Picking Berries
COUNTER CULTURE
Margi Curtis
Sands Rea
1 think 1 know why this time of year is called
"Indian Summer". It has to do with berries. Wild
blackberries and blue huckleberries hanging swollen,
shining and ready.
An unaccustomed chill in last nights air began the
stirrings of the tail nesting ritual at our house.
(Has ing lived here 9 years now, 1 feel sale in
referring to our preparations as ritual.) The hub ot
our actis i tics deals with wood -- its stoiage,
stacking, splitting, abstract worship, and its eventual
fate in one of our woodstoves.
I spend the spring and summer searching it out,
locating piles of unwanted scrap wood, having cords
delivered. The basement stove is small, and requires
a short-cut log, so 1 spend hours splitting, gleaning,
enjov mg the smell of the just-exposed sap in each
hunk the maul severs. This is done neither quickly
nor efficiently. Its purpose has nothing to do with
speed or competence, but more truly with the visceral
enjoyment ot the lush wood scent, and its symbolism
w ithin our home.
On a September evening, after work, there
remains an hour before dusk. This is my chance to
get at the wild evergreen huckleberry bush that lives,
so conveniently, in my front yard. The fruit adorns
it like a holiday ornament, tiny, almost black, and
thick enough to conjure images of jam.
Each little berry must be removed one at a time.
Thornless branches and leaves make picking easy,
but the accumulation of bernes is slow. I realize it
will take much longer than I have to gather enough
for Christmas jam. In this realization is my
disappointment that 1 could have thus tar constructed
a life for myself which doesn't allow enough time for
berry picking.
BAGEL FLAVORS
When we first moved here, I was sold seasoned
cordwood by a pair of snakes who knew a greenhorn
w hen they saw one: The Beagle Boys unloaded a
pile of rounds in my backyard, all the while swearing
as to the high quality of same. I didn't notice the live
barnacles until the two were well gone, and,
predictably enough, never to be heard lrom again.
Plain
Sesame Seed
Poppy Seed
The Works
Garlic • Onion
Cheese & Jalapeno
Asiago Cheese
Tomato Herb
Cinnamon Raisin
Seven Grain
Honey Nut*
Blueberry*
Cranberry Orange*
Pumpkin* • Rye*
Sourdough*
Pumpernickel*
Pesto Parmesan*
Spinach Parmesan*
Now, like all locals, I treasure a good woodman,
and am pleased when buying cordwood coincides
with helping the community. This year, a Scout
troop was selling and delivering wood to raise
money for an extensive trip. (The Fort Clatsop
Order of the Arrow is a top-notch supplier, and
w orth calling if they still perform this service.)
Besides the wood, there are the related activities
that signal the coming of colder w eather; like making
firestarters, an odd assemblage ol pine cones and
paraffin in a paper cupcake holder. We heat the
paraffin on the basement woodstove in a long-retired
camping coffeepot, adding the essential crayon tor
hue, all the while talking about what a good gilt these
w ould make to our friends who have lireplaces.
(They never get any- -we use them all ourselves.)
We remember to get cider, and cinnamon sticks,
and begin planning the quiet and lull-some nights to
be spent in front of the cast iron fireplace insert in the
living room. Books that we meant to read last winter
begin suggesting themselves as treats tor the coming
bad w eather. I buy candles at New berry's (3/$ 1),
and put them into newly- polished holders; we have
enough for the entire house, even sconces lor the
stairway. The copper potpourri warmer starts
looking really good again, and the kitchen cupboards
are checked to make sure they contain sufficient
flour, butter, spices, sugar and cookie cutters tor
those long, cold, rainy afternoons when the Baking
Goddess reawakens and demands the house be
replete with the sumptuous fragrance of gingersnaps.
‘ These flavors rotate
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Skeins of yam begin their annual migration from
the shelves in the den to the work bucket next to my
reading chair in the living room. Myriad alghan
starts, slippers, scarves, hats, and toys emanate, day
by day, from the ever-growing acrylic pile at my
side. I am reminded ol The Sorcerer's Apprentice,
and of this mere mortal's inability to stem the flow ot
assorted ombres and heathers from their chosen path.
Ignoring the inherent dangers, I fearlessly check the
fliers for yarn sales.
