He Was a Berry Good Man

Grandpa George was a fascinating man. He’d grown up in New Hampshire, survived the Great Depression, and served in World War II before settling down in San Diego. If you asked him why he’d moved here, he’d say he was sick of having to dig his butt out of snowstorms. Yet he still retained the industrious quality of New Englanders, and much of this industriousness was spent on earthquake-proofing his home. I never knew why he was so obsessed with this, but if anyone knew how to survive an earthquake, he did. Faded family photos were stuck to the walls with earthquake putty, the fridge and cabinets were bolted to the walls, and the TV was held hostage with bungee cords and Velcro. For the record, native Californians like myself rarely worry this much about earthquakes.

Grandpa George’s backyard was one of the few things he owned that wasn’t screwed down or stuck onto something else. It stretched for few acres, and he had planted most of it with a sea of berries: blackberries, strawberries, and boysenberries. This backyard was an oasis in the midst of suburbia; George had bought this land years before others dreamed of moving out here. Growing these berries was a hobby he’d long cherished; I often sat listening to his stories about summers spent berry-picking in the White Mountains. When it came time to pick his berries, he’d recruit me and his other grandchildren to help him do the job, though he’d always pick the most berries. After the berries were picked, he’d make his own jellies and jams by adding sugar to the berries, boiling the mixture, and putting it into recycled peach jars. These jars were then placed in the small basement he had made specifically for storing jellies. It worked well; they turned out stickier and far more delicious than anything bought in a store.

One winter, after berry season had long passed, I was looking at the billowing clouds outside, mesmerized by their ever-changing shapes and patterns. A murder of crows on the ground suddenly shot towards the sky, and as I stared at their synchronized flight, the ground fell out from under me. The sky and berry bushes were shaking violently, and I thought immediately of Grandpa George. After the shaking stopped, I went inside to see what happened to him. He wasn’t in the kitchen, or the living room, or the bathroom, or any of the bedrooms. When I reached the basement, I found him lying unconscious on the floor. I rushed towards him, avoiding the jelly jar shards, and quickly checked his pulse. No sign of life. But this didn’t make sense; the wounds he’d received from the falling jelly jars didn’t look severe enough to kill him. Then I saw it: jelly plugged his nostrils and throat, leaving him unable to breathe.   

And that’s how Grandpa George died. From jelly.