Back to the Future

For the last few weeks it has been the kind of summer that makes us all long for autumn -- mercilessly hot, humid days and steamy nights with no relief in sight. We have had enough rain here, however, to make the yard green and the garden grow. Now if the tomatoes would ripen, we would be in business.
This year's vacation was restful but unexceptional. We spent the better part of two weeks in Iowa, staying first with my Dad and then with my brother. We slept late, ate heartily and got some reading done. We went to a couple of ballgames, the farmer's market and the county fair. Otherwise, we frittered away the time -- except for berry picking.
There is just enough difference in latitude between Maryland and my home in Iowa that the black raspberries that were petering out here were just getting started there. The crop in Iowa was not as plentiful nor the berries as large, but I found more than enough to eat in the southwest corner of what was once my grandparent's farm. Thankfully, the woman who owns the farm now doesn't mind us wandering about.
All the old haunts where we used to go for berries are now overgrown with trees, some 30 feet or more high. As raspberries only grow on the forest edge, I made my way across the narrow creek to the little meadow where cows grazed years ago and the new owner now harvests fire wood. Careful of the poison ivy, I collected about a quart of berries every other day. I even found a few wild yellow raspberries. I can't tell you how many times through the years I've told people that I used to pick wild yellow raspberries as a kid, only to have them tell me they'd never heard of such a thing. Often, I was left with the unmistakable impression that they thought I was making the whole thing up.
Gooseberries were plentiful and some large blackberries had started to ripen as well. I ate a few of the blackberries, but didn't gather any to take home. Why anyone would eat blackberries when they could have black raspberries is beyond me. Blackberries are edible and more attractive than raspberries, but in the flavor race they come in a distant second.
In addition to producing a few quarts of berries (some of which we later added to homemade ice cream), my hike around the old home place proved therapeutic. This is the land I grew up on, land that belonged to my great great grandparents, forty acres I know better than any other forty acres on the face of this earth. It may be nearly thirty years since I have lived there, but the slope of the hills and the meandering path of the creek are as familiar and comforting to me as my grandfather's features in an old photograph.
I'm glad I can still go back to it each year. I keep wondering every time if this will be the last time -- if it will be sold, developed or otherwise become off limits. There is already a development that sits right next to the berry patch. I'm sure it is only a matter of time until someone, in the name of progress and profit, bulldozes down all the canes. And then how will I prove to anyone that I really did pick wild yellow raspberries once upon a time?

For those who like poetry, a fine work by Richard Wilbur follows:


Blackberries for Amelia
By Richard Wilbur


Fringing the woods, the stone walls, and the lanes,
Old thickets everywhere have come alive,
Their new leaves reaching out in fans of five
From tangles overarched by this year's canes.

They have their flowers, too, it being June,
And here or there in brambled dark-and-light
Are small, five-petalled blooms of chalky white,
As random-clustered and as loosely strewn

As the far stars, of which we are now told
That ever faster do they bolt away,
And that a night may come in which, some say,
We shall have only blackness to behold.

I have no time for any change so great,
But I shall see the August weather spur
Berries to ripen where the flowers were --
Dark berries, savage-sweet and worth the wait --

And there will come the moment to be quick
And save some from the birds, and I shall need
Two pails, old clothes in which to stain and bleed,
And a grandchild to talk with while we pick.

(Originally published in the New Yorker, July 7, 2003)

More Berries

This may seem counter-intuitive, but being on vacation actually makes it harder for me to find time to write. I have a lot stored up and will get back at it in a few days when I get home. For now, suffice it to say that I found more raspberries in the old pasture at home in Iowa and re-lived some of my childhood amid the brambles and tall prairie grasses. I am well relaxed and eager to get back to work soon.
Keep your eye on this spot -- I have stories to tell.

Perfect Breakfast

I think I have discovered the perfect breakfast -- five homemade raisin oatmeal cookies and a dish of lightly sugared fresh black raspberries. I have had this for the last three days, and I am no where near getting tired of it. Alas, today will be the last day for this fare, as I head off to a church conference in Peoria.
The cookies I baked on Monday, but the berries began ripening a week ago on the canes in my woods. We bought the land eight years ago, ignorant of the existence of the berries but I have enjoyed them every year since. As usual, I'll be away for part of their season, so I have invited a friend to pick what remains, but I have had a good run this year -- plenty to eat, enough to make a batch of jelly, and a couple quarts to give away.
For some reason, I enjoy picking the berries almost as much as I enjoy eating them. I guess there is a nostalgia factor -- my brothers and I picked a lot of berries as kids, and made a little money that way. I don't mind the scratches and the occasional hard stick with a thorn. I keep an eye out for poison ivy and groundhog holes and quietly go about my business. Generally, I pick alone and take pleasure in the solitude.
On Tuesday evening, after driving back from Baltimore in a terrific storm (including hail), I went out to pick about 8 o'clock. I wanted to get into the woods before dark, but everything was still wet, so I got soaked. Still, I gathered almost two quarts of large berries. I put them in the fridge and grabbed a quick shower and went outside again just as it was getting dark.
I stood on the deck and looked out at my backyard, surrounded with mature trees. The tree line in silouette loomed over the yard, and up from the tall wet grass the fireflies began to rise. They rose and rose until some reached the tops of the trees, perhaps 50 feet or more in the air. They stayed close to the trees because there was a light breeze that made it more difficult for them to navigate out in the open.
The result was spectacular. Every tree was lit with blinking lights, like a Christmas tree. There was the sound of the wind in the leaves and the running water in the stream and some high-pitched insect hum. I invited my wife out to share the moment, and I stood with her in my arms for perhaps half an hour. Some moments in life are sheer grace.