Berry Picking Before the Storm
One summer when I was around eight or nine, we spent an entire week picking black raspberries for hours each morning.
There was a hurricane working its way up the coast, and even though we were far inland, we knew what those storms could do. Too much rain and the berries would go soft, moldy, lost. So we were out there with the sun barely over the trees, picking as fast and as carefully as we could. New berries ripened each day, and we wanted to save as many as possible - black raspberries went for top dollar, because if you wanted locally grown, they were hard to come by.
I never liked picking berries. I’ll be honest about that. It felt like they never ended. Just when you thought you’d finished a row, you’d spot more hiding under the leaves, waiting to stain your fingers and scratch your arms. Raspberries are delicate, we had to pick them gently, or they’d fall apart in our hands.
There were orders to fill, markets coming up. We weren’t just picking for fun. It was work.
My little brother helped. He’s three years younger than me, and always more interested in eating the berries than picking them. His mouth would be stained red, his bucket mostly empty. It slowed things down a bit, but I wasn’t really mad about it. He was little. It’s kind of funny now, the way he saw it more like a snack than a chore.
One morning, we picked over 32 quarts in just a few hours. We carried them into the house and lined them up in the spare living room. We had the air conditioning blasting to keep everything cool, and the whole house smelled sweet. We always made sure my grandma got a couple quarts for black raspberry pies.
That week sticks with me, not because I loved the task, but because we got it done. We didn’t lose the crop. The rain came just like they said it would, heavy and steady, and we watched it from inside knowing most of the berries were already packed, safe in the cool, waiting to be sold or eaten.
I didn’t know it then, but there’s something to learn in a job like that. Something about showing up even when it’s hot and boring and pokey. Something about doing a slow task carefully, not because you enjoy it, but because it matters.
We didn’t beat the storm, we just got ahead of it. And sometimes, that’s all you can do.
You Might Also Love…
More from The Apricot Years…
A mossy little birdhouse hung on the porch for years, mostly for show. Then, one spring morning, a pair of bluebirds arrived. This Curio Cabinet post is a soft reflection on what happens when something unexpected decides to belong.