I hope you enjoy this additional gardening tale.
I peered out from under the wide brim of my sunhat prepared to tackle this season’s main harvest of raspberries. My armor from the prickly bushes took the form of protective long sleeves and pant legs. I didn’t want to be tattooed by the inevitable scratches that go with the task of raspberry-picking, in spite of the heat of the day.
Two fellow harvesters stood by ready with ice cream buckets to fill, dreaming of raspberry pie or cobbler with whipped cream. My trusty neighbor was one of them, who admitted that she’d already been sneaking her share of berries from the other side of the fence. The less experienced picker was my five- year-old grandson. He picked a few and then traded his bucket for my fuller one, exclaiming triumphantly, “I picked more than you did!” His interest level quickly declined and we more serious laborers were left to ourselves.
Not long after, my neighbor departed as well when she had filled her bucket. My protective gear intensified the heat and sweat trickled down my covered body. I grabbed a big gulp of water from a nearby bottle parked in the shade. Then I determined to tackle the harder part. I opened up a pathway to check for hidden berries after carefully deciphering which end was up on the tangled branches. Some sort of law must rule that the juiciest raspberries could be found in the heart of the bush.
I attempted to bend a raspberry cane and stick its end into a clump of tangles, holding the bush back in order to blaze a trail. Sometimes this method didn’t end successfully which became painfully clear when the cane broke free and gave me a slap in the face.
Bees occasionally buzzed by, reminding me that I’d invaded their territory. Suddenly I ducked. Oh no, that one is really aggressive. He just dive-bombed pretty close to my ear. All I need is a sting to add to my scratches! Finally, the bee went on his way, satisfied that he’d delivered his warning.
The joy of harvesting such plump fruit motivated me to keep going, for a while. However, the band of muscles just below my shoulders screamed at me for relief. That’s when I grabbed my rolling garden seat just outside the bush to plop down for a well-deserved break. From my new perspective, I rested while finding the lower level of berries.
I can’t believe I’ve been at this for an hour and a half in this heat! I’m close to boiling under all these stupid clothes, and my hands and lower arms are riddled with scratches. I can’t tell which stains are juice and which are blood! I look like I tried to break up a cat fight. And look at my shirt, it’s all covered with purple splotches.
My harvest of raspberries did not present a total disaster, though, since several gallon buckets brimmed over with sweet, crimson fruit. After I cleaned up and tended to my injuries, I took special pleasure in having a large bowl of vanilla ice cream with plenty of the products of my labor on top. I had earned it.
Dianna
Sharing the Fruit of Maturity
