Juneberry Blues

It was a long time ago, when peas tasted sweeter—Unknown 

I don’t remember the young student in my writing workshop who wrote that sentence, but I do remember the sentence.  “When peas tasted sweeter” is a wonderful phrase, sensate, euphonious with assonance and consonance, and its tone is sweetly nostalgic without being overly sentimental.  It is a phrase that demonstrates the pleasant selectivity of memory. 

At this time of year, I take pleasure in remembering another taste—not the sweetness of fresh peas, but the sweet-tart taste of fresh juneberries.  It has been far too many years since I have purpled my fingers and lips with just-picked juneberries.  

Mom used to pick juneberries, and she preserved them in pint jars so that we might enjoy the flavor throughout the summer and well into winter.  Wearing sturdy shoes, jeans, long-sleeved shirt, and hat, she stepped carefully through the coulees and brambles, and plucked the berries, filling several 3-gallon pails.  Unfortunately, a very severe case of poison ivy one summer ended her juneberry picking days. 

The first summer I fell in love, I hunted for juneberries with my friend, whose brother made my heart race, my face flush, my dreams flower.  When he mentioned that there was nothing he’d like better than a fresh juneberry pie, we were determined to find some, even though the peak of the season had already passed.  On a fairly steep grassy slope, we found several bushes that had not been picked clean by birds, and we managed to fill a 3-pound coffee can with berries—certainly enough for one pie—until I slipped on the smooth grass and lost my footing, the can flying out of my hands.  How disappointing to confess to my friend’s brother that I had lost all but a handful of the juneberries, that because of me, he would not have his juneberry pie. 

Some years later, my dad located a spot where we might pick juneberries.  I went with him, and we did manage to pick almost a pail full.  I don’t remember the taste of those juneberries as much as I remember the experience of berry-picking with my father--the last time we did such a thing together.  That was a gift in itself, and is one of my most treasured memories:

ediblelandscaping.com

 

         Keepsake

         The last time we picked juneberries,

         my father blazed a path

         through bramble brush and coulee draws        

         making smooth my way,

         then filled his pail and half of mine.

         "This should last," he promised,

         the last time

         we picked juneberries.

 

Since that time, I have not had access to wild juneberries, so I decided to plant some in my own backyard.  They have been a very slow-growing shrub, but they blossom profusely every year, and as soon as I see the tiny berries form, I begin to think of the delicious pie I might make.  Invariably, however, the red, red robins come rob, rob, robbin’ me of my share, plucking them green from the branches.

All I want is to pick a pail of juneberries, to have enough for just one pie, and if it’s a keepsake moment for me, I will treasure the memory--and the taste--for a long time to come.