Behind the wooden swing set that Dad had built and brought from Texas, that the movers had broken and Dad had modified accordingly, stood a split rail fence awash in a tangle of climbing honeysuckle and heavy clusters of overhanging pokeberries.

On the rare occasions I was outside alone, I would swing as high as I could, pumping forcefully and joyfully, singing my heart out. Extemporaneous praise would overcome me as I marveled at the beauty of the world—the Virginia sky, the tulip tree, the garden surrounded by golden buttercups and waving grasses, richly green.

I often wished to die while I was swinging and singing alone—to die of gladness, not of sorrow. I felt expansive and grateful and alive. So alive that I wanted to begin at once my longer fuller life at one with the beauty and with its creator.

Since then, I have at times been afraid of death—of cancer, of brain surgery, of hemorrhaging during birth. Of leaving people I love alone and adrift. But never of flying off my swing into the arms of the one who made me, just the two of us together knowing each other, understanding each other, delighted with each other. He, showing me his favorite things, and I reveling in them. Never of diving into glory.

When Missi, Eric, and I would swing together above patches of scuffed and trodden grass, we loved to watch the airplanes descending into Dulles Airport. Living directly under a well-traveled flight path, we never lacked for planes to comment on and discuss. Where are they going? Where did they come from? Remember when we flew to Virginia and still didn’t even know what our house looked like? One mustard yellow personal plane was a frequent visitor, occasionally regaling us with loops and acrobatic maneuvers.

We were all intrigued by the pokeweed now towering over the fence behind us and we observed its progress with interest.


First growing tall, or at least taller than me, on purple stalks thick with sap, white and oozing when we experimentally broke one.


Then dazzling with cascading displays of flowers—white, lacy, and prolific.

As the spent blossoms fell, revealing in their place berries, fresh and bright with lines of longitude deeply creasing their sides so that they looked almost like tiny green pumpkins.

A final transformation taking place, at last presenting on magenta stems clusters of plump purple-black berries, heavy with juice.

A nomenclature mix-up happened at this stage. We dubbed these fabulous clusters Indian paint brushes. I believe, but I am not sure, that we were aware this was the name of a plant and it seemed inconceivable that it could be any plant but this.

Throughout the summer, we delighted in wresting clusters from the stalks and slapping them against the split rail fence that separated the pasture from the yard, joyfully painting the railing and staining our fingers with its bright and brilliant juice.

I can recall the heat of the sun on my hair, the drone of grasshoppers rising and falling in concert with the hum of a distant lawnmower, the satisfying rhythm of the berries slapping on the fence, our chatter as we enjoyed our project, the process, and each other.

As with seemingly every plant we encountered growing up, we were warned that these “Indian paint brushes” were extremely poisonous and we were cautious to always wash our hands thoroughly after each painting session.

This time, the warnings were accurate. Consuming more than a few berries can be fatal.

I didn’t learn this until, after a sojourn in Pennsylvania and Maryland, I moved back to Virginia when my daughter was almost six. We gardened in the many raised beds in the new backyard, growing sunflowers, herbs, strawberries, beets, and beans. Blackberry canes hung over the back fence of the garden, enticing but also urging caution.

As the summer progressed, tall magenta stalks with large spreading leaves began to shade the garden from early morning sun. I was giddy. Excitedly, I called my daughter outside to see the pinched green berries and told her what fun we could have later in the summer painting our back stairs with the Indian paintbrushes.

It was at that point that I realized I didn’t actually know if that was their proper name. I looked it up and was disappointed at the much less romantic name pokeweed, but I learned that fermented pokeweed juice has traditionally been used as ink, and that some Native American tribes did actually use the berries to decorate their horses and dye cloth.

True Indian paintbrush will always feel like an imposter to me, beautiful but boring, nothing like my beloved and glorious pokeberries.