1898 - Wild Blackberries and Mischief at the Lighthouse

The dark Mason jar of wild blackberries caught Elsie’s eye when she looked around the root cellar under the Lighthouse Keepers House.

She thought, “If only I could have just a spoonful of those berries, so delicious. I can almost taste them now. That would be enough. Just one spoonful.”

Elsie knew it would be a first time she did something like secretly using the family food supplies if she ate some of the blackberries. It would be dishonest.

The root cellar’s shelves of Mason Jars full of vegetables and fruits sat in the darkness. Elsie held the candle up so she could see the handwritten labels pasted onto the glass.

Her face and hands felt the icy chill from the December nights on the Oregon Coast. She knew the temperatures were comfortable during the day if she wore several layers, but the cold air of the nights made her breath look like smoke blowing.

“Elsie, did you find the potatoes?” Her mother hollered from above at the back door of the house. “I’m making a special holiday stew."

“Yes, mother, I’ve got them,” Elsie yelled back. She took a last look at the jar of berry preserves and went up the stairs. 

Darkness was falling and up on the bluff she saw the lighthouse beacon flashing. The night wind seemed to go right through the layers of her clothes. 

Evening stars were coming out in the clear sky. The ocean sent its surf music up from the beach below. The cold air made her nose tingle and carried the fragrance of ocean and wilderness.

Her mother was standing at the wood burning Franklin warming stove. Elsie set the potatoes on the kitchen table. She lowered her eyes, and a sinking feeling came to her. “What was I thinking, getting ready to take some of Mother’s blackberries?”

“I need more firewood too, for the stove,” said her mother. Jeanie used a poker to move the burning wood under the stove around. 

“Yes, Mother, I’ll be right back,” said Elsie. “Thank you, honey,” said her mother. Elsie went down to the basement under the house to chop more firewood. 

In the basement, she set a small log piece on the ground, grabbed the lightest weight axe, and swung it to make kindling-size pieces. Her twelve-year-old muscles were strong after helping with chores all of her life.

The jar of sweet, moist wild berries beckoned to her from the shelf. “Maybe just one bite,” Elsie thought. “Then I would be happy.”

She grabbed the jar off the shelf, struck the metallic lid against a log several times, and unscrewed it. 

“MMMmmm,” she thought, putting a fingerful of the berries into her mouth.

“Stop that,” came a thought, and she screwed the top back onto the jar and placed it on the shelf. Elsie noticed the smidgen of blackberries she took did not even show.

She placed the kindling on a burlap bag and gathered the bag sides together, then carried them next to her chest, holding the kindling with both arms.

The kitchen felt warm when Elsie came back inside. Her mother was putting potatoes into a pot on the Franklin stove. The wood had mostly burned away.

“Here, Mother,” ‘Elsie said. She set the wood on the floor and began stacking it in the area under the stove top. The kindling caught fire and small flames began to grow.

“Thank you, dear.” Jeanie smiled at her daughter. Elsie looked at her mother’s tired face, the dark hair parted in the middle and pulled back into a bun, the brown dress brushing her ankles with the gray apron over it. 

“Father was up last night working with the other lighthouse keeper to fix something wrong with the beacon,” Elsie thought. “They did not get a good sleep last night. They work so hard.”

A wave of feeling swept through Elsie. She loved the wonders of life at the remote lighthouse. But keeping the beacon lit and rotating at night meant the lighthouse keepers kept a strenuous schedule, even though they took turns.

The kerosine had to be filled, the wicks for the burning flames trimmed, and the soot had to be cleaned off the Fresnel lens so the light could shine brightly. Their nights could turn into days and the rhythms of life could be tiring.

“Honey,” her mother said, “Would you please bring some up some beans and tomatoes?”

On the way back to the root cellar, Elsie pictured the jar of blackberries, sitting near the potatoes. 

"I’ve practically never tasted anything so good,” she thought. “I’ve been working hard today. One more bite wouldn’t hurt.”

Before she left with the potatoes, Elsie opened the Mason Jar again and took another fingerful of blackberries. She closed her eyes and rolled it around in her mouth for a while before swallowing.

“Mother, here are the beans and tomatoes,” she said to Jeanie when she came into the kitchen again. 

Her father was back from servicing the lighthouse beacon and his tall frame stood next to the stove. He still wore his cap and coat. Elsie knew that in four hours or less, he would hike back up the slope to the lighthouse and service the kerosine, wicks, and cleaning of the lens again. 

Elsie got the jar of cornmeal out and mixed it with water, and rolled a spoonful into a ball, then pressed it flat. The iron skillet was warming on top of the stove. She placed one of the cornmeal flatbreads on the skillet and flipped it over when it was ready.

“Honey, I need some more beans and tomatoes,” her mother said. Elsie saw the pot Jeanie was stirring was beginning to bubble.

