Blueberry Trees
By Carlina Grillo
On a foggy winter day, the morning sun peeked through the branches of blueberry trees that lined the driveway. Warm air blew from the dusty vents of the 1996 Chrysler minivan escorting a newly-born baby boy. The family piled out of the van eager to show the newest family member their grotto of a home. Their whimsical, warm, loving grotto. A magical house that withstood the test of time: the Great Recession and annual forest fires that swept through the California mountains, like the housecleaners that came before the holidays.
Mom and Dad had their newest addition wrapped up like a present. They glanced at the porch swing decorated by twinkling white lights, the place they would sit and talk every night. Memories of loving kisses and tears of laughter flashed as they opened the front door. Behind that door stood cousins and grandparents wearing pajamas and drinking eggnog. The extended family had been awake all night setting up a picturesque Christmas for the baby boy to come home to.
In the living room with the tall ceilings, there was a giant pine tree freshly-picked from the neighbor’s farm. The brown couch cushions, the ones you melted into after a long day, matched the hot chocolate powder that lingered on the rim of Grandma's favorite mug.
The eye-catching present of the year was a children's ball pit, big enough for two kids at a time. Old Saint Nicholas meticulously hand-wrapped every hollow ball, making sure the color scheme of cheap plastic would be top secret. Yellows like the sun and Mom’s beach hats, reds like Dad’s drum kit, and light blues like the socks keeping Baby’s feet warm. Greens and purples like the sour fruit we picked off the blossoming blueberry trees.
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In the small mountain town where blueberries grow on trees, a little girl spends all her time in the treehouse her father built for her. It’s precariously tall, but very sturdy. The build was thought out for months, longer than it needed to be, but he was a thorough man who loved his woodshop. They spent hours sitting in the hot tub, drinking orange cream sodas, and brainstorming the project. Even when it hailed, they hunkered down underneath half the hot tub cover, talking over the rattling of hard ice hitting soft plastic and the noisy bubbling jets. Everyone knew it was important work.
The little girl had complete faith in her father because he let her watch as he drew the blueprints, cut the wood, and hammered every last nail. It was built with love, the kind of love only a father can describe. Her own castle, a place where she was safe to dream. Every day when the girl would climb the ladder into her castle, she read the words engraved on the rungs, “I love you more than I did yesterday, and less than I will tomorrow.” 14 words for the 14 steps it took to get to the top.
One day, after reaching the top, the girl fixated on her legs. They were slightly longer and she noticed her ‘tree climbing’ muscles activated. She looked fearlessly down the ladder until her long blonde hair blocked her vision. Looking out from the top of her fortress, the girl’s eyes followed the road. She saw the little wooden bus stop that was built near her driveway. The bus would come twice a day, but no one could recall the last time someone boarded. The neighbors said it was haunted, but she imagined getting older and being the first kid in town to take the bus all the way to the city. To her, it represented visions of the future, not ghosts of the past.
She remembered the first time she climbed into her wooden castle and she thought about her baby brother who’s still too small to climb. She’d grown a lot since he was born, the blueberry trees had blossomed three times, and she worried about the day she’d have to share her castle.
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Before moving to the quiet town with nothing but a school, a church, and a fire station, before the warm home with the brick chimney, the porch swing, and the royal toilet—a vintage high-tank, pull-chain fixture with a golden chain and a lid finished in cognac wood, before the pebbled driveway lined with tall blueberry trees, there were two ordinary strangers. A youthful woman with platinum hair that shined nearly white, and an Italian man with a consistently fresh perm. A front desk receptionist at a fancy rental car company and a local flower delivery driver. Two paths that were destined to cross.
In 1985, the leaves of a weeping willow tree hung low in the background. In the foreground, the couple shared vows of love: commitments to being loyal, prioritizing mental, physical, and spiritual health, and raising a family with these values.
Naturally, the floral decor at the wedding was the talk of the town. It was an untraditional mixture of irises, thistles, roses, and budding branches from the blueberry trees on the mountain. Numerically, it was a large wedding, but because of the warmth of their big family and close friends it felt intimate, like home.
The party lasted late into the night, dancing fueled by vintage blueberry wine and a band—friends of the groom—that kept playing as long as people were on the dance floor.
The newlyweds took a 1982 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham, courtesy of the bride’s employer, down the California coast. On their long honeymoon drives they talked about their future. They had desires: two kids, a girl and a boy, a porch swing, small town life, surrounded by native trees. They exchanged promises of unconditional love. They vowed to honor their relationship with these words: “I love you more than I did yesterday, and less than I will tomorrow.”
These are the words they’d remind each other of, mostly during late nights over cigarettes on the porch swing, long until they returned to the earth as the soil underneath blossoming blueberry trees.
Carlina Grillo is a freelance journalist, radio DJ, and preschool teacher. Find her on Instagram @carlinagrillo
