That Wild Berries Should Grow by Gloria Whelan Page A

“Grandmama and Grandpapa promised I could have a bigger garden.”
    I took them to see the lake. I showed them all the things you could find along the beach. I even made them climb down into the gully. “What did you do down here?” Mom asked. “There seem to be a lot of bugs and weeds and things.”
    â€œThat’s why I like it,” I said, and I told them the names of the bugs and weeds.
    Grandmama took Mom into the pantry to see the jars of fruit and jam and the green tomato pickles. There was a big box all packed with jars for us to take home. Every time we opened a jar of peaches or tomatoes or blackberry jam I would remember the day Grandmama had made them. Grandpapa had picked us a bushel of pears.
    We were just going to have our lunch when Tommy turned up. He always seemed to know when it was time to eat. He brought us a big package. “It’s some pickerel,” he. said. Pickerel is just about the best-tasting fish you can get. “You can take it home with you. It’s fresh. We caught it this morning.” The fish was wrapped in newspapers and chopped ice like they have at Meyer’s Fish House. The newspapers were all wet, and the package was leaking.
    Mom took it and held it a little way away from her. “Pickerel is my favorite fish. We’ll certainly enjoy this. Thank you so much.”
    â€œWho is this very nice young man?” Dad asked. Everyone waited for me to introduce Tommy, so I had to.
    â€œYou’re probably giving your folks a big dinner,” Tommy said, so Grandmama asked him to stay and eat with us. He kicked my shins under the table and I kicked his back. Also he took the last piece of cake on the plate, which isn’t polite. He told fibs, too. “My dad and I saw this huge fish that was as big as this whole house. We would have caught it if we had had a cat to tie on our line. Fish that big just eat cats.”
    â€œWhere do fish get cats to eat in the middle of the lake?” I wanted to know.
    â€œPeople who want to get rid of their cats and kittens dump them in the lake to drown. It happens all the time.”
    â€œIt does not! That’s a terrible thing to say!” Tommy just shrugged. As he was getting ready to go home, Tommy said, “I’ll see you next year.”
    â€œNot if I see you first,” I said. He punched me in the arm and I punched him back.
    In spite of the fact that we had just finished a huge lunch, Grandmama packed a big supper for us to eat in the car. Later in the week my grandparents would leave the cottage for the city, too. Dad and Grandpapa were closing some of the shutters on the windows. Mother and Grandmama were putting sheets on the furniture so it wouldn’t get dusty over the winter. The cottage was beginning to look like it was getting ready for ghosts.
    Finally it was time to go. Our car was loaded. I hugged Grandmama and Grandpapa. Hard. While my mother and dad were saying good-bye to my grandparents, I slipped away to the front of the house. There was the screen porch. There was my old apple tree. And there, stretching as far as I could see, was the shining lake. I stood watching it a long minute. Then I walked slowly back to the car and climbed in.

About the Author
    Gloria Whelan is a poet, short story writer, and novelist best known for her children’s and young adult fiction. Whelan has been writing since childhood and was the editor of her high school newspaper. Many of her books are set in Michigan, but she also writes about faraway places based on her travels abroad. In 2000 she won the National Book Award for her young adult novel Homeless Bird . Her other works have earned places among the American Library Association’s Best Books for Young Adults, the International Reading Association’s Teachers’ Choices and Children’s Choices, Notable Social Studies Trade Books for Young People, and Los Angeles’ 100 Best Books. Whelan has also