Not until I enrolled in a psychology class and began to study various human behaviours did it dawn on me that my mother had suffered from a condition termed “obsessive compulsive disorder” or commonly referred to as OCD. This behaviour of my Mom manifested itself only for a period of about 10 days in late June and on into July. At this time she always contracted what we the family dubbed “burry fever — pronounced like hurry, worry or furry.
We knew the mania had hit when Mom came to breakfast wearing slacks, for this was the only time my mother ever donned what she called trousers. This delirium, this hysterical craze, prompted Mom to lace a length of binder twine through the loops of her “pants” through which she could suspend a honey pail. Two 10-gallon milk pails, cups and empty juice cans were also assembled and with this arsenal my Mom and my sisters began the trek to the “burry” patch. These locations were kept very secret and we were warned within an inch of our lives never, ever to disclose our best burry- picking spots. Mom did not want our neighbours to discover our little “treasure islands.”
On our arrival at the burry patch, Mom would give the youngest child (that would be me) a cup, my older sister a juice can and my oldest sister a small honey pail. These receptacles were emptied into the milk pails periodically.
Wild raspberries grew in brush piles. It took determination and some courage to plunge into these dead and twisted branches which scratched our hands and our arms. Also, a common problem was nettles, which grew profusely in this environment. A little scratch from the brush was one thing, but those stinging hairs from the nettle plants irritated the skin and caused sharp pain and an awful burning sensation. They really hurt! Nevertheless, scratches and nettle stings were not allowed to deter us from our mission. We simply had to “suck it up’ as I think today’s expression would be.
Another real danger in invading the brush pile was inadvertently disturbing a wasp’s or hornet’s nest. I was terrified of wasps and hornets, having experienced an encounter with some bumble bees and having received several stings. Another fear we kids had was that an angry bear might want to lay claim to the same burry patch we had chosen. In all the years I went berry picking with my mother, we never did encounter a bear, but my mind had been so regaled with horrifying stories from neighbours and relatives who had had narrow escapes that every little crackle or snap or unidentified noise petrified me. My mother had no sympathy for me for what she deemed were unfounded and silly fears.
My mother was a veritable berry picking machine. With the honey pail suspended from her belt, and with both hands free, she could pick an amazing amount of berries in a surprisingly short time.
“Hurry up, now,” she would urge. “The sooner we fill the pails the sooner we can go home.” My sisters and I knew, however, that when our mother zeroed in on a good patch she would not leave until every container was heaped and I mean heaped! Then she would fill her straw hat and even her apron! Yes, even though Mom was wearing slacks, she still wore her apron. You can imagine how ticked off we kids were, as she always promised to quit picking when the pails were filled. But Mom could not curb her fervour and every conceivable thing was always crammed with berries. She definitely did suffer from berry lunacy and a berry neurosis.
Eventually with all containers heaped, we would head for home. But the work had only just begun. On arriving home, we kids had to clean the berries. This involved shaking a few at a time into another large container such as the bread pan, and removing all leaves, twigs, stems, or any foreign material and sometimes even little white worms.
After the cleaning, my mother would fire up the wood stove, and sterilize countless mason jars or simply assorted jars depending on whether she was making preserves or jam. The berries were cooked in a big pot with lots of sugar added and sealed in the mason jars. In the case of jam, the jars were sealed with melted paraffin wax to ensure a secure seal. Most years my mother “put down” at least 55 quarts of preserves and countless jars of jam.
One aspect of this berry mania with which we kids didn’t mind helping was the production of raspberry vinegar. We would search the cellar, the summer kitchen and the ice house for bottles. We would pester our Uncle Nelson Bell who ran the General Store to save us some bottles as we never bought pop. Mom would fill the big pot with raspberries and then barely cover them with vinegar. This was left to stand for 24 hours. Then she would scald and strain the mixture and add sugar — almost one pound for every pint of juice. Then she would boil and pour this into the previously sterilized bottles. These bottles would be stored in the cellar and later during the winter we would coax our Mom to let us have a taste. To prepare a drink, a large spoonful or so of the raspberry vinegar was added to a glass of cold water. What a lovely refreshing treat this raspberry vinegar was! How we enjoyed this special treat which was usually doled out on special occasions!
Picking wild raspberries is pretty much an activity of the past and I must say I do not miss the chore. But as I have grown older I am now glad that my mother was somehow cast with a berry- picking spell and frenzy for it was her drive and passion and mighty hard work that resulted in not only delicious desserts and refreshments all winter long, but in many unforgettable memories for me.
