That Wild Berries Should Grow Read Online Free

dishtowels and listening to Caruso records on the Victrola. Caruso is a famous Italian singer who is dead now. Grandpapa was reading the newspaper, shaking his head over what he was reading. “Germany has chosen a dangerous leader. This Hitler is an evil man. We have friends in Germany who will find themselves in trouble. I only hope they can leave before it is too late.”
    I asked Grandpapa, “Why did you come to America from Germany?”
    â€œ Ach , over there they wanted everyone to go into the army. They would have sent me to Africa to fight just so they could steal a little more land for themselves. That was not for me.”
    Grandmama sighed. “But when we came away from Germany we had to leave behind everyone we loved.” I thought about my parents and my aunts and uncles and my friends miles away in the city, and I understood what Grandmama felt. Grandmama told me about the grossen Schiff , the big boat, that had brought her and Grandpapa to America. “We sailed from the city of Bremerhaven,” she said. “My papa and mama and my brothers and sister all came to see us off. As the boat pulled away from the dock my family grew smaller and smaller until I couldn’t see them at all. They separated your grandpapa and me. The women had their own cabins and the men had theirs. I was in a stateroom no larger than a closet with four other women, and I knew none of them.”
    â€œYou became good friends,” Grandpapa said. “We could hear you laughing and giggling.”
    â€œFor the first days we were all seasick. You can’t have five women in a closet, all throwing up together, without becoming friends.”
    Grandpapa laughed. “You should have been in my cabin. Hans Liebig’s mother packed a basket for him to take on the ship. The basket was the size of a bathtub. We ate from it for a week: bread, sausages, pickles, cheeses, cakes. We were so busy eating Hans’s food we had no time to be seasick.”
    â€œExcept for the canoes on Belle Isle,” I said, “I’ve never been in a boat.”
    â€œOur friend Mr. Ladamacher has a boat,” Grandpapa said. “This week we will take you out on the lake fishing.”
    I wished I hadn’t said anything about a boat. I didn’t think I wanted to be out on that big lake in a little boat.

Fishing
    A chase in the bait box
    until my five quick fingers hug
    the minnow’s slick body ,
    the flat face, the hook
    in and out of the lips ,
    then overboard and freedom
    on a string to tempt
    a passing perch. Soon
    two prisoners dancing
    to a single tune .
    Today was our day to go fishing on Mr. Ladamacher’s boat. It took forever to load the car. There were straw hats and umbrellas to protect us from the hot sun. There were raincoats in case it should rain. There were cushions to sit on. There were bottles of Grandpapa’s homemade root beer packed in ice.
    There was also the picnic hamper. Grandmama was up at daybreak making our lunch: sweet and sour potato salad with bacon and green onions, deviled eggs, ham and chicken sandwiches, sugar and molasses and oatmeal cookies. Living in the country seemed to put you closer to food. I wished I could pack some of it up and send it to my parents.
    When he saw us unload our car, Mr. Ladamacher shook his head. “My little boat will never hold all of that,” he said. But it did. We put on our straw hats and sat on our sweaters and cushions and tucked the food under the seats. Grandpapa and Mr. Ladamacher fished and Grandmama kept handing around food.
    At first the boat was close to the shore and I wasn’t too worried, but as the shore got farther and farther away, the boat started to feel as small as a thimble bobbing on the lake. Grandpapa saw how scared I looked. To take my mind off the big lake he asked if I wanted to try fishing. He found a pole for me. “Catch yourself a minnow from the pail and put it on the hook.” I looked