August 12, 2000. It was a good summer for blueberries, at least around the camp. I'm always surprised every year when they come out, for I'm convinced that it is earlier than the previous year. But it never is. I think it's my unwillingness to admit that summers are getting shorter the older I get. "It can't be time for blueberries yet, summer hasn't even started!" But it had, and it was in full progress when the blueberries arrived. I'm obsessed with picking blueberries. I pick them until my freezer is full, until I've given them away to friends and family, until my back cannot bear any more crouching over the ground-hugging bushes. Each berry is so small that the satisfaction of filling up a 4-cup Tupperware container is immeasurable. I love to see progress, to see things that were once chaotic become orderly. I love control. The empty beige container slowly becomes blue with each deposit. The bush, once laden with berries, becomes green again, empty, ready for winter and renewal. I was picking berries that Sunday when I heard the news. I had almost filled a container and was franticly scampering around looking for a new patch to fill my cup when I saw Jeff coming my way. Jeff loves the camp, but not for the reasons I do. He loves the quiet. The lazy boy. The time to read about UNIX and politics and mindless entertainment and not feel guilty. The fact that he was coming to one of the berry patches surprised me as I knew he had just gotten into a new UTNE Reader.       "Hey, what's up?" I asked, picking my head up out of the ferns which often cover the best berry patches.       "Uncle Bud died."      "Huh? What? How? When?" His nonchalance shouldn't have surprised me considering the circumstances, but for some reason I was taken aback.      "I guess he was in the hospital again and was having seizures. His liver was totally shot and they were trying to give him another blood transfusion. His body wouldn't take the blood, it just kept coming out of his eyes and nose and mouth and ears. They put him on life support. He died at lunchtime." My head filled with visions of my grandpa standing by his side through it all. He had been there, watching helplessly, for the past 2 years. Witnessing your little brother's destruction was a view I could not imagine taking in. This was the end. No more finding him passed out on the floor, in bed, at the table, in his truck, no more digging through hiding places looking for stashed vodka (and giving it to Jeff and me who were acquiring a taste for 5 O'clock and Sunny D). It was over. Jeff walked away. I tried to keep picking. 2 cups. 2 1/4 cups. 2 1/3 cups. 2 1/2 cups. My eyes filled with tears. I collapsed onto the sandy earth. The cup of blueberries spilled to the ground, each berry making a new home in footprints and anthills. The ants scurried about the blueberry mess, feasting on my disaster, trying to dodge my tears which wouldn't stop coming. It was over.