Thank you Winnie for your support, it means a lot to me, having you here. And everyone else, Welcome! I would like to have an adventure, lets walk down a trail and see what magic we can find, want to? There may be portals between the hedgerows and the corn fields so keep a good eye open. Whichever path we take let's keep nature close by our side and our hearts tuned to the divine, shall we? I have a feeling it's going to be grand. I'll meet you here by the blue door.
Sunday, June 20, 2004
The Lull Turned Lush
by Trendle Ellwood
"We're not simple laborers or traditional farmers. We're refugees of a dying Industrial Age. We recognize the roots and origins of our modern urban culture, and we are here today to raise the voices of battered agricultural lands, to repair the damage to our soils, our families, our communities, and our culture. As such, we are worthy citizens." James Donaldson
Our strawberries were now a thing of the past and there was a lull before our red raspberries would be ready for picking. I felt a little down, it had been so much fun passing out samples at market of our strawberry jam, and hearing everyone’s, “Oh yums!” as they tasted it. It seemed that ninety percent of those who tried a sampling bought a jar. And so it disappeared as soon as I could make it and bring it in. It is a wonderful feeling at market when you have something that practically sells itself. What would I have to do now? Of course we had Hubby’s honey and my flowers but I wished for a fruit. Fruit is the hot item at the farmers market.
The Amish down the road were selling the last of their strawberries for 2 dollars a quart! I was tempted to go and buy some and make it up into jam to have something to take the following week. I would still make a profit after processing them at that price. But alas there is more to life than the pursuit of the mighty dollar. If making money were all that we were about, we would be driving to work for somebody else. I have told our customers that our jams and jellies are made from fruit grown without herbicides or pesticides. It wouldn’t be right to sell them something that I could not put that guarantee behind. So I threw that temptation behind me.
Was there anything that could follow the much-loved strawberry? The rhubarb was still being asked for at market but she begged me not to pick her lovely ruby stalks anymore but to give her a time of rest. Our lettuce and radishes did not bring in much income, and we do need to pay the bills. Knowing that the creative force is always with us I threw a prayer to the universe for an answer to what I would take to market and then went about my daily duties.
Then a few days later it happened, I got my answer. Hubby walked into the door after a visit to his apiary (bee hives) up at Farmer Shaws and thrust before me a handful of wild black raspberries. Yes! Wild black raspberries! That was what I was presented by Hubby, by the universe, by God, by Merlin who laughs at my impatience as he says, “ See you are provided for!” I immediately called up the Shaws and told Becky that I was asking for permission to pick something again and before I even told her what, she was telling me to pick away. Oh! How wonderful to have such kindhearted farmers for neighbors who let me gather with delight the wild things that grow beside the woods and in their hedgerows!
So we found the buckets and dressed ourselves in long pants with long sleeves on our arms and set out for the brambles. Oh! It had been years since I had stalked the wild black raspberry! Why, it had been before we moved here! Where we used to live, there was wilder, unclaimed country where one could ramble and find the bushes. But here closer to a city, there seemed to be a shortage of spots for the brambles to spread.
But behind the apiary in Farmer Shaws untamed back yard, on top of an old wood pile that had never been burnt and was beginning to rot, the vines had spread unencumbered and they were full of green, red and black berries. The black ones just dying to be plunked into our pails, Plunk, plunk, plunk, oh how I love that sound and the way it soon changes to a soft thud, as the buckets get filled with glistening black berries.
Now, there is something that you might not know about me. I have obsessive-compulsive disorder when it comes to wild berry picking. Once I get started it is the only thing on my mind for days and days. When I close my eyes to go to sleep at night I see the red ones beckoning me as my dream hand reaches out to pluck the black one beside it. Hubby once asked me if I have ever consulted with a counselor about this, and I told him no I never talked to them about berries. He came back with, “ Well don’t, or I might never see you again!”
