Kinnikinnick

There once was a plant from Kennewick
Who longed to be part of a limerick
He thought real hard
He thought like a bard
And named himself Kinnikinnick
-myself (or shouldn't I admit that?)

I was Kinnikinnick to Native Americans. You can call me bearberry. Scientifically I'm Arctostaphylos (Greek for bear grapes) uva-ursi (Latin for grape bear). It bares repeating. I'm a bear-plant with double powers: spiritual and medicinal.

In memories I've nearly lost, Native Americans smoked me. Before tobacco came charging in, I was their go-to guy. They dried me and smoked me and my swift, sweet spirit delivered their prayers to gods (Food Plants of the Interior First Peoples by Nancy J. Turner). These days, I could over-power modern weaklings with dizziness or fainting. I relish the idea of being an outlaw, but the DEA hasn't honored me with that yet. You can buy me in the Pow-wow Blend, roll-yer-owns. But I can also be had for free. On every corner, in every town, I lay like a bum in landscaped parking lots, between the shrubs. I don't need no namby-pamby humus and loam. Just give me some gritty ground and don't pamper me with prissy baths and showers!

I keep my thick, leathery, oval leaves green and strong year round. My spring flowers are white and pink, shaped like jugs. I do my best work in fall and it stays all winter; my little red round berries look and taste like miniature old apples. Meriwether Lewis called me "tasteless and insipid." Coming from a guy named Meriwether, I'll take that as a compliment. One little girl says my berries are sweet and dusty. I'd blush if I could. Some people mistake me for a low cotoneaster, the ornamental creep. We are both a foot tall with red berries. Check my ID twice so you don't mistake me for the dangerous imitations.

I have a sentimental side and like to do the Christmas thing. November is apparently the new December, according to retail outlets. I appreciate all holidays: old, new, renamed, reclaimed, loud, quiet, forgotten, lost, and imaginary. Use me in your Christmas decorations next summer! Except you have to wait for fall when my little red berries make me festive and cutesy.

"Experts" say that I am survival food best left for winter birds. I like birds, I like feeding them, and "Survival" sounds tough. Maybe the most recent crop of people don't like my dusty berries, however they've been eaten by folks since before my memory. My berries have been boiled, fried, popped and eaten raw all fall and winter. The Lakes people mixed them with Salmon roe for ceremonies (Food Plants). I like that. Makes me feel powerful.

Frost erodes the mightiness of my medicinal leaves, so leave my leaves alone for a while. I make strong iron and Vitamin A, but I hate hot water. Don't boil me or I'll kick your butt with my tannins. I like a nice long, 8 hour soak in cold or lukewarm water: builds character. When you drink me, my potent and magical arbutim mixes with your urine to make a green germicide that is rumored to destroy infection (Wild Berries of the West by Derig and Fuller). All over the world, my muscle is employed by herbalist to kill urinary tract infections, zap kidney stones, thrill the spleen and liver, and wrestle syphilis and gonorrhea to the ground. I'm powerful. I'm like a god you don't want to piss off (so to speak). I'm so amazing, that with me, too much of a good thing isn't much at all. I'm a loner. I like our visits short and too the point. There are simply some people that I can’t stand like some pregnant women and people with high blood pressure. Nothing personal. And keep that acidic Vitamic C and cheery Cranberry juice out of my way; I hate those guys too (Encylcopedia of Alternative Medicine, on-line).

Do what you dare with me, just don't laugh at my name. I repeat, don't laugh at my name.