Friends of the
Columbia Gorge
319 SW Washington, Suite 301
Portland, Oregon 9 7 20 4
10th Annivenary o f the
Columbia Gorge Notional Scenic Area
Soon it will be time for the bi-yearly wardrobe
sw itch, when the tank tops will go hide in the eaves
while the turtlenecks emerge from storage. Each tall
I have the opportunity to delight in the rediscovery ot
what excellent taste I have in picking sweaters; some
are such a pleasant surprise that I would buy them all
over again. Others, made by friends, remind me ol
the treasures we have in one another, and how the
coming winter will allow time to write notes to all ot
them, to tell them so, late in the evening, by candle­
light. As the year and I grow older, we meld.
H O P E L. H A R R IS
L IC E N S E D
MASSAGE
T H E R A P IS T
JIM WEATHEBS
5 0 3 / 3 2 5 -2 5 2 3
jo.vnn Honeyman
Arthur Honeyman
At 8:00, Marilyn, the manager, would bound in
all dressed in her Gold Rush Era dress. She was
followed more quietly by the Eskimo women w ho
cleaned the rooms and did the laundry. I here weic
usually two, depending upon who decided to show
up. Sometimes only one came, and then I worked
until noon to help, which was tine by me. 1 was
saving college money.
My favorite co-worker was Alma. We would
spend' hours folding sheets together in the basement
laundry. We talked about our families, mostly.
Alma was a grandmother and had a huge extended
family. She was related to about half the people in
Nome. 1 asked her questions about Eskimo ways;
about how things were before white people came.
She was quietest then and gave me short answers at
first. Gradually, I think, she started to trust me. I
felt some sense of another Alaska when I w as with
her. She was a peace! ul woman, and a hard worker.
When others showed up sporadically, Alma always
came in on time.
"Oh...prob’ly pickin' berries."
«
Every year, at least, those words come back to
me. In late summer, when I pass wild berry bushes
loaded with ripe fruit, I wonder about Alma. I, too,
will often have those words be the ones to describe
my whereabouts on sunny Indian Summer mornings
when everyone else is at work. I will pick, as
though it is part of my survival.
Ä
28 s .w 1 si Avenue
Portland. Oregon 97204
(503) 223-4027
One of the jobs 1 ended up with required me to
stay awake at the front desk of the Nugget Inn Hotel
from midnight to 8:00 a.m. Being a night desk clerk
in Alaska in July allowed me to watch several
"nights" which consisted of about an hour's worth ot
dusk before sunrise. The dusk increased in length
every' shift, until one night I saw a star tor the tirst
time in weeks. With the growing darkness, the
berries began to ripen on the tundra.
Her casual reply is still fresh in my memory. Her
voice of deep Eskimo tones, with a Canadian/lndian
combination of accents, the words formed w ith an
unmoving jaw.
carpentry
W HEEL P R E S S , INO.
In July, twenty years ago, I traveled to Nome,
Alaska, located just above the Arctic Circle on the
edge of the Bering Sea. Word was that I could tind
all the work I wanted in Nome. From the airplane
window, my first view of this land were rolling hills
of endless tundra, which grew a few feet atop
permanently frozen sub-soil. Upon venturing into
the hills outside ot town, I tound the tundra to be
dotted everywhere with low-bush blue huckleberries,
very much like those native to the alpine meadows ot
the Cascade Mountains. By the end ot August, there
would be berry picking! I felt at home.
One sunny, late summer morning, the day
workers came in, but Alma wasn't with them. I
checked the schedule, and her name w as there. She
usually came in with Lucy, so I asked her, Hi Lucy.
Where's Alma today?"
■■»>■■■■■■■»" rr~0.
0
So, I breathe. I let myself become absorbed in
the rhythm of picking each beautiful little
huckleberry. My bowl begins to get heavier. I look
more closely at this marvelous plant, nativ c to the
green, wet coast. It was growing here when all the
land was forest right down to the sand. The Indian
women spent hours gathenng berries in their hand-
woven baskets. They ate a large amount ot then
pick, as the bears do, and dried the rest. Unlike me,
they’had time for this, because it was part of their
survival.
4 3 6 *1 8 8 5 I
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JIM HAUGEN
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