Siri's Corner

June brought an explosion of the common daisy all over our long island, scattering the road sides with their ice-white petals and blank yellow-eyed stares.  Like small white rounds from some cosmic hole punch gone awry and making a mess all over Earth’s floor.    Even plain old grass is lovely right now, before summer’s heat turns it to hay and the dog days of August dim it with dust.  The small round tufts in front of medium green blades in front of the tallest feathery spikes that reach to the sky; it’s a choir standing on the risers and swaying back and forth in gospel green; hallelujah summer is here!

I know our Northwest summer is here because the tiny native wild blackberry has matured on its long vines out in the ditch in front of my house.  It is a sun-lover that thrives in open, newly cleared spaces.  This berry is not to be confused with the Himalayan, its bloated, watery, seedy relation.  THAT berry is due out in August and showing at an over grown weed patch nearest you!  No, no, no!  This tiny black jewel, this subtle darling boasts the most pungent, aromatic juice of any other summer berry and its moment is now in these first weeks of July.

You have never gone wild blackberry picking?  Well, travel with me in my summer time-machine!  We are ten years old and clambering into one of the several used station wagons that my parents owned. Yes, it’s crowded in here because there are already six of us, and I hope you like girls because that’s all we are, right down to the baby, who, I am sorry to say, you have to sit next to. (Watch out for her sharp finger nails.)  Don’t complain, we’re Scandinavian and it’s not acceptable!  If you are a boy you will still be happy as we are tomboys, my twin and I can out swim anybody and all of us can run on hot macadam roads and rocky beaches barefooted.  We have soles of leather.  We hope you can keep up.

No, our father is in town working and yes, our mother is beautiful although she is tired but she is usually nice, relax.

 The station wagon turns onto Craw Road, a brand new side road that is nothing but dusty gravel and logged ditches.  The car slows and we roll down the windows silently assessing the blackberry habitat.  The dust rolls in.  I hope you are already dirty, we are. 

We’re pulling over, get out!  Take your container, if you are lucky you will get the Pyrex measuring cup or the small saucepan with a handle.   As a visitor, you will probably get stuck with a can or the square plastic Tupperware dish with no handle.  Whatever you do, don’t drop your berries!  And if you do, for God’s sake buck up and don’t cry; you won’t be asked back.

Follow me.  What did I say about the complaining, we aren’t even to the berries yet.  Yeah, you’re already scratched up, yeah, that sound was probably a garter snake. You’ve never seen a nettle before?  Find a stick and beat them back.   Plink, that is the sound of the first berry.  Yes, they are small, yes, this is going to take forever.  No, only the baby gets to go back to the car.  I see you are gong to be difficult not to mention sunburned.

Two hours later, my mother declares we have enough for a pie.  Silently relieved, we make our ways to the car and marry our small offerings into our Mother’s big saucepan.  We huddle around mimicking her head nodding and absorbing her comments.

 “The berries are big this year, a lot of red ones though, perhaps two more weeks worth.  Now girls, whatever you do don’t tell anyone where we found them”.   

We mimic her, like baby birds intuiting the important messages from their overly busy mother.  Eventually, we will all know how to make a perfect wild blackberry pie.  You will want to marry all of us.

Back at the cabin, we will throw on our salty-stiff swimsuits and scamper down the trail to the beach.  Our Mother will wrestle a perfect fire from the old Majestic cook stove and bake the blackberry pie.  Yes, the water is cold, no this isn’t a lake, the salt will help your nettle welts, come on, you can do this!  Watch!  We will teach you how to dive for white shells, give them a toss and swim under water WITH YOUR EYES OPEN and grab the shell before it hits the bottom.  Yes, it stings your eyes but it will take your mind off your nettles.

Much later, exhausted, freezing and hungry, we run back up the path.  You can smell the pie from the trail.  Pie crust cookies are waiting; take just one so as not to spoil dinner.    Don’t forget to hang up your swimsuit!  Now is a good time to wrap up in an Army blanket and read your library book in the early evening light.  It gets very dark here and there is no electricity.  Yes, you heard me right.

Dinner is only a pretext to dessert.  The pie is delicious with a dollop of whipped cream.  It’s true you have never eaten anything like it.  PJs on.  A quick trip outside to the bathroom; the Northerly is up and you will shiver in your pajamas.  Watch out for slugs!  My Mother lights the kerosene lamp.  Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight!  Snuggle into your sleeping bag and listen to the wind and the waves.  The fireplace fire snaps and pops, your nettles still burn and your sunburned shoulders too, there is saltwater in your ears and sand in the bottom of your sleeping bag and a trace of pie juice on the corner of your mouth.  And for all its small miseries, this has been the best day of your life.

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