So Few on Earth - Josie Penny

Скачать книгу

hollered as I bolted for the berry patch. But I couldn’t run. The ground was so soft my sealskin slippers sank into it, making me tired before I even started. When I got to the berry patch, I was huffing and puffing. I dropped to my knees to pick. One by one I picked each berry and put it into my can, fighting the urge not to pop the delicious fruit into my mouth. I kept picking and picking one at a time until my can was full.

      I was so excited! But when I went back to empty my can into the big can, I fell down. All my hard work was now strewn over the mossy ground in front of me. I began to cry.

      “Never min yer ballin!” Mom yelled as she kept on picking. “Jus pick ’em up an start over!”

      In my mother’s view, children shouldn’t be coddled. There was too much at stake in such a hostile land. So I had no choice but to focus on putting the next berry into my can until it was filled up again. I emptied it into the bucket. It didn’t seem to make any difference to the big one.

      Shortly afterward, Mommy called everyone for a boil-up. I was relieved because I was getting tired.

      “Mom, Jos is eatin de berries!” Sam cried.

      “No, I’m not! Yer eatin more en me.”

      Mommy glared at both of us. “De both of ya better stop eatin dem or ya won be comin nex time. Deed ya won’t!”

      The wind died down, so the fly dope didn’t seem to help much. The mosquitoes were relentless, but the blackflies were worse. The tiny pests left blood running down our faces and the backs of our necks. They kept getting into our eyes, noses, and mouths. Every now and then I’d hear someone choking, and I knew that meant they’d swallowed a fly.

      It was mug-up time, and Daddy found a good spot to make a fire from blasty boughs. This was the fun part. I loved the smell of burning berry bushes, and a fire helped ward off the flies.

      As the black smoke billowed upward, streaking the noon sky, I felt happy and secure in my little world. We sauntered about, collecting twigs and bushes to put on the fire. Daddy gathered a couple of larger sticks and made a tripod to set the kettle on. It wasn’t long before it was boiling, so Mommy poured tea into tin cans for us. After adding a little molasses to sweeten the tea, she passed around the buns she’d baked for our trip.

      Afterward we were reluctant to get back to the berry patches, but it was unthinkable not to keep picking. Even though I was small I was still expected to pick my share. So we trudged on, picking some, eating a few, and brushing away the flies. I was exhausted, but I dared not complain.

      Some families had favourite picking spots they returned to each year, but for the most part it was a free-for-all. Whoever got to the best patches first got most of the berries, and no one liked going to a spot that had already been picked over. Some people went too early to the berry grounds, and that made Mommy angry.

      “Dey shoulden pick berries till der ready fer pickin,” she grumbled. We arrived home exhausted but content. Daddy limped around to secure the boat, then brought up the pail of berries. Sammy was always there to help. Although she must have been tired, Mommy went about getting supper.

      If harvested too early, bakeapples are hard and difficult to pick, but if fully ripened, they’re soft and mushy when plucked, already have the consistency of jam, and don’t need cleaning. We could eat them just as they were. However, they’re best when mixed with a little sugar and a few drops of canned milk. We weren’t allowed to snack on bakeapples because that was considered wasteful. The berries were a precious source of food for hungry days ahead. When we came back from picking, we were thankful to be able to eat a few berries.

      All the other berries had to be cleaned. It was a time-consuming job, and I just wanted to go out and play. Still, the chore had to be done. We’d collect the fruit by the handful, extract the twigs and leaves, and put the berries in a barrel. There would be pies or tarts for supper on Sunday night. Mommy would whip up fresh jam made from the various berries to spread on freshly baked bread. It was especially delicious on hot kingwaks, which were bits of bread dough roasted on the stove, then placed in the oven to finish cooking. We’d cut the kingwaks in half and slather them with butter and fresh jam.

      Before we went berry picking we had nothing to put on our bread except molasses. That was why fresh berries were such a treat. Soon all the berries were stored for the winter, not to be seen until at least Christmas.

      The most common berries in Labrador are blackberries, blueberries, bakeapples, and redberries. The shiny blackberry with a yellow centre blanket the ground and cascade down rocks in large clusters. They’re very juicy and make a dark purple jam that turns tongues black. Blueberries grow in abundance, intermingled with blackberries. They’re picked and eaten throughout the season. We canned and bottled them or made them into jams because they don’t freeze as well as redberries.

      Bakeapples grow on boggy hills and marshes along the coast. They’re covered with a velvety shuck that’s difficult to remove. However, when the berry ripens, the shuck falls away and exposes the succulent berry ripe for picking. In appearance bakeapples are the size and shape of raspberries. They’re redder in colour before they ripen, then turn a peachy hue. Bakeapples grow from a single stem a few inches from the ground.

      Redberries are the last to mature. Newfoundlanders call this berry the partridgeberry. But to most Labradorians they’re simply known as redberries and are similar to cranberries, except smaller and tarter. They grow close to the ground, hugging rocks and spilling down cliffs. Once ripened in late summer and fall, they can still be gathered beneath the snow. Redberries are extremely hardy and freeze well.

      These are the most common berries, but many others grow abundantly in Labrador such as raspberries, squashberries, red currants, and crackleberries. During my growing-up years, berries were an essential staple food for our people. They were invaluable to our health. Without an adequate supply of berries, people were prone to scurvy. It wasn’t unknown for people to die of scurvy in those days.

      Fishermen clad in oilskins and hip rubbers tramped about the stages, now stilled from the swishing of splitting knives and the cracking bones of cods’ heads. It was time to gather fishnets and buoys, paddles and ropes, and store them for another winter. Schooners, heavily laden with the summer’s catch, hoisted sails in preparation to leave the sheltered coves, harbours, and bays for faraway places.

      Shifting inside was a big undertaking. We Livyers moved from the rugged, wind-whipped fishing grounds each fall to more sheltered areas in the bays and coves for the winter. Whatever the success of the catch for the season, it was now time to prepare for winter. There was no government assistance available. The skipper took the money to cover his expenses first, and the rest of the men shared what was left. Each man was a share man, so whatever he ended up with after the squaring away was used to barter for the winter food supply. The barter system worked for the most part, but because the fishermen weren’t paid a fair price for fish, they were kept in the hole (in debt) from one season to the next.

      I watched with pride as Daddy limped into the house, tossed his sou’wester onto the chair, washed his hands in the basin, and made his way to the table for a cup of tea. As Mommy placed the cup in front of him, he stroked her affectionately. They were tired and weary from preparing for the move inland to our winter home in Roaches Brook.

      “Did we make anytin after de squarin way?” Mommy asked Daddy, looking concerned.

      “Yeh. We got nough ta pay down fer de winter’s grub, but nuttin extra.”

      “When’re we shiftin in de bay?”

      Daddy sipped tea from his saucer. “Oh, p’raps de firs civil day now, Mammie. We mos done cleanin up, an when we get our grub from de store, we’re ready.”

      My ears perked up when I heard the word store. I might get a candy.

      “Can I go ta de store?” I dared to ask.

      “Yeh,

Скачать книгу