Raspberries

RASPBERRIES

By Arlene Levin  (c) 2019

It was 1969.  I was in my 20's, married and living in Toronto.  Michael and I were born and bred city dwellers from Chicago.  We didn't drive. Public transportation, bicycles, walking and even roller skating served us well.  But when Andy offered, we jumped at the chance to go to a fruit farm outside the city and pick raspberries!

It was a glorious day.   A friend said, "No rain for the last few days is a good thing.  The berries should be perfect for picking ".   This promised to be a totally new adventure for this city gal.

Wanting to get a jump on the day, Andy arrived at 9:00 in his old BMW.  Eagerly we hopped in.  Michael rode shotgun and I made myself comfortable in the back seat.  Smiles all around, we took off.

I recall it being a wonderful drive through the city and on to the highway.  We watched houses give way to forest and vast flat farmland.   We drove for more than an hour.  Fresh air and sunshine streamed through the car's open windows.  "This is heaven" I thought.  

On the way, there was little conversation, just Michael and Andy intently hovering over the map.   Finally and with great sighs of relief,  Andy pulled into the farm parking lot.  There were lots of cars already there and I thought  "We've come all this way.  Will there be berries left for us?"  

We walked into a large barn-like building.  It was dark, moist and refreshingly cool.  A huge pile of empty wooden fruit baskets sat on a table in the middle of the barn.  The cost for picking raspberries was based on the size basket you chose.  One quart, two quarts, I believe six quarts was the largest.  Some people brought their own baskets and paid accordingly.  

"Raspberries are little.  Could I really fill a 4 quart basket?"  With that thought and our empty baskets in hand we walked through the dark barn.  The sun drenched field of raspberry canes stretched as far as the eye could see.   The patch was dotted with the tops of heads, all busy picking, eating and picking some more.

"But where to begin?"  As that thought ran through my mind I saw two older ladies come out of the raspberry patch.  Each had the blue-rinsed hair that was popular at the time.  They wore flowered print rayon dresses, heavy support stockings and thick heeled white sandals.  They looked like they just came from church, which was very possibly case.  I thought, "You go to church and then on the way home you stop and pick raspberries.  What a life".  Before me these ladies stood.  In each hand was a six-quart basket of the most beautiful raspberries I'd ever seen.

I am a student and I am a teacher.    I try to benefit from others' successes and failures.  Motioning to their baskets and with the utmost respect I asked them, "What is the secret to good raspberry picking"?

These blue-haired ladies were quite naturally taken aback with my question.  They looked me up and down...cut-off jeans, holy sneakers, an over-sized tee shirt... I looked to be your run of the mill 1969 hippy.  But my question was sincere and they knew it.  "What is the secret to good raspberry picking"?

These church ladies looked at me hard, paused, and then gave me the secret of life, not just the secret for good raspberry picking but a philosophy of life I've used ever since.  And now I share it with you.  She said, "Stand still and pick clean".