Maine Mountain Blueberries...

My stomached literally roiled up to greet the top of my tongue as I stared at the small pod of blueberry bushes sitting just below the summit of Mt. Avery. It was always a monumentally queazy remembering of the food eaten that first caused one to vomit. And those little blueberries were my own personal "Alamo."

That day long ago came flooding back to me. "Eat your blueberries and milk! Time's wastin' and I don't want you to be late!" Just like mom. Straight to the point.

I just looked at that little bowl of blue bulbs floating in that bottomless sea of skimmed milk. "Yuck!", I thought to myself as I haphazardly drove my spoon into the concoction. "Oh, God please! If you can hear me- help me finish this last bite..." Bringing the spoon full of yuck to my mouth; I shoved it in and swallowed as fast as I could. Almost as quickly, that last spoonful of blueberries and skim milk erupted from the very depths of my stomach, up my throat, out of my mouth and across the kitchen table along with all their other little blueberry buddies. My mother just sat there; incredibly stunned that such a forceful blueberry tempest could originate from such a little boy's stomach.

I stayed home from school that day.

I had just climbed to the 4,000 foot summit of Avery Peak. It took only a few hours to make it to the top but the hot and humid Maine summer sure made me thirsty. I knew water was getting kind of scarce for hikers on the Appalachian Trail and upper New England was entering the third year of a drought. I figured it was better to conserve my water as I headed southbound but, by golly, I sure was thirsty for something refreshing. Then, I spotted those little blueberry bushes.

Strange how 40 years later; I can still hear mom's words: "Eat your blueberries and milk! Time's wastin' and I don't want you to be late!" I slid my sweaty backpack off my shoulders; laid my trekking poles down beside it and sat down on the summit's granite floor using my backpack as a kind of back support.

"Well...", I reasoned to no one in particular, "at least these little blueberries ain't floatin' in that skim milk." Plucking a big berry off a bush; I closed my eyes and shoved it in my mouth. "Sweet! Holy Cow! These things are sweet tasting! I cannot believe it!", I exclaimed aloud. "I just hiked more than 200 miles in the last two weeks and passed up one blueberry bush after another!" What a nut I was.

"Brethren, I could not myself yet to have laid hold: but one thing I do, forgetting the things which are behind, and stretching forward to the things which are before, I press on toward the goal unto the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus." The Book of Phillipians (Bible) 3:13-14

Spanky and Hoosier...

In the course of one's lifetime; you meet many people. White ones. Black ones. Short ones. Tall ones. Big ones. Small ones. Ya know, they're everday people. (hmmm.... are you humming the song yet?)

Every once in awhile; you meet someone unique and in a moment in time that can only happen once; brought together when God orders time, place and circumstances to line up perfectly. Such was the case when I met an affable fellow named "Hoosier."

Now, I am not at all sure what a Hoosier is exactly. I know the term originates from living in one of the most boring states a man could live in... Indiana. I mean, what else is a man from Indiana, if he is going to nickname himself a name; going to call himself?

Mishawaka? Gary? Bobby "the" Knight? Slim picken', if ya asked me. So? Why not Hoosier?

So, here are two middle aged men; both hiking along the Appalachian Trail- arriving at one of those three-sided wilderness trail shelters.

Our introductions went something like this: "Hey! You a hiker?" "Yah! You too?" What else would we be? We were two grown men in the middle of nowhere- carrying our life's possessions on our backs and wearing clothes that haven't been washed in several days... gee whiz! "What is you name fella?" "Hoosier. What's yours?" "Spanky."

You could just see it coming... I didn't know what a Hoosier was anymore than he knew what a Spanky was. We both busted out laughing.

Over the next several hours- long past the time when a hiker should have gone to sleep; we shared stupid jokes, sang oldies songs from the sixties, talked about our past, where we were in the present and what we hoped for the future. At some point, one of us must have finally dozed off chuckling about something...

I think about Hoosier every now and then. I am thankful for the brief time we spent together. I became a richer man for meeting him. I hope he is doing well. He sure loved his kids.

"The steps of a man are established by the LORD, when he delights in his way; though he fall, he shall not be cast headlong, for the LORD upholds his hand. I have been young, and now am old, yet I have not seen the righteous forsaken or his children begging for bread. He is ever lending generously, and his children become a blessing. Turn away from evil and do good; so shall you dwell forever." The Book of Psalms (Bible) 37:21-27