Yesterday we joined the masses at Sauvie Island Farms, picking the fields to fill our larder. In the mid morning sun, we walked the rows of marionberry thickets searching for dark, long fruit that would easily acquiesce to our plucking. As is sometimes the case when berry picking, opportunities for eavesdropping were equally ripe. Thick rows of canes give the illusion of privacy.
Tom and I pick different rows in silence; Tom taking in the natural world, and I listening to snippets of the conversations all around me. A couple in the row next to me have the same conversation for about twenty minutes, which goes something like this: "These are too hard to pick. They poke you, and they are either too ripe or not ripe enough. I’m going to pick the raspberries because they are easier." I wonder why these people have gone to the trouble of coming to the farm. Shopping at a grocery store might better suit them.
When I’m about halfway down a long row, seemingly alone, the unmistakable smell of pot overwhelms me. For a moment, I wonder if they are growing weed under the cover of the berries. But then I come to my senses, reminding myself that pot probably doesn’t smell this way when it grows. Soon, I hear the equally unmistakable sound of people getting high—giggling. I look up to find a trio of old men who look like they just arrived from Beaverton, and maybe from a game of golf. One is bent over taking a drag and it occurs to me that I should suggest that he offer some to the unhappy couple who can’t tear themselves away from the marionberries they claim to detest.
By 11:30am we were back in the truck and headed for town. Together we’d picked 10.5 pounds of marionberries and three pounds of green beans. As soon as we got home, I threw open the door to the back porch to let the breeze in, and got to the task at hand. By sundown I had four quarts of frozen marionberry pie filling, four quarts of dilly beans and a loaf of bread for the week. My face glistened with sweat. Blobs of thick marionberry pie filling dotted the kitchen floor and the soles of my feet. The scent of hot sugar and vinegar permeated the house. It couldn’t have felt more like summer, and I couldn’t have been happier.
Posts
