:

I want to start this with something my Dad wrote to me before I left on a long trip to Asia. I hung it on every wall in every bedroom I stayed in during my trip. The paper is next to me now, wrinkled, weathered, folded and refolded, with his signature, “Dad,” underlined at the bottom. I want to share these words with you, as words he would have spoken also to you, wishes he would have had also for you.

Robin,

Go experience the world:
Its Sights,
Sounds,
Smells,
Textures,
People—human and non-human alike,
For all have something to offer.

Avoid judging.

Keep your senses,
your mind,
your heart—open, receptive,
Tuned to the music of the life around you.

Learn what you can—drink it all in:
Be a desert beneath a rare spring rain.

When things go wrong,
Keep your wits about you,
Keep your sense of humor,
Keep your balance,
Do what must be done.

Be patient, be forgiving.
For we are, all of us, equally human.

Be good company.
Remember those of us who cherish you,
Keep in touch.

Laugh a lot,
Cry a little.
Eat heartily,
Sleep soundly.

Stay safe.

Sayonara,
Dad

From Jutta:

The following poem was written by Bob 3 years ago when he and I became friends. It was written on the back side of a northwestern artist print of a king fisher sitting on a perch and its shadow. All of us need “good shadows” and  I think in this poems is a constant reminder that we have our good shadows always with us. Therefore the poems is also meant to all of you readers.

King Fisher Jutta

In career decisions and personal choices
in matters of the heart
may you always find the courage,
the resistance
to follow where your own heart leads
to trust your intuitive sense of what is “right” for you
to plunge deep
head first,
unhesitant
into the dark unknown:

Accepting the risks of an uncertain future
Accepting the pain of chances lost
to circumstances, to luck
to the choices of others,
chances buried in hurt
that leaves the heart or psyche scarred
seemingly forever
in an uncaring world.

Yet experiencing the joy
of a life fully lived
by a mind & heart fully opened –
exposed to the light & the wonder
of being.

Take the plunge every time Jutta
for life on the perch
is little more
than slow death in disguise

Bob, 24.10.2004