Freedom is not worth having if it does not include the freedom to make mistakes.

–Gandhi

“Annica, c’mon, let’s go! Time’s a-wastin’!”, my mother called cheerfully up to the landing. Reluctantly logging off the computer, I hopped down the flight of stairs. Mom was standing in the kitchen doing the last minute dishes that she always must do before she leaves the house and Metta was sitting on the couch reading some book. My brother and I exchanged glances, rolling our eyes. Mom always tells us to hurry up, but look at her! She’s just as preoccupied as both of us combined.

“Ok, ok, let’s get in the car. The Sturgis’ are going to meet us there,” my mom said, drying her hands, as if this whole time we hadn’t been standing there waiting for her. Shuffling out the door, Metta and I hopped into the mini-van each on our respective sides, and my mom starts the car. We’re off!

You may be wondering where we are heading, and why I am telling you this story. Well, this may not seem important, but we are going to Paul Mazza’s to pick blueberries. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining and there is hardly a cloud in the sky. Mazza’s is a beautiful country store that sells fresh fruits, vegetables, pies, breads, and many other homemade delectables right out of the soil itself. There are fields of strawberries, blueberries, and in the right season you can even pick your own pumpkins. As for why any of this is important, you shall have to wait and see.

As we pull in the dirt driveway, I see my friend Becca and her younger sister Ari getting out of their car. A few minutes later, we are fully prepared to get the best blueberries ever! Searching up and down the rows, it is girls versus boy in the battle for the biggest blueberry on the face of this planet. Metta raced up and down the rows opposite of me and Becca and I spied on him craftily, trying to make sure that we prevailed. It’s three against one, and we have an unfair advantage, loath as we are to admit it.

Seeing my brother getting many very yummy looking blueberries I squealed and threw a blueberry at him. He ducked and ran away, starting a full blown blueberry fight. Running up and down the isles, having a grand old time, we tried to catch Metta in a stubborn race. Blueberries were almost completely forgotten, until an angry voice made us freeze in our tracks.

“What is going on here!? Who are the parent’s of these children?!”, a very very angry-looking man roared. He was wearing overalls and a baseball hat, but what I most remember is his face. I’ve never had that much anger directed at me in my entire life, especially not by someone whom I don’t even know. His eyes were scrunched up and his mouth was twisted in an angry grimace. He looked down upon the four of us as if we were the most unthinking rude scum that he’d ever seen walk the earth.

I was horrified. I know my mother and Mrs. Sturgis came over looking concerned, but I don’t remember what they said. They must have apologized because he left in an angry huff, telling us to not come back during this picking season.

“You can’t run around in these fields! They aren’t a place to play! I am trying to run a business here! Throwing our merchandise around and ruining it will cost us money…” His words rang in my head. I was so ashamed. We didn’t know it before, but we could have been ruining someone’s livelihood. He had every right to be mad at us. I was completely mortified by my horrible behavior. My heart was beating a million times a minute as my mother faced my brother and me.

“I would like you to apologize to the man,” she said calmly, knowing that we were punishing ourselves for our actions. Neither one of us could look her in the eye. My heart sank into my chest as she steered us towards where the man was working on top of a tractor. I was ashamed for what I had done. Too ashamed. I didn’t want him to see me ever again. I wished it had never happened. If there was one time in my life that I wanted a time machine, this would have been it. I wanted so badly to go back in time and change this day.

To my horror, as we reached him, I started to bawl. I couldn’t stand the sick horrible feeling in my gut. I wanted to throw up, hoping to purge myself of the disgusting infection, but I couldn’t. I must have said something akin to “I’m sorry,” for he nodded grudgingly and turned away, going back to his work. Making money. Making up for kids like us.

The ride home was almost silent, and I was extremely glad that Mazza’s farm was only two minutes away from our house. That night at dinner we had blueberries for dinner. I love blueberries, but that night they left a sour taste in my mouth. I couldn’t eat them without remembering his face and his loud, angry voice. My mother must have known, for she didn’t bring it up or mention it to my father, at least not in front of my brother and me. It was easy to tell that we were devastated and that no punishment she could give would be as effective as what we were feeling right now. We would never do it again.

Still to this day I cannot drive past Paul Mazza’s farm stall without remembering my abominable behavior. I was only twelve years old and I didn’t know better, but I don’t think I will ever forget the guilt that I felt. At the time I wished I could erase it from my memory; erase it from time altogether. If it never existed then I wouldn’t have to feel that lump in my stomach any time that I went to buy a loaf of bread from the stall. But now I believe that’s the last thing that I would do.

The incident at Paul Mazza’s was a sobering one and one that I will take with me for my entire life. I made a mistake, a huge one, and I don’t think that I’ll ever forget it. But why would I want to? What would happen if I didn’t make that mistake, if we hadn’t been yelled at? Would I have ever learned how much we were hurting him? For the weeks after the incident I would have felt better about myself, but in the long run I wouldn’t know any better. I wouldn’t have learned from my mistake.

This incidence in particular is the one that made me realize that every mistake that we make can be a lesson. We shouldn’t ignore them, we should cherish them. It’s always hard for me to admit that I’ve done something wrong. I want to ignore that it ever happened. It’s over, and I don’t want to think about it. But when I look back, I will never make that mistake again. Mistakes are important. They are as important as the good deeds we do. Maybe more so, for they make us who we are and shape us to whom we are going to become.

If we didn’t have the freedom to make mistakes, then we wouldn’t be human.