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Wednesday
I reprint an essay I wrote twelve years ago about how, on a hot August day, our family experienced wondrous news: my son Toby proposed to Candice Wilson, whom he had met at the University of Pittsburgh (he in English, she in Film Studies). Four children later, the marriage has proven to be as fruitful as Mary Oliver’s August blackberry bushes, her poem about which I included in the post. Here it is.
Reprinted from August 2, 2011
My original design for this post was to open with a story about my youngest son when he was a toddler, after which I would lead into a Mary Oliver August poem about blackberries. A momentous development in the Bates household has occurred since then, however. Not to be deterred, I’ve woven the news into my post. Hang with me and all will be clear.
First, the story. When we lived in our first Maryland house, we had large blackberry bushes in our yard that attracted the 18-month-old Toby. He was passionately fond of the berries but didn’t know how to handle the thorns. At one point I remember seeing him stuffing fistfuls of blackberries into his mouth, crying because of the prickles, then grabbing more berries and thorns, crying again, and so on. Pleasure and pain were all wrapped up together.
Now the poem. In Mary Oliver’s “August” there is a similar mingling of pain and pleasure. While she describes “cramming the black honey of summer into my mouth,” she also mentions the hurt involved. Nature’s gifts may be available to all, but they are invariably accompanied by ripped arms and dark creeks. Rather than detract from the delight, however, the obstacles only enhance it. Life is a bear’s paw, thinking of nothing but that honey as it darts among “the black bells, the leaves.” “All day my body accepts what it is,” she tells us as she surrenders to the moment. Here’s the poem:
August
By Mary OliverWhen the blackberries hang
swollen in the woods, in the brambles
nobody owns, I spendall day among the high
branches, reaching
my ripped arms, thinkingof nothing, cramming
the black honey of summer
into my mouth; all day my bodyaccepts what it is. In the dark
creeks that run by there is
this thick paw of my life darting amongthe black bells, the leaves; there is
this happy tongue.
Now for our news. Toby took his Trinidadian girlfriend to Church Point last night (her name is Candice Wilson) to see the phosphorescent lights given off by the jellyfish in the St. Mary’s River. Under a full canopy of stars, he asked her to marry him and she accepted. We are all very, very happy.
Candice has a mixture of Carib and African ancestry, so at the moment I’m thinking of her as the black honey of Toby’s summer. To this association I add a story that Candice told me when I was describing Toby’s encounters with blackberries. When she was a teenager in Trinidad, she once cut down a tree (it was already on its way to falling) in order to retrieve a peewah fruit that was growing high in its branches. She miscalculated, however, and nearly had the tree fall on her. Luckily, because she had much experience with falling out of trees as a child, she had already calculated where she needed to jump if anything went wrong.
Candice gouged her finger (she still bears the scar) but was otherwise all right. The peewah, she said, was delicious.
So Toby and Candice, may you reach high for delicious fruit, even when it seems inaccessible. Don’t settle for anything less than a rich pleasure. Of course, there will be thorns and falling trees. You know this well, Toby, since the “dark creek” next to which you proposed carried away your oldest brother eleven years ago. But your love will carry you through the bad times as well as the good.
There will always be this happy tongue.
