Back in the thick of summer a colleague at work looked at my bare forearms and asked, “Did you guys get a cat?”
“No,” I answered, inspecting the tiny red scratches, “just been berry-picking.”
The blackberries were beautiful this summer. They started to ripen during a long heat wave while I was away at some shin-dig late June in Toronto, a hot, sticky blanket that lingered over the north of Germany for another couple of weeks after I got back until the third week of July. Riding by my usual patches I’d always stop to inspect the crop, checking to make sure the bright green buds were on their way to red. Then, as the red ones at the apex of each bunch started to blacken, I knew my free time for the next couple of weeks would be filled with picking, baking pies and making jam.
I have three main patches to pick in rotation. One is a five-minute bike ride from the office, so after work I’d ride my bike into the thickest part, change into my old clothes and start filling the empty containers.
My main patch is a five-minute walk from home on a huge empty lot near the commuter rail line. A third is a little further out of the way and much smaller, but worth it because the bushes are up against a building that catches and intensifies the heat of the sun, making the berries especially sweet if you wait long enough before picking them. For the main patch near our place I’d carry a stepladder to throw over the bushes and gain access to the juiciest ones at the top that, without aid, always remain just too far out of reach.
Since I’ve been old enough to pick up a pail I’ve been heading off to pick blackberries, bringing them home so my mother could cook them up. To be able to carry on so many years later something that started behind our house in a little mountainside Pacific coast village in Canada gives me a connection not only to my earliest past, but with the place it all started.
I also like the calming, meditative effect of being focused on one task. In this age of continuous partial attention and constant interruption, having a couple of hours to concentrate on something as simple and timeless as gathering food for your family is quite rare. I took the little red-haired girl along one morning and noticed that after the first few minutes of chatting and joking about little things, she too became relaxed and quiet as we worked our way along.
In bringing her along I also think I’m showing her how important it is to seize the day, to do things when it’s time to do them, because if there’s one thing that won’t wait for the next day, it’s berries.
There is also a great satisfaction in serving up a warm blackberry pie for dessert while a stack of jam jars cools on the counter, knowing that when you go to open one the following January you’ll be able to enjoy something that truly is the fruit of your own labours, and which costs nothing but the time you spend on it. I go to markets and see trays of perfect berries selling for €8 a half-kilo and give a little inward smile. Of course it’s easier to just buy them, but the pain of a few thorns and scratches that go away in a few days are worth it to get a lot more than just the berries.
The banner photograph shows the town of Britannia Beach, BC, Canada, where I grew up. It's home. But I don't live there anymore.
Yes. Absolutely. What you said.
Especially this: I also like the calming, meditative effect of being focused on one task. That’s at the heart of why I love my work, and why I’m still sanding and varnishing after 20 years. Now that I think about it, it’s even possible the beauty of that focus sneaked into my blog title, although I didn’t realize it at the time.
Blackberries are cultivated here, but the dewberries grow wild and give the same rewards. Glad you – and the not-so-little red-haired girl – had such a good season.
Jen, where you live the locals must be a little more interested in them than they are up here, because I often find whole sections untouched. It’s a delight. I think the blackberries should be long gone for this year though.
Linda, I’d not thought of that before.
Gathering blackberries reminds me of when I lived in Seattle and my uncle and I would bake all kinds of goodies in September. I was so looking forward to blackberry season here, but I must have been too late, as it looks like most of the bushes have already been denuded by the locals. I guess I could try tramping into the deep forest.
Interesting enough, the state of mind you mention is known among fiber people (knitters, spinners, weavers, etc.) as “woolgathering”. I don’t know how meditative it is being scratched by thorns, but I’ll go with you here on the rewards.
Time does seem to stand still when cycling too, and I get into spaces where ideas start flowing, but it’s not the same thing because you’ve still got to keep your mind on traffic and the road in front of you. I like the comments from weavers and other craft-makers. My mother has been doing that for decades, and has some beautiful stuff to show for it. (see page on various needlepoint projects at top for an example.)
@anthony, thanks for that poem! Now if he’d only have simply called the fermented juice blackberry wine, he’d have nothing to worry about.
Wow, a post I can finally paste one of my favourite Seamus Heaney poems and still be on topic.
Blackberry-Picking
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.
Seamus Heaney
Like Jennifer, I am a knit and crochet and while reading your post about gathering berries and your state of mind, I thought of the very same thing. A solitary repetitive task allows your mind to ruminate and in thoughtless abandon (unless you’re counting stitches) gives you peace and focus. I bet long-distance runners/swimmers/cyclists, artists, dancers, and musicians feel the same way. Interestingly, time stands still. Something you reminded us in your post that we have so little of these days. But, I sure would enjoy tasting that jam in winter and knowing it came from my own efforts. And the berries being free is just an added bonus. One last thought, I’m glad this activity gave you a connection to your youth. A great feeling, I’m sure.
Blackberry pie – yum!
’tis delicious, indeed. Those seeds stick in your teeth if you’re not careful though.