Blueberry Pie
John Chamoun
I used to make it a point to spend at least one day a month every summer going to the pond near my old elementary school. I remember the honey suckles that would grow there, the raspberries, the blackberries and blueberries, pretty much every color berry you could think of.
Summer days in Maryland are usually spent with me and my siblings fighting to stay inside as long as possible, that or in a pool. We lived in a three-bedroom house spent between seven kids back in those days. Some months with air conditioning, some months not so much I used to remember mom fighting with me over school supplies. “You don’t need all these pens!” she’d always say, or that I don’t need this fancy binder all the other kids have, I’d be fine with a folder. I never understood then, but I do now. Life is expensive to live. I spent as much time as I could down the block at my best friend’s house. He was an odd sort. I had never seen him wearing anything other than these long camo sweatpants and what I remember as a flimsy tee shirt. He had blonde hair and bright blue eyes, and a lot of my family members loved having him around.
My sister, Gabrielle, whom I often left to go pick berries with by the pond has always been a bit of an oddball. Don’t confuse her abnormality with unintelligence though, she’s always been considered one of the smarter people in our family. One of the least caring, but intelligent. She learned how to play the trumpet better than her teacher by the time she was eight, and the ukulele by thirteen. By the time she was thirteen, everyone on the block had known her name. She’d ride around the block on her unicycle, she’d go up and down large hills, down backstreets, woodsy areas and even over the railroad tracks. Once she had practiced for long enough on just a unicycle, she decided to learn some tricks. So, she’d tie balloon animals or juggle a bunch of balls or whatever else she could get her hands on. I remember she learned first to juggle with bananas, she’d walk around the living room with two in her right hand and one in her left. She juggled and juggled until she could do it without looking. Once she could, she decided she’d start using a unicycle and juggle. She definitely had an interesting set of talents.
I remember asking how to get around the thorns when I was younger, trying to pick the fresher looking berries, she always answered with something that irritated me. “Grow taller” or “Think.” It’s crazy that people can never remember exactly what occurred or what someone might’ve said, but they can remember how the event made them feel. I always felt small around her, she would belittle me and everyone else constantly. It was her way of letting us know she was better than us. However, she wasn’t like this with everyone.
Gabby loved my little brother Patrick. He was blonde haired and blue eyed just like her. Those two were, are, and always have been a gorgeous set of people. She used to give him hugs and kisses and treat him like no other, make sure that he felt special. I felt a large amount of resentment towards her for that. I never meant to act so rudely towards them when I did, but it definitely happened, and I treated them poorly more often than I wish I could say I did.. I remember being called things like a “Wise guy” or a “Smart ass” for the way I spoke to them. I never reflected back on it, always thinking I was right, I see now why I was treated like I was less than a child, it’s because I treated them like children, so how are they to knock me one lower?
So, there we were, a few hours into picking berries. Blue-berries were the main focus of today’s hunt. Mom said that if we’d collected enough, and that she’d teach Gabby how to make a blueberry pie. I remember thinking how hot it was, I took a break after an hour or so, after we had well enough to make at least one pie. Gabby didn’t like that I took breaks, she thought of herself as a slave driver I’m sure, that I was out of line for not having picked enough berries. “Faster Jack faster! Your break is over, get back to picking berries!” I didn’t want to pick any more berries, we’d been out there for at least two hours, I’m tired and small. I just wanted to sit a while. She kept me busy, and reminded me that sitting was prohibited! At this point I could feel my head heating up, maybe it was from the heat of those long July afternoons; maybe it was because of infuriation, I used to have some serious anger issues.
For example, Patrick used to poke at me, like all little brothers poke at their older brothers, but he knew how to get to me. He’d come in the room I was in when I was watching T.V and turn it off, over, and over, and over again. Just annoying little things for no reason. Not that it justifies my response, but this kind of outbreak happened quite often. So, at some point he had to have known I was going to get up and attack him.
I used to get so angry, once I dragged him down the street by his shirt, I almost left scars on his back, my mom, the nurse, who was always so hard on me and any injury I had was quickly called to fallacy, whereas Patrick was always injured. So, for the first few times I was told he was hurt I’d actually get upset, until I realized that my mom always went extremely light on him. This prompted more anger towards him, resentment and hatred towards Patrick and the idea that he could get away with just about anything no matter how I responded. Which evolved into more violence. Any time he did anything that would be just about as annoying as a fly, I’d try to handle him like one, swat him out of the air and break his wings. That’s how violent I was towards my own sibling.
I went home from the pond early, I went home on my own without Gabby walking me back, one of the great taboos of my childhood, not having an older sibling with me when I crossed the street. I understand that we lived in a not so decent neighborhood, but jeez Louise, give me a break. I got home and mom yelled at me, she scolded me until Gabby got home, then she scolded Gabby for letting me walk home on my own. Afterwards, she proceeded to teach Gabby to make the blueberry pie. They had me and Patrick fetch all the ingredients and they’d throw everything together with the measuring cups and me and Patrick begged to pour things in. We finished baking the pie by the evening, ate dinner and then went for the desert. The main event, what we’d been waiting for all day, what we worked for all day. Well, I wish I could tell you it was good, but I don’t know what it tasted like, I’ve eaten my mom’s pies since then, they’ve all been great, but that pie in specific I never ate. It was my punishment for walking home on my own. This wasn’t the first time I was issued this kind of punishment. Once my family all ate hot fudge Sundays while I was in the other room. They used to exclaim how great the food was while they were eating it because they knew I couldn’t have any. My family always was kind of rough on me. Doesn’t matter much though anymore. There’s nothing anyone can do to change the past.
