Blackberry Picking - Sandra Anfang

[Larry Robinson]

Dear Cynthi,
Thank you for sharing these sweet memories!
Many blessings,
Larry

> On Jul 27, 2022, at 11:13 PM, Cynthi Stefenoni <cynthi.rose22 at gmail.com> wrote:
> 
> Larry and Sandra,
> 
> Reading this brought me immediately to my Sebastopol childhood. My mother worked at Turley’s Bakery on Main Street and the owner, Plazi ‘Pete’ Curshellas, was an excellent baker and a kind man who would buy all the blackberries my sister and I could pick each season. We lived on 3 acres of a Gravenstein orchard that shared a property line with Luther Burbank’s Sebastopol farm. Three sides of our property was fenced by blackberry vines that Mr. Burbank had grafted and cross pollinated in his experiments to make new produce.  The berries were, therefore, many different sizes, shapes and tastes. And the growing season was long. We had ripe berries all summer long and paid for our school clothes with the money we made. It was our first job. We began when we were 5 and 7 and felt all grown up and important every time we got paid! 
> 
> Thanks for the stroll down memory lane 
> 
> Cynthi Stefenoni 
> 
> Sent from my iPhone
> 
>> On Jul 22, 2022, at 7:23 AM, Larry Robinson <Lrobpoet at sonic.net> wrote:
>> 
>> Blackberry Picking
>> 
>> I climb the highest hill at first light.
>> The village opens its ears to surround sound:
>> a lone lamb bleating in the distance,
>> the yodel of a train whistle
>> cutting through low-lying fog,
>> a single rooster arching its neck in greeting.
>> 
>> I climb to coax new berries from their beds
>> guarded by mammoth thorns,
>> surprised to see such early ripening.
>> Drupelets liquefy in my greedy fingers,
>> compound eyes reflecting light,
>> nectar for birds and damselflies.
>> I stop to lick them between lootings.
>> 
>> Many are still crimson,
>> hard as nipples on a winter beach.
>> The blackest wink just out of reach.
>> I lean into the fanged hedge to
>> welcome the puncture,
>> the sting of tiny needles on my palm,
>> and remember the lessons of pain.
>> 
>> My hands rehearse the choreography of picking.
>> Twisting the berries from their stems with a rolling motion
>> I fill the Ball jar bit by bit,
>> mind lost in the brilliant blackness of jam,
>> tuning into the alchemy of pectin,
>> filtering the sugar down to its substrate,
>> dreaming of the crop’s resurgence 
>> fuller with each coming year.
>> 
>> How I love the hunt and struggle,
>> bloody palms,
>> purple stains,
>> the hard won victory,
>> the first of many sojourns to the berry trail.
>> My new practice of beginner’s tongue.
>> 
>>   - Sandra Anfang    
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>