I usually think of Hubby as the strong one, he works longer and with less breaks then I do. But when it comes to picking berries in the wild patch he will be the first one to tell you that I have more endurance then he does. The first day we went out he was ready to stop picking before I was. It has been that way all my life; I have always left everyone behind in the berry patch. With wild berry mettle beating in my heart and the adrenaline raceing through my body, I cannot stop until the last berry is picked.
Every day for a week we have been going back to pluck these berries which continue to ripen in the June heat. Oh sure, we fight mosquitoes and have to watch out for snakes. The nettle tries to sting us and the poison hemlock is a danger. Our legs and arms are all snagged up despite our long sleeves and jeans. My fingers are stained a dark purple, but there is a passion in my heart that is fulfilled when I am in the wild berry patch. I always feel so thankful when I am out there! Thankful for the breeze that cools my sweaty brow. Thankful that I have everything that I need, if I am thirsty I can eat some berries; if I am hungry I can eat more berries. So thankful for these free for the taking, grown by God wild berries. And I am oh so thankful that nobody else has found and claimed this particular berry patch!
But with this wild berry obsessive nature of mine, Farmers Shaw’s patch was not quite big enough to fulfill the desire which had been sparked within me. My mind, eyes and legs searched through the surrounding countryside trying to locate another patch, to no avail. That is until I was taking care of my neighbor’s dog down the road and collecting her mail for her while she was away. It was then that my eye spied a red berry on a bank. Soon I was scurrying up this bank and finding another awesome berry patch on the hill. My neighbor came back and I got her permission to pick away. I swore her to silence. Made her promise not to tell anyone else about this patch but to keep it our secret. Because you know the old saying, “ Finders keepers, losers weepers!” Well I might be weeping if anyone else finds that patch after I have already worn down paths through its grabbing briars to make the picking easier. And after I have dreamed all those red berries into turning black and glistening and plunking them softly into my pail. And of course I will award her for this silence, now that I know that she prefers black raspberry jam.
Our customers at market love my fresh made wild black raspberry jam and jelly as much as they did the strawberry. They are buying it as fast as we can bring it in. Isn’t it wonderful how God is with us, and how we are given what we need, just enough to keep our sales going. I wasn’t given a whole acre of wild berries to pick because God knows I would pick until I had heat stroke if that was the case. We have been given just enough, just enough to stain my fingers purple and to fill my heart with joy.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
"We're not simple laborers or traditional farmers. We're refugees of a dying Industrial Age. We recognize the roots and origins of our modern urban culture, and we are here today to raise the voices of battered agricultural lands, to repair the damage to our soils, our families, our communities, and our culture. As such, we are worthy citizens." James Donaldson
Our strawberries were now a thing of the past and there was a lull before our red raspberries would be ready for picking. I felt a little down, it had been so much fun passing out samples at market of our strawberry jam, and hearing everyone’s, “Oh yums!” as they tasted it. It seemed that ninety percent of those who tried a sampling bought a jar. And so it disappeared as soon as I could make it and bring it in. It is a wonderful feeling at market when you have something that practically sells itself. What would I have to do now? Of course we had Hubby’s honey and my flowers but I wished for a fruit. Fruit is the hot item at the farmers market.
The Amish down the road were selling the last of their strawberries for 2 dollars a quart! I was tempted to go and buy some and make it up into jam to have something to take the following week. I would still make a profit after processing them at that price. But alas there is more to life than the pursuit of the mighty dollar. If making money were all that we were about, we would be driving to work for somebody else. I have told our customers that our jams and jellies are made from fruit grown without herbicides or pesticides. It wouldn’t be right to sell them something that I could not put that guarantee behind. So I threw that temptation behind me.
Was there anything that could follow the much-loved strawberry? The rhubarb was still being asked for at market but she begged me not to pick her lovely ruby stalks anymore but to give her a time of rest. Our lettuce and radishes did not bring in much income, and we do need to pay the bills. Knowing that the creative force is always with us I threw a prayer to the universe for an answer to what I would take to market and then went about my daily duties.
