Retreat #12: Saskatoons
Journal Entry: Dorothy invited me to pick saskatoon berries anywhere I find them on the farm. I silently resist the invitation. For two reasons. 1) I don’t like saskatoons. They’re small blueberries. Anyone who grew up with them swears that nothing else tastes like them. I didn’t grow up with them. I’ve never liked blueberries and I haven’t acquired a taste for saskatoons. 2) I hate to admit it, but there are a few activities from my childhood that I rebel against. Picking fruit of any sort is one of them.
I remember the fruit-picking days of my childhood as awful. Like scavengers, we chose deserted farmyards, and picked among the trees surrounding a collapsing house. Snakes and spiders and scorpions overran the place. No running water, no washroom available. Down among the trees, the air clotted with insects, we got bit, or covered with little bugs that stuck to our sweaty skin along with dirt and cobwebs and other tree-smidgins. The fruit was small and half-riddled with worms, or scarred from hail. Endless hours of hot sun and the knowledge that I had to keep picking until my mother said we had enough…Oh god, it makes me tired and discouraged just to write this. No, I definitely don’t want to pick saskatoons. Call me lazy, a city girl, or ungrateful—I do not want to pick fruit from its plant. I like the convenience of picking it off the store shelf.
Journal Entry Two Days Later: I had to get outside and do something mindless in order to help my brain sort through some issues about money and employment. Usually I walk while doing this kind of thinking. However, the pastures are wet. The road in front of the farm is torn up for repaving. So….I walked to the end of the driveway, where I found a cluster of saskatoon bushes. I picked a container full of saskatoons. I did it and I enjoyed it.
Frankly, I set myself up to have a positive experience. First, I chose a cool afternoon for doing it. Then I put on a hat for those brief moments when the sun breaks through the clouds. I wore a long-sleeved cotton shirt. I told myself that no one knows I have the opportunity to pick saskatoon berries. I promised myself that such a prospect will remain my own private secret.
I grabbed a margarine container and headed out the door. The little girl inside me threw a fit. I said to her, “I know. You did this long ago, far away from here. It was hot, buggy, scratchy and itchy. You couldn’t stop till your mother said so. But today, we’re in charge. Let’s walk to the end of the driveway, and see what the bushes look like. If we don’t want to put one berry into our container, that’s fine. We’ll turn around and come back.” She quieted then.
I got down among the saskatoon bushes, started picking and humming, and I lost track of time. When I noticed that my wrist was tired, I looked down and behold! My dish was full. I think I have enough berries for a pie. My husband will be thrilled to the bottom of his Manitoba stomach. I, meanwhile, feel a simple satisfaction, happy to be returning home with a gift.