Mussel Beach
By David Scribner
LEE
When I was a tiny bivalve – much tinier that I am now and full of the hope, vigor and innocence of youth – growing up in an overcrowded impoverished community overseas – I dreamed of living in the Berkshires.
Among our kind, the Berkshires’ pastoral beauty of unspoiled lakes, expansiveness of environment, cultural opportunities – where else in the world could you drift on Stockbridge Bowl and hear the strains of Beethoven whisper in the wind — and, above all, generous nature of its inhabitants who seemed to pride themselves on their liberal acceptance of diversity, were legend, a vision of paradise. The Berkshires were destination of desirable destinations but a refuge that a poor creature such as myself could hardly expect to reach.
I mean, think of the obstacles. Despite the welcoming character of Berkshire residents, there was the immigration problem. Whether it’s our size, or the color of our shells, or our obscure and difficult language, or simply the fact that we like to have family and children around us – by the thousands, hundreds of thousands if we’re gifted – it’s nearly impossible for us to get visas – at least for the poor among us. The wealthy clams and oysters have no problem whatsoever – and if you’re a crustacean, forgetaboutit – you’re golden. No waiting at customs for them, oh no! No full-shell frisks, either.
And then there’s the huge amounts you have to pay to get in illegally, crammed into the hold of a ship or fastened to an anchor chain in the dark, valve-to-valve with strangers. And then no guarantee you’ll reach your destination. The conveyance could be inspected, and then you’re unceremoniously crushed –or worse. So I’ve heard.
And they call us invasive. Everything that grows was invasive, at one time or another. This oxygenated rock was just a dirtball floating in space before some alien bug aboard a meteorite smashed into it, and started the evolutionary roulette wheel of life.
I have to say how unfair the attitude of immigration officials is. We’re hard-working, tidy individuals, with life-styles that a pollution-producing industrial society attempting to clean up its act should ideally appreciate – even aspire to. We are experts at clarification, removing particles that cloud water. Including those pesky carcinogens that hug river sediment. Why, in the Great Lakes, where we have a demonstration colony – on the Canadian side – you can now see 30 feet down into the lake, and populations of yellow perch and bass have blossomed. You could call us an innately green addition to any habitat.
Now, I have to tell you that I lucked out. I made it to the Berkshires. It wasn’t easy. And we had to pay through both our valves for it. I and a few members of my immediate family managed to attach ourselves, piled one on top of each other – and not a comfortable situation, let me tell you, with my cousin’s sharp snout poking into my gut – to a snail that slipped us inside the propeller shaft of an Evinrude attached to a boat on a fishing expedition on Lake Ontario – I won’t bore you with the details of how we got through the St. Lawrence Seaway.
That boat, as it turns out, belonged to a family of sportsmen in Lee.
One thing led to another. We ended up in Laurel Lake, a wonderful place to raise a family. And in the Housatonic River where we thrive on siphoning up PCBs (Don’t tell General Electric, 1Berkshire or Nancy Fitzpatrick). And we blessed our lucky stars for the chance to live in the Berkshires. We prospered and multiplied, to a point where we could imagine ourselves finally being able to afford a place on Stockbridge Bowl. Don’t get me wrong: Lee is dandy but Stockbridge — well, Stockbridge is the epicenter of the cultural and social upper crust – the Red Lion Inn, the Norman Rockwell Museum, nothing but top-of-the-line oars, hulls, docks – need I say more. Location, location, location.
It did not last. One day, the environmental police checked my uncle’s – one of thousands of uncles – papers – and our life suddenly returned to that of being a fugitive species. People look at us, and recoil in horror. Imagine how that makes us feel.
Well, I’ve got news for the environmental cops: We’re not going away. Anytime soon. You can close the boat ramps, do all the scrubbing and scraping you want. We’re here to stay.
And I’ve got another bulletin for the Stockbridge selectmen: We’ve settled down, Mr. Shippey. We earned it.
You know what? I think I’ll give a call to Cousin Kudzu. Bet he’d like a second home in the Berkshires.