"We're bored," I complained to our mom, hoping she'd suggest going to the park or somewhere fun. However, she was busy cleaning the house -- something that always seemed to escape our notice.
"If I hear that again, I'm putting y'all to work. Go outside and play." she said. Then to me, "Put your wheelchair on the porch so I can wash it."
We grabbed popsicles from the freezer. Then I took my wheelchair out and parked it on the porch. We went over to the tire swing in our front yard and my brother and sister fought over who would push and who would swing first.
Mom came outside with soap and water. She cleaned my wheelchair and rinsed it off with the garden hose. I went up to the porch to get my wheelchair.
"Let it dry first," she instructed, then went into the house.
After a while of swinging...
"Lets go pick backberries," I suggested.
"We aren't allowed to go down the street without mom or dad," my brother reminded me.
"I'll go ask," I said.
I went inside. "Mom can we have the Easter baskets to go berry picking?"
"Sure," my mom said.
It should be noted that (unbeknown to us) our mom had not yet learned about the black berry patch down the road. The kids that lived nearby told us when we saw them riding their bikes one day, carrying bags full of berries. I suppose to her we were pretending, but Mom gave me the baskets and I assumed permission to go pick blackberries. When I went back outside, I gave the good news to my siblings. I got in my wheelchair.
"The seat is still wet," I said.
"Just sit your basket on it and I'll carry you and push the wheelchair. I'm sure it will be dry when we get ready to come back," my brother offered.
My brother carried me on his back and pushed my wheelchair while our sister walked beside us. We weren't usually allowed to walk down the street by ourselves and I was excited mom allowed it now.
We came to a small sparse of woods. There was a large ditch, about five feet deep, between the road and the wooded area. The thicket of black berries sat just in front of the woods; we didn't know if they were wild or purposely planted, but neighborhood kids came here often to pick and eat the delicious, tangy berries. The only means of crossing was a thin, peninsula like patch of dirt. Walking across it was simple, but my wheelchair was a little too wide.
"I am just going to leave your wheelchair parked on the side of the road," my brother said.
"No, what if someone steals it?" I panicked.
"But we'll be able to see it from the other side and I can run back over here and stop them," he boasted.
"What if we are way down there?" I pointed far off.
"Fine," my brother groaned. He gave the basket to our sister to carry and she took it across. Then to me, "You push, I will stand in front and guide it."
Everything worked out well enough, until we got about halfway across. It happened so fast, I spent the moment after frozen in shock. The left tire slipped off the side. Not wanting to be taken with it, I simply let go of the wheelchair. My brother did not give up right away; he grabbed onto the front and attempted to pull it up. But he was small for a seven year old and gravity quickly won that game of tug o' war.
The wheelchair landed in the ditch -- in a big puddle of mud. My brother and I used a few choice words we'd heard our dad say.
"Should we go get mom?" I asked him.
"No, I can get it out," my brother insisted.
He went into the woods. I sat on the edge of the ditch looking down at my wheelchair and wondering what I would be in trouble for more; getting my wheelchair dirty or dropping it in a ditch.
A few moments later my brother reappeared carrying a bundle of long, slightly thick branches. He was sweaty and panting as he set to work angling them in the ditch. Many of them barely reached the top, but he put them as close together as he could to make a crude ramp.
"I'm going to jump in and push your wheelchair up the ramp. You grab the front and pull it up when it gets close," he said to me, then hopped into the ditch.
My brother attempted to push the wheelchair up his constructed ramp, but the branches were not solid and kept sliding apart. He rearranged them and tried a different approach. Laying the wheelchair on its side, he pushed/lifted it up toward me. This worked. I was able to get a hold of the handles, but I was too weak to pull the heavy wheelchair out myself and my brother wasn't able to push it any higher.
"Help her pull the wheelchair out," he directed our sister, who was watching from the other side.
She crossed back over to the road and together we pulled while our brother pushed. Slowly we succeeded in getting the wheelchair onto the road.
"Okay, don't lay in the street," I instructed my little sister, who would definitely need a nap after this.
"I got berries," she answered, holding up her basket. There were only a few, while her mouth and t-shirt suggested what happened to the rest.
"Let's just go home," my brother said.
We made it back to the house. Mom was waiting for us on the porch.
"I could whip you three. You know better than to go down the street by yourselves."
"But you said we could pick berries," I argued.
"You know I never would agree to that if I knew it meant going down the street." Then she saw the mud.
"What did you do to your wheelchair?" she demanded.
I decided honesty was the best policy and told her the story.
"Can I go inside now?" I asked, wanting only to lay down in front of the box fan.
"No, you're going to wash your wheelchair first."
I looked at my brother.
"He's already done his punishment; getting the wheelchair out of the ditch."
"I helped, too" I explained.
"You manipulated them and tried to be sneaky with me, but you know better," she scolded.
As unbelievable as it sounds that wasn't my intention, because I thought she knew about the blackberries. However, I didn't try to argue, because I knew it would only make my punishment worse. The next day my mom asked if we would like pick blackberries with her. This time, I left my wheelchair at home.
