Blackberry pie

…how far can a guy with one leg using crutches to get around, stray? I was reminded by the staff at the Dom before they could come to my camp that rule #1 was not to loose one of the vets over the weekend. Here in only a couple hours I had already lost one. I looked everywhere around the camp grounds for John. I must have been destined to join search and rescue someday as I widened my search pattern. Even being the trained firemen I was, trained to stay calm under pressure, I did become a bit concerned that I could not find the old fart. There’s no way he could have gotten down the narrow pathway leading to the creek, then wade in thigh high water to the other side, could he? After several minutes of almost frantic searching I wade into the water to see if I could find him on the other side of the creek bank. I scramble out through the loose gravel bed and up the opposite bank. Is that moisture on those rocks? Bent over grass leading towards an old mining road? A whacked off bramble brush vine, I yell JOHN. Still quite a distance ahead of me I hear “yeah”. I yell back across the creek to the gold miners and let them know I found John, whew. Working my way up the over grown mining road that was no more then a narrow deer trail now, with blackberry vines growing across it I finally reach my Marine. He was of course dressed in full green camo. Wearing those pants that have all the storage pockets in the legs with one of the pants legs neatly pinned up, because he didn't need it any more. Reaching him I asked, John where you going? Knocking a prickly blackberry vine out of his way with one of his crutches he informs me he’s picking blackberries for a blackberry pie. I now calmly ask him what was he planning on using for a crust and I’ll be damn if he didn’t pull out a small biscuit mix box from one of his storage compartments on his good leg. Using his old army hat as a bowl he had picked the ripest blackberries, stopping periodically to test one for himself. After his hat was nearly full of plump juicy berries we made our way back to camp and back up to the rest of the gang that was still panning for gold. They hadn’t missed John much because it meant more gold for themselves.

<  Me stringing the new lanyard on Lauren's new flag pole so the veterans would feel welcome when they came to Beaver Hollow Camp.

I go on about doing some camp business but I got my eye on John now. I’m not going through that again. As he slowly builds a small fire in the fire pit. Out of another pocket he pulls of all things, a small bent up aluminum pan about the size used for a pot pie and begins to mix his ingredients together. With someone else left watching over John I needed to go get the firewood for the upcoming night’s bond fire. Coming back an hour or so later with a load of firewood on the trailer, John walks over to me and asks if I would like to have a bite of his pie. I try to ward him off but he insists, I needed to try some pie since I helped pick the berries. Reluctantly I take a small bite. It didn’t taste as good as my Grandma Mary’s blackberry pies but for a one legged guy who had forded a stream, hiked up an old mining road blazing a trail with his crutches, using his sweaty hat for a bowl and a biscuit mix for crust. It was the most memorable taste of pie I have ever enjoyed…