Monday, August 10, 2009
I am married to the kind of woman who finds particular delight in nature; it is berry-picking time and somewhere deep in her sense of seasonal rhythm is this critical moment when fruit ripens on the vine or bush, waiting for someone to notice. She does. Every year.
Frankly, this intuitive awareness is not something I share. I would have a hard time telling you which month it is when strawberries are expected to appear at the roadside stand; without Wikipedia handy I can only shrug. You would think I would know; our Southern California strawberries are the world’s best. Every year we buy a bunch. Apparently, I do not file these sorts of things very well into the database of my own memory. As many times as I may hear the particulars repeated, I still have trouble calling up due dates and birthdates and birth years. But Carolyn does, with ease. Her response time to these questions is nearly instantaneous. It’s remarkable. She not only remembers the precise date, but generally she’ll call up some interesting incident associated with it that I’ve long forgotten.
It is one of the many reasons I am lost without her.
When Carolyn suggests we go for a walk, I am not as inclined as she is to embrace the joy that it will bring, even though it always does. This is another thing she knows by instinct. But I can be thickheaded on the point. The thought of leaving some task or whatever sedentary obligation stands in the way – either one becomes a barrier I must overcome (sometimes by her coaxing).
Usually though, she seems fine if I turn down the offer. I decline. She prepares to leave without me. There is no evident sense of loss. She fixes the iPod buds into her ears. I am the one who sits there with the sense of loss. Just in time, I’ll put aside whatever it was I thought was more important, and get myself ready to go. She seems to know that’s the way it works with me.
I tend to explain all of this as Mars versus Venus. There are, I’m told, distinct male and female ways of processing information. But then again, it may simply be the onset of dementia. Time will tell.
In a remote, open dry lakebed in the next town over, there grows a colossal wild blackberry patch. We are regulars over there, especially this time of year when blackberries ripen. Carolyn suggested we all go over there this weekend. I declined as usual. As everyone got ready to go without me, I changed my mind.
Our four-year-old grandson and his parents came along, with two-week-old Quinn tucked into a snuggly on her daddy’s chest. All of us carried a chromed bowl from the kitchen, and we found a spot where black, ripe berries waited and we started to pick. It wasn’t long before Emerson got caught in the thorns in the thicket and scratched his little ankle. “Picking berries isn’t easy,” grandma explained. “These are battle wounds,” I offered, and then I showed him mine. Blackberry bushes are nasty. You’ve got to learn to navigate around the prickles, Grandma added.
Emerson seemed to get it. And not long afterwards, we were all laughing again and the conversation got good. There was an occasional, “Ouch!” I don’t know if it was the warm sunshine or the sticky blackberry juice dripping off our fingers or the sweet scent in the air or maybe the dangers of thorns surrounding us on all sides but it all came together, just like Carolyn knew it would. We stayed and picked for a long time. Riders on horseback greeted us from above.
“Look at mine, Grandpa!” Emerson said as he held his bowl full of berries up for me to see. “Wow!” I said, like any Grandpa would.
Soon the metal bowls were filled up and we headed back to the car, and off to the kitchen where Grandma had made a thick, crumb pie shell with butter. She whipped up a blackberry glaze, washed the new, fresh berries in cold, clear water and put together a pie several inches thick.
Emerson watched every move in amazement. He seemed to make the connection, between the thorny berry patch and Grandma’s kitchen. It filled him with the wonder little boys know when discovery breaks through.
If it was up to me, we would have jumped in the car for the asphalt parking lot at the air conditioned Fresh n’ Easy and picked up a couple cartons of blackberries out of the cooler and passed them over the bar code reader at the self-check out and run my debit card through the slot. Ten minutes flat. Round trip. No sweat. If not Fresh n’ Easy, then over to Marie Callender’s instead for the finished product; in a cardboard box and disposable tin.
But thankfully, it wasn’t up to me.
As we nursed Emerson’s scratch out there on by the shade tree where no one bothers to trim the wild thick bush, and poured some of our cool bottled water over the wound, Grandma said, “The pie tastes better when you pick the berries yourself.”
Through his tears, Emerson nodded, doing his best to agree with his grandmother.
But that night, after dinner, with a dollop of vanilla ice cream on a big old slab of fresh blackberry pie, it turns out that Grandma was right.
Copyright Kenneth E Kemp, 2009
Heidi picked blackberries from that same patch two weeks ago and baked a cobler…the memory lingers. Grandma was right!
Carolyn and I are of kindred souls. Loved this writing–it brought back so many memories of blackberry pickings in Georgetown. Precious memories.
Ken – This brings back some good memories.
Growing up, my parents had a large patch of black raspberries. When the berries were ripe, each of us (4 siblings plus mom & dad) had a gallon-sized bucket that we had to fill up with fresh picked raspberries. When our bucket was full, we were excused from the task. I remember one time when my younger sister Denise filled her bucket about half full with dirt, then topped it off with berries. She proceed to “delight” mom with how quickly she filled her bucket. Later, Mom wasn’t too pleased when she realized what she did. I also had my moments; on several occasions I’d go around and grab a handful from my siblings’ bucket.
Mom would use the berries to make pies and jam. It was also a yearly tradition for dad, Jeff and I to make a batch of homemade raspberry ice-cream. The 3 of us would trade off turning the crank. It would take about an hour to freeze, but it works better than the electric ones because it can freeze the ice cream harder. A few years ago, mom gave me their old ice-cream churn. Would love to use it again sometime; however, the task of making the ice cream needs to be a family affair.
I often use the “venus/mars” quote, but deep in my heart, I know it is the way the Lord designed us. His creation is, as we know it, perfect. This was a beautiful story Ken, and one that touches my heart with the sweetness of how important our relationships are with one another. Emerson will always remember these precious moments, and I thank the Lord for His goodness and soverignty. May He bless us all in the precious days ahead!
Awww…that was absolutely adorable! This month marks 40 years with that sweet lady….you very lucky guy!!!
Great memories Ken. We were able to spend our first spring in Michigan, with my parents, in 23 years, and I do remember many types of berry picking. The thumb area of Michigan, where my father grew up, was great for blueberries, which love sandy soil. The 4th of July was the best, when we always picked cherries from my grandfather’s trees. My sisters would then proceed to pit them, and my mother and grandmother would do the canning and later on in life the freezing. Of course, we had to have cherry pie and/or cobbler with a big picnic lunch. And yes! the pie does taste better when you pick the berries yourself.
Although she grew them in her garden, my grandma used to make a mean “rhubarb” pie. I didn’t fully appreciate it when I was young, but later upon reaching maturity I grew to anticipate them with increasing yearning. She also made a scrumptious blackberry cobbler (not to mention peach) come to think of it. Aah the reminiscing of youth and pie………….so much of life can be explained in the simple, succulent duo of nature and pie.
Happy eating!
I was one of the fortunate souls who had the delight of experiencing Carolyn’s berries in the dessert she made for our small group study.
OUTSTANDING!!!
P.S. Gram Lorry is SO right on!
Hi, Ken. I grew up in LA. There are no berries there, at least that I saw. When I moved to Michigan in 1972, I was on a camping trip and asked the park ranger if the berries on the bushes were edible. He responded laughingly that I must be from a state without berries because the berries I was referencing were wild blueberries! This was my first experience with nature at her best, or God at His best. I loved the experience. Now I am in Orange County where I must gather berries at Vons. Blessings to all….