Then a few days later it happened, I got my answer. Hubby walked into the door after a visit to his apiary (bee hives) up at Farmer Shaws and thrust before me a handful of wild black raspberries. Yes! Wild black raspberries! That was what I was presented by Hubby, by the universe, by God, by Merlin who laughs at my impatience as he says, “ See you are provided for!” I immediately called up the Shaws and told Becky that I was asking for permission to pick something again and before I even told her what, she was telling me to pick away. Oh! How wonderful to have such kindhearted farmers for neighbors who let me gather with delight the wild things that grow beside the woods and in their hedgerows!
So we found the buckets and dressed ourselves in long pants with long sleeves on our arms and set out for the brambles. Oh! It had been years since I had stalked the wild black raspberry! Why, it had been before we moved here! Where we used to live, there was wilder, unclaimed country where one could ramble and find the bushes. But here closer to a city, there seemed to be a shortage of spots for the brambles to spread.
But behind the apiary in Farmer Shaws untamed back yard, on top of an old wood pile that had never been burnt and was beginning to rot, the vines had spread unencumbered and they were full of green, red and black berries. The black ones just dying to be plunked into our pails, Plunk, plunk, plunk, oh how I love that sound and the way it soon changes to a soft thud, as the buckets get filled with glistening black berries.
Now, there is something that you might not know about me. I have obsessive-compulsive disorder when it comes to wild berry picking. Once I get started it is the only thing on my mind for days and days. When I close my eyes to go to sleep at night I see the red ones beckoning me as my dream hand reaches out to pluck the black one beside it. Hubby once asked me if I have ever consulted with a counselor about this, and I told him no I never talked to them about berries. He came back with, “ Well don’t, or I might never see you again!”
I usually think of Hubby as the strong one, he works longer and with less breaks then I do. But when it comes to picking berries in the wild patch he will be the first one to tell you that I have more endurance then he does. The first day we went out he was ready to stop picking before I was. It has been that way all my life; I have always left everyone behind in the berry patch. With wild berry mettle beating in my heart and the adrenaline raceing through my body, I cannot stop until the last berry is picked.
Every day for a week we have been going back to pluck these berries which continue to ripen in the June heat. Oh sure, we fight mosquitoes and have to watch out for snakes. The nettle tries to sting us and the poison hemlock is a danger. Our legs and arms are all snagged up despite our long sleeves and jeans. My fingers are stained a dark purple, but there is a passion in my heart that is fulfilled when I am in the wild berry patch. I always feel so thankful when I am out there! Thankful for the breeze that cools my sweaty brow. Thankful that I have everything that I need, if I am thirsty I can eat some berries; if I am hungry I can eat more berries. So thankful for these free for the taking, grown by God wild berries. And I am oh so thankful that nobody else has found and claimed this particular berry patch!
But with this wild berry obsessive nature of mine, Farmers Shaw’s patch was not quite big enough to fulfill the desire which had been sparked within me. My mind, eyes and legs searched through the surrounding countryside trying to locate another patch, to no avail. That is until I was taking care of my neighbor’s dog down the road and collecting her mail for her while she was away. It was then that my eye spied a red berry on a bank. Soon I was scurrying up this bank and finding another awesome berry patch on the hill. My neighbor came back and I got her permission to pick away. I swore her to silence. Made her promise not to tell anyone else about this patch but to keep it our secret. Because you know the old saying, “ Finders keepers, losers weepers!” Well I might be weeping if anyone else finds that patch after I have already worn down paths through its grabbing briars to make the picking easier. And after I have dreamed all those red berries into turning black and glistening and plunking them softly into my pail. And of course I will award her for this silence, now that I know that she prefers black raspberry jam.
Our customers at market love my fresh made wild black raspberry jam and jelly as much as they did the strawberry. They are buying it as fast as we can bring it in. Isn’t it wonderful how God is with us, and how we are given what we need, just enough to keep our sales going. I wasn’t given a whole acre of wild berries to pick because God knows I would pick until I had heat stroke if that was the case. We have been given just enough, just enough to stain my fingers purple and to fill my heart with joy.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
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