Summer days in Maryland are usually spent with me and my siblings fighting to stay inside as long as possible, that or in a pool. We lived in a three-bedroom house spent between seven kids back in those days. Some months with air conditioning, some months not so much I used to remember mom fighting with me over school supplies. “You don’t need all these pens!” she’d always say, or that I don’t need this fancy binder all the other kids have, I’d be fine with a folder. I never understood then, but I do now. Life is expensive to live. I spent as much time as I could down the block at my best friend’s house. He was an odd sort. I had never seen him wearing anything other than these long camo sweatpants and what I remember as a flimsy tee shirt. He had blonde hair and bright blue eyes, and a lot of my family members loved having him around.
My sister, Gabrielle, whom I often left to go pick berries with by the pond has always been a bit of an oddball. Don’t confuse her abnormality with unintelligence though, she’s always been considered one of the smarter people in our family. One of the least caring, but intelligent. She learned how to play the trumpet better than her teacher by the time she was eight, and the ukulele by thirteen. By the time she was thirteen, everyone on the block had known her name. She’d ride around the block on her unicycle, she’d go up and down large hills, down backstreets, woodsy areas and even over the railroad tracks. Once she had practiced for long enough on just a unicycle, she decided to learn some tricks. So, she’d tie balloon animals or juggle a bunch of balls or whatever else she could get her hands on. I remember she learned first to juggle with bananas, she’d walk around the living room with two in her right hand and one in her left. She juggled and juggled until she could do it without looking. Once she could, she decided she’d start using a unicycle and juggle. She definitely had an interesting set of talents.
I remember asking how to get around the thorns when I was younger, trying to pick the fresher looking berries, she always answered with something that irritated me. “Grow taller” or “Think.” It’s crazy that people can never remember exactly what occurred or what someone might’ve said, but they can remember how the event made them feel. I always felt small around her, she would belittle me and everyone else constantly. It was her way of letting us know she was better than us. However, she wasn’t like this with everyone.
Gabby loved my little brother Patrick. He was blonde haired and blue eyed just like her. Those two were, are, and always have been a gorgeous set of people. She used to give him hugs and kisses and treat him like no other, make sure that he felt special. I felt a large amount of resentment towards her for that. I never meant to act so rudely towards them when I did, but it definitely happened, and I treated them poorly more often than I wish I could say I did.. I remember being called things like a “Wise guy” or a “Smart ass” for the way I spoke to them. I never reflected back on it, always thinking I was right, I see now why I was treated like I was less than a child, it’s because I treated them like children, so how are they to knock me one lower?
So, there we were, a few hours into picking berries. Blue-berries were the main focus of today’s hunt. Mom said that if we’d collected enough, and that she’d teach Gabby how to make a blueberry pie. I remember thinking how hot it was, I took a break after an hour or so, after we had well enough to make at least one pie. Gabby didn’t like that I took breaks, she thought of herself as a slave driver I’m sure, that I was out of line for not having picked enough berries. “Faster Jack faster! Your break is over, get back to picking berries!” I didn’t want to pick any more berries, we’d been out there for at least two hours, I’m tired and small. I just wanted to sit a while. She kept me busy, and reminded me that sitting was prohibited! At this point I could feel my head heating up, maybe it was from the heat of those long July afternoons; maybe it was because of infuriation, I used to have some serious anger issues.
For example, Patrick used to poke at me, like all little brothers poke at their older brothers, but he knew how to get to me. He’d come in the room I was in when I was watching T.V and turn it off, over, and over, and over again. Just annoying little things for no reason. Not that it justifies my response, but this kind of outbreak happened quite often. So, at some point he had to have known I was going to get up and attack him.
I used to get so angry, once I dragged him down the street by his shirt, I almost left scars on his back, my mom, the nurse, who was always so hard on me and any injury I had was quickly called to fallacy, whereas Patrick was always injured. So, for the first few times I was told he was hurt I’d actually get upset, until I realized that my mom always went extremely light on him. This prompted more anger towards him, resentment and hatred towards Patrick and the idea that he could get away with just about anything no matter how I responded. Which evolved into more violence. Any time he did anything that would be just about as annoying as a fly, I’d try to handle him like one, swat him out of the air and break his wings. That’s how violent I was towards my own sibling.
I went home from the pond early, I went home on my own without Gabby walking me back, one of the great taboos of my childhood, not having an older sibling with me when I crossed the street. I understand that we lived in a not so decent neighborhood, but jeez Louise, give me a break. I got home and mom yelled at me, she scolded me until Gabby got home, then she scolded Gabby for letting me walk home on my own. Afterwards, she proceeded to teach Gabby to make the blueberry pie. They had me and Patrick fetch all the ingredients and they’d throw everything together with the measuring cups and me and Patrick begged to pour things in. We finished baking the pie by the evening, ate dinner and then went for the desert. The main event, what we’d been waiting for all day, what we worked for all day. Well, I wish I could tell you it was good, but I don’t know what it tasted like, I’ve eaten my mom’s pies since then, they’ve all been great, but that pie in specific I never ate. It was my punishment for walking home on my own. This wasn’t the first time I was issued this kind of punishment. Once my family all ate hot fudge Sundays while I was in the other room. They used to exclaim how great the food was while they were eating it because they knew I couldn’t have any. My family always was kind of rough on me. Doesn’t matter much though anymore. There’s nothing anyone can do to change the past.
My name is John Chamoun, and
I'm from Baltimore Maryland. I enjoy snowboarding, umbrella hats and taking goofy pictures. I haven't been writing long. I enjoy playing video games and spend my summers working either on farms or on a construction field.
I'm from Baltimore Maryland. I enjoy snowboarding, umbrella hats and taking goofy pictures. I haven't been writing long. I enjoy playing video games and spend my summers working either on farms or on a construction field.