 Jeanie was adding herbs to the pot and she had dried salmon sitting on the kitchen table.

“I’ll get them.” Elsie scooped a cornmeal flatbread out of the skillet and left for the root cellar again.

“Just one more little bit,” she thought, reaching for the blackberries again. Then, “one small bite is so good, I’ll just take another tiny bite.”

Elsie looked at the jar when she screwed the lid back on. “Did I eat all that?”

The jar was clearly half empty.

“No one will notice,” she thought. “And it tasted so good.”

Elsie knew it was the first time she had tried to take some of the family’s food supplies secretly. “I would have asked, “she reasoned to herself, “but Mother is saving those for the pies.”

When Elsie walked back into the kitchen with the beans and tomatoes she felt her face drooping and she looked away from her mother’s gaze.

“Is something the matter,” Jeanie asked. 

“No, I’m fine,” Elsie said.

“We can start making a pie now. Would you get the flour out and start on the crust?” Jeanie smiled at Elsie, knowing how much Elsie loved berry pies.

“Oh, are we making one tonight?” Elsie said.

“Yes, as soon as these are done on the stove.”

Elsie saw her brothers come in from feeding the horses at the barn near the house and the other livestock at the inland pasture.

“Edward, Samuel,” said Jeanie. “Please go next door and get the other two families. We’re going to have a holiday feast tonight. I’m even making a berry pie for later.”

Elsie pictured everyone sitting at the dining table and feeling the heat from the warming stove there. She loved the gatherings when her mother read from the traveling library by candlelight. 

The wooden box of books would be picked up by the surf boat and delivered to the larger tender where it waited out on the ocean. A new box of books would provide fresh reading material. 

“What are we reading tonight?” asked Elsie’s father. She knew Joseph also took books with him up to the lighthouse to read there, too. 

When the nights were stormy he stayed there overnight instead of hiking back to the house in heavy rain. It was comfortable with the warming stove throwing heat while he was reading between servicing the beacon.

Edward said, “Can we read “Journey to the Center of the Earth, by H.G. Wells?”

Samuel wanted a different book. “How about “Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson?”

“I’ve got a book picked out already,” Jeanie said. “Pinocchio. By Carlo Collodi.”

“What’s that about?” asked Elsie.

“A wooden puppet comes to life. “Every time he tells a lie his nose grows,” said Jeanie. 

Elsie felt a squirming sensation inside. “I didn’t really lie,” she thought. “I just didn’t tell anyone.” Her chest felt tight and she felt the skin on her face prickling.

“Samuel,” Jeanie said. “Would you fetch that big jar of blackberries from the root cellar?” She saw the pie crust Elsie created was almost ready.

The smells of the vegetables and herbs filled the kitchen. The cornbread fragrance wafted into the noses. Jeanie thought about the evening ahead. It would be wonderful, even if Joseph had to leave in a few hours to service the beacon.

Footsteps thundered up the back stairs by the kitchen. Samuel burst in.

“Look,” he shouted. “Something happened to the blackberries.”

He held up the half-full Mason jar. The family stared and wondered. Rodents? Wild animals? Who?

Jeanie looked at Samuel, Edward, and Elsie. They stared back.

Elsie felt Jeanie’s eyes on her face. She needed to do something.

“I saw one of the boys from next door in our root cellar this morning,” she said. Her breath stopped for a moment. She felt a tight sensation in her chest, and she stood very still, looking steadily at her mother.

The blue eyes of her mother looked into Elsie’s eyes and they were as cold as the winter sea and as penetrating as the storm winds.

Elsie felt her eyes and face become still like a piece of wood.

Jeanie hesitated, then turned away, working the stove. “We’ll make do with what we’ve got,” was all she said.

After supper, they cleared the dishes and gathered by candlelight in the dining room for an evening of listening to Jeanie read out loud.

While the berry pie was still cooking, Jeanie prepared to read.

Smiles and relaxed faces looked at her as everyone felt the contentment following a good meal, with the warming stove and candlelight creating a sense of gratitude for the blessings of life.

Jeanie read from the book description.

“The story of Pinocchio is about a puppet. Pinocchio was carved out of a piece of wood by the old wood carver Gepetto. The puppet acts like a human child."

"He frequently gets into trouble and is often impulsive and mischievous. When he tells a lie, his nose grows longer, and when he tells the truth, his nose resumes its normal size.”

Elsie’s breath caught again. “First I took the jam secretly, then I lied about the neighbor’s boy in the root cellar,” she thought.

Her mother began to read.

“The Adventures of Pinocchio. How it happened that Mastro Cherry, a carpenter, found a piece of wood that wept and laughed like a child.

“Centuries ago there lived—

“A king!” my little readers will say immediately.

