The Long View...

Stop the presses! Rewrite the front-page headline: “Cure for Road Rage Discovered in Sierra County!!”

OK, you probably know that even a mild-mannered reporter can become frustrated, then pissed, then furious on Hwy 49 between Nevada City and D’ville.

Half an hour (30 - count ‘em - 30 minutes) behind a driver who thinks 25 to 37 MPH is appropriate, and never bothered to pull over as twelve (12 - count ‘em - 12) cars stacked up behind. I was frothing at the mouth, mentally rehearsing how to get in front, make The Jerk stop, and explain (calmly?) that this behavior was 1) rude, 2) dangerous, and 3) illegal.

I was nuts with fury! I doubt Editor Ryan would allow me to publish my actual comments in a nice family newspaper like The Messenger. Just about the time I noticed that this must be what Road Rage feels like, The Jerk finally turned off at the Dobbins intersection.

Fine!

…and I wanted my equanimity back.

Hoping to enjoy the rest of the (beautiful) drive, I began taking deep slow breaths. I tried to imagine what it must have been like for them to have so many unhappy drivers following them. More deep, slow breaths. I reminded myself how much I enjoy the drive along the North Yuba River. Breathe… Alas, nothing I came up with really helped me settle back into my skin.

So, you’re asking, what worked? Why did we Stop the Presses? What cures Road Rage?

==Drum roll, please== Turns out Road Rage can be cured by blackberries!

Huh?

Oh, yes!

First you need to slowly cruise up and down the main drag of Goodyear’s Bar. Admire the church/school/community hall/museum. Look around to see if you can spot the cemetery. Park in the shade, and mosey on foot out a semi-paved road along the creek, stretching your knees, which get crabby when they’re trapped in the car too long. A pleasant day, dappled sun and shade, the whisper of a breeze in the pines, cedars, oaks…

About three minutes into my solitary stroll I saw them: Completely unexpected, enormous, fully ripe clusters of fruit on the rambling vines between me and the creek.

There I was, in high-top hiking boots and blue jeans, actually dressed for blackberrying.

There they were: rich, juicy, abundant. You know the kind I mean: Huge (they’re getting ample water), deep black, ripe enough to almost fall into your hand, the bright shine on each individual drupelet juuust starting to dull. Utterly, utterly sweet, accessible, perfect.

OMG!! I had been am”bush”ed!

A little while later, I returned to my car and my journey with stained hands and a happy mouth; I was overflowing with gratitude. Which, I suppose, was the antidote I hadn’t known I needed.

Blackberries. Who’d of guessed they could be so powerful?

…Press operators, you may resume printing the newspaper!