Digging The Learning Curve

Just yesterday, I was thinking that I couldn’t grow food and that I ought to give up and just plant perennials. Today, after I ate lettuce, a pepper, dill, and some raspberries from the back garden, I’m willing to rethink my position.

I wanted to post a little story about berries. I hope you enjoy it.

Digging the Learning Curve: Berries, by Deirdre Sinnott

The berries were just out of my reach. I was in a hurry because I only had a few minutes to collect them before I drove to my Mom’s house for a visit.

My mother loves berries. It’s one of the few things that truly delight her. Her eyes light up and she “aahhh’s” her approval. Seeing her so happy gives me an “eureka” moment because, in that second, I feel loved. I used to look for that unreserved approval after presenting her with a good report card or, more recently, with a discussion of my potential wedding, and never see it. But when I give her a few berries, freshly picked or purchased at the farmer’s market, I’m the one she appreciates.

As I stretched to reach a particularly fruit-laden branch in the middle of a patch just off my driveway, I remembered my grandmother’s berry pile.

When I was growing up, my grandmother had a large pile of old wood in the back. It seemed rotted enough to have been part of the leftover junk from the construction of her house, 60 years before. Grey and blackened boards lay at crazy angles forming a mound to the side of the lawn in the far back yard, near the edge of her property. The pile wasn’t that high, only about four feet tall, but it stretched twenty feet wide and fifteen feet deep. Over the years wild blackberry bushes entwined with the wood, feeding off the old boards’ moist decomposition.

Hundreds of sprigs shot up in all directions. In spring thousands of tiny flowers bloomed offering the promise of a summer harvest. I used to visit the pile often, checking on the progress of the berries. I watched as the flowers opened, attracting bees and hummingbirds. Soon the petals dropped and small dots appeared from the center of each flower. Rain helped to plump the seeds, encasing them in a fleshy cocoon. In July they neared their full size. The sun transformed the green into red, and then into maroon, until finally fully-formed and ripened blackberries clustered on each branch.

One sunny August afternoon, upon arriving at my grandmother’s house, I ran back to the pile to see if the fruit was ready to be picked. Ripe berries dangled near the edge of the patch. As I gently pulled them off their stalks, I pictured her reaction. Whatever she was doing would stop. I’d be the center of her attention, but for a good reason. She’d eat a berry and sigh with happiness. Imagining her pleasure spurred me on. So, with full hands, I ran back to deliver my treasure.

“Thank you,” she said. She pulled each one from my hand, inspected it and popped it into her mouth. “Those are good. Were there more?”

Pleased, I nodded slowly.

“Let’s get you a bowl or better yet a bucket,” she said.

Armed with a small bucket, I returned to the pile. As I surveyed the task, I noticed that the best berries were just out of my reach. The branches deep inside appeared to be sagging under the weight of the black gold. I nimbly placed on one foot on an old board that stuck out of the pile. As I slowly offered it more of my weight, it held. Confident, I stepped into the bramble patch, collecting as I went. Each inch deeper into the pile revealed more berries, as always, just beyond my reach. My bucket slowly filled. I never explored this far into the pile before, but I was determined to bring back a brimming offering.

Getting Mom’s approval had always been hard. She was usually busy or reading or irritated by something. When her attention finally turned to me, the youngest of three children, I desperately wanted to show her my good side. Because if she was happy, I was happy. My moods swung with hers.

I stepped gingerly onto another beam in the berry patch, but it began to wobble. I grabbed a stout looking berry stalk and tried to steady myself. My hand slid up the branch as I fought for balance. Thorns bit into my palm. I yelped and my foot broke through the board.

Shaken, I looked at my bucket. They were all still there. The blackberries, piled one on top of the other, were safe. I stood still trying to catch my breath and noticed that my right hand ached. When I flipped it over for inspection blood ran freely from several tears, mixing with squished berries. I rubbed my hand on my shorts. Tears stung the corners of my eyes, but I didn’t cry. I extricated myself from the pile. When I approached my mother, I saw the alarm in her eyes, not the look of excitement that I wanted.

“What happened?” she said, standing to meet me.

“I fell.”

“Let me see you. Are you all right?” She inspected my arms and legs pausing when she found the cuts on my palm.

“I brought you these,” I said holding the bucket of berries out to her.

“Well that’s good, but you hurt yourself,” she said as she ushered me toward the house.

As she gently cleaned my hand, wiping off the berries and the blood, I began to cry.

“Does this hurt?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“Why are you crying?” she asked.

“Because I wanted you to be happy,” I stammered. “I wanted to give you the berries and make you happy.”

“You made me happy,” she said. Pausing, she looked into my eyes, “You don’t have to kill yourself to do it.”

As I stood in my driveway, one hand over-flowing with freshly-picked berries, I laughed. Here I go again, I thought, trying too hard to be acceptable to my mother. Now, as an adult, I had my own life filled with people I loved and who loved me. The internal satisfaction that I finally found needed no outside approval. I washed the berries and put them in the car. I still prize making my mother happy. And I know that she loves me in her way, fruit or no fruit.