From what the previous owner of these properties named the Golden Coast of New Moon Lake, one can see the prominence of Prospect Mountain rising almost directly above the far opposite shores of Hollywood Beach. The locals call it Blueberry Hill, though, and so we do too. As a young child, I saw it as something distant, vague, and unapproachable. But the older I got, the smaller it seemed to become, until one day it was so decided we should climb to its cobalt summit. There were seven of us: George, Paula, me, Jane, David, Diana, and Joey. It was a lucid summer day and that’s about all the plot one needs in the summer for seven souls on a gigantic quest.
The way to the mountain begins as a dirt hill-country road climbing its eastern shoulder. No dwellings line either side. Ramshackle stone walls fence in young rambunctious forests. Some old white pines appear here and there. The seven of us talk continually, sometimes splitting into smaller groups, sometimes forming a single unit. If there’s anything resembling a couple at this point in the story, it’s David and Diana, but they’re still at the flirting stages of a developing relationship, so there’s no real confidentialities being exchanged, except for an occasional push and shove—no holding hands or arm in arms.
This is the first summer the seven of us could be considered a gang, and even that is beginning to appear diffuse and impermanent. George really doesn’t get along with Joey. One is mostly an unassuming country boy and the other is almost a city loudmouth, the opposite ends of the spectrum for this group. The rest of us fall somewhere in the more central bandwidth of the town. So while the conversation appears to blend among the seven of us, it really gets no larger than six, with either George or Joey not participating at the group level.
A gap appears in the stone wall bordering the west side of the road and George hollers, “This is the road up the mountain, gang. My uncle’s blueberry trucks have worn it nice for hiking.” So we turn and begin the steeper ascent through rocky fields of low blueberry shrubs. Some of us pick a few berries after George first stoops down to pick a handful and rises with an uplifted fist, crying out: “What Kent doesn’t know doesn’t hurt him!” Joey replies with something more acidic, “I don’t know if we should trust that silence. He’ll probably own you in a year or so; he owns everything else around here.”
Willingly ignoring that remark, George walks briskly ahead leaving the six of us to follow in his disappearing wake. The hill gets steeper. We grow quieter. Joey is starting to fall behind, his stocky overweight stature beginning to feel the strength of gravity. George looks back. He can’t help himself: “Hey, if you wait until Monday, my uncle Kent can give you a ride up, Joe.” Joey raises his arm in defiance and throws him the bird. George snickers, “Yeah, good idea, Joe. Save your breath. You’re going to need it.” And continues to climb like a man with a plan. The remaining five of us are trying to keep up on the one hand, and delay on the other, but the line is stretching thin.
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