Wild strawberries abound a few feet beyond the pig pen and in a few spots in the front yard. Some of them are smaller than the wild blueberries that grow not far away. The miracle about them is that 25 years ago, the spot they now thrive in was bare, clayey soil scraped clean of its topsoil for the sake of underlying gravel. We did nothing to the spot; we just let the mosses, alders, scrubby wretched cat spruces, weeds, and whatever else felt like growing there come up, grow for a season, and die peacefully on the spot. The only fertilizer came from a few passing deer, mice, birds, and red squirrels doing their business.
Thrive may be exaggerating. I have, in my life, seen wild strawberries the size of the end of my little finger, and none of these even come close to that standard. Still, there they were, brilliant red and exceptionally fragrant. Jamie and I squatted for 45 minutes and came up with two small bowls of them, which we ate for dessert with a modicum of cream. They were seedy and flavorful.
My friend Sharon told me that in the old days in Missouri she had an aunt who picked and canned 30 quarts of wild strawberries. It made my head ache to think of it. I hope those berries were bigger than the ones we picked. My brother-in-law in Liberty picks and makes a sublime wild strawberry jam and I marvel at that, too.
I read all the time in diaries and letters about people in past times going out to pick berries for eating and preserve making. In the early 1800s a fellow named Benjamin Robbins living out in Winthrop picked berries on summer Sundays, a leisure time activity for him that also produced a marketable product. Other times mothers chased their offspring out to pick whatever was in season, hoping, I suppose, that there would be enough left from casual grazing to do something in the way of a pie or jam.
When I was very little, about four or five years old, my grandmother took me someplace, I know not where now, to pick bush blueberries. She tied string to a lard pail and hung it around my neck. I remember standing by the bushes and looking up, and I think I must have managed to get five or six berries in the pail. That was followed by ice cream on a porch. On a camping trip to the Catskills with my dad when I was ten and my sister was five (we left mom at home for peace and quiet) we got up early, hiked to the edge of the mountain to see the sun come up, and on the way back to the campsite, picked blueberries into a paper cup to add to pancakes.
One day not long ago, I saw, where I do banking, an employee outside next to the building, harvesting the blueberries planted ornamentally but fruitfully. Picking berries satisfies our inner hunter-gatherer. It must account for the popularity of pick-your-own operations which certainly yield up lots of berries even if there is no sport in it.
Berry picking can be solitary or social. It requires no fancy equipment or special clothing. It can be done in pleasantly warm weather and usually in fresh air. There are birds and butterflies. And a few friendly mosquitoes trying to get to know us better.
I love eating our berries, sometimes within an hour or even minutes. For blueberries I have a scale of accumulation and reward. Come in with a half cup of berries, and you get pancakes. A cup warrants muffins. Two cups and you get blueberry cake. A quart equals pie.
In our yard, we start with wild strawberries, move on to blueberries, and then depending on the year, blackberries. There are a scattering few wild raspberries. I know some folks who are lucky enough to find elderberries on their property.
If late July or early August finds me watching the blueberries drop off to the benefit of creeping crawling creatures or snatched by birds, I feel regretful, realizing I am not conducting my life in such a way that I make time for picking berries. I know, there are some who say, “Well, in the time it takes me to pick a quart of blueberries I could earn enough to pay for ten quarts.”
The argument sounds a bit corrupt. It can be applied to mending socks and hanging laundry on the clothesline, too, and even growing vegetables. It would imply that my every waking, breathing moment is dedicated to earning big bucks or should be, so that I could relax and enjoy life, which if I am picking berries, I already do.
Sandy Oliver cooks, writes and picks berries on Islesboro.