No, children, you are mistaken. Once upon a time there was a piece of wood. It was not an expensive piece of wood. Far from it. Just a common block of firewood, one of those thick, solid logs that are put on the fire in winter to make cold rooms cozy and warm.

I do not know how this really happened, yet the fact remains that one fine day this piece of wood found itself in the shop of an old carpenter. His real name was Mastro Antonio, but everyone called him Mastro Cherry, for the tip of his nose was so round and red and shiny that it looked like a ripe cherry.

As soon as he saw that piece of wood, Mastro Cherry was filled with joy. Rubbing his hands together happily, he mumbled half to himself:

“This has come in the nick of time. I shall use it to make the leg of a table.”

He grasped the hatchet quickly to peel off the bark and shape the wood. But as he was about to give it the first blow, he stood still with arm uplifted, for he had heard a wee, little voice say in a beseeching tone: “Please be careful! Do not hit me so hard!”

What a look of surprise shone on Mastro Cherry’s face! His funny face became still funnier.”

The candlelight flickered and cast shadows in the room. The room felt cozy and warm. Outside the soft hum of the ocean waves on the shore below blended with the sound of the sea wind. Jeanie’s audience imagined seeing the carpenter and the wood. 

When the story got to the part about the voice coming out of the wood the families felt they could hear it too.

“What a strange story,” they thought. “But unusual and interesting.”

Elsie was the only person there who did not feel content and relaxed. She felt like the blackberry preserves were on her tongue again, but the good taste was gone. “I’m almost ready to ask Mother if I can be excused so I can go to bed early,” she thought. “I don’t feel well.”

The story of the mischievous wooden puppet who came alive like a child captivated the listening group. 

Everyone laughed, but then the puppet’s antics and lies progressed and became alarming. Then the story reached the part where Pinocchio’s nose grows to an enormous length when he tells a lie.

Elsie had stopped laughing at the antics now. When she thought of secretly eating her mother’s berry jam, and lying to blame the neighbor boy, then her own face felt tired and stiff, like it was made of wood too.

“May I be excused, Mother? I would like to go on upstairs to bed,” she said.

“Are you feeling alright?” Jeanie asked her. “I’m fine. Just tired,” said Elsie.

She said good night to everyone and went slowly up the steps, feeling more tired than usual. In her bedroom, she looked out the window. The sky was clear with a large moon lighting the sea, sandy beach, and shore. 

The beacon passed her window for a second as it swept around.

Elsie wished the bedrooms had warming stoves and she put on heavy layers of clothing before climbing into bed under a thick layer of blankets.

She closed her eyes but sleep would not come to her. Instead of a cozy feeling under the covers, she felt a sense of unease.

Later that night Jeanie came into Elsie’s room to check on her. She carried a candle and it cast a soft glow in Elsie’s bedroom.

“Mother, there’s something I need to tell you,” Eslie said.

“Yes, dear,” said Jeanie.

“I did something today that I never did before. And I don’t feel good now.”

Jeanie sat on the edge of Elsie’s bed and watched her with patient eyes.

“I know all about it,” Jeanie said. “I went to the root cellar to see what was taking you so long and I saw what you did.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Elsie said.

“I was waiting to see if you would tell me,” said Jeanie.

“What I did was wrong. I am so sorry. Please forgive me,” said Elsie.

“Thank you for telling me. Just don’t do something like that again. It hurts me if you go behind my back and hide something like that,” said Jeanie.

“I know. I’m so sorry, Mother,” said Elsie.

“Tomorrow is a new day, honey. It was not like you to do this. I know it was your first time being a “Pinocchio.” Elsie giggled. “At least your nose did not grow long.”

The lighthouse beacon flashed past the window. For a second Elsie saw her mother’s face filled with love. “How could I lie to her like that?” thought Elsie.

“Honey, I love you so much and it hurt me when you lied and blamed the neighbor’s boy. I was so disappointed,” said Jeanie.

“I know. I won’t do it again,” said Elsie. “I felt like my nose was growing long like Pinocchio’s.”

Their eyes met. Elsie and Jeanie shared a new understanding. Trust was restored. Jeanie sat there for a while until her daughter’s eyes closed and her breathing was regular.

She looked out at the moon and stars over the ocean and at the beacon’s light moving through the darkness.

“Thank you,” she whispered, sighing. 

Jeanie’s footsteps were hushed when she walked down the hall. 

Elsie awakened from her light sleep and lay smiling in bed, thinking about the puppet Pinocchio.

 “I love this story. But I am not going to turn into a Pinocchio,” she thought.

Elsie remembered the kitchen aromas of stew and cornmeal flatbread, wafting in the dining room candlelight, with everyone gathered for story reading.

Wonder, contentment, and peace enveloped her, like a soft, warm quilt.

She turned onto her side and fell into a restful sleep, dreaming of running on the beach with her puppy, "Teddybear."