Bakeapple Picking Time

Sometimes when you think you’re in the worst of times, you are actually in the best of times. These are the kind of worst of times when you’re pulled in multiple directions and you’re racing from one place to the other, too much to do and no time to get to doing what you think you want to do, nothing drastic, nothing earthshattering, nothing really worst about it, just momentary busyness that, looking back, is fleeting, and was actually the best of times.

In my FB memories this morning I was reminded of one such time fifteen years ago. Neither my father-in-law, John, nor my mother, were any longer able berry-pickers. For solid ground berries, like blueberries, they would have gotten by, but for bakeapple picking wandering the marshes, it is not a task for the less than able-bodied. I picked some last year and when I got to the road, if somebody had to offer me a million dollars for the few in my bucket, I think I would have said it’s not enough. Well, I would have took it then, but you get the idea. At least if you ever picked bakeapples, you’d get the idea. I digress.

Some friends had come along who’d never picked the golden berries before, so they were first-timers and didn’t know what to expect. My mother, and John, both had this faraway look in their eyes of their heydays of yearly berry picking. Neither asked nor said anything as we had a mug up in St. Bride’s before we got our bags, a little lunch, our buckets, and readied to head out.

I couldn’t not take them. I asked John if he’d like to go. He allowed he would. Then Mom, she said she’d love to go. So, of course, they both were in my car with their buckets soon after and we were making our way to the marshes.

It is very squishy and suctiony on the marshes as you move around looking for the berries. There are bees and stouts swarming you and pitching and biting- I mention this because I hate them.

As we scrambled down the embankment, John pointed to a rise in the marsh in the distance and say he was going there. He’d gotten berries there before, and off he went. Mom was on oxygen and couldn’t lift her legs too well, so she stayed closer to the road. Luckily there was a spot and she could manage. The new-comers were not roaming pickers, like John, so they picked as they went and hung close to the marsh near the road. The berries weren’t plenty, plenty, but plenty enough when you didn’t know the difference like us roaming pickers who forever chase the next golden marsh. Yes, I’m a roaming picker like John.

As the wind moaned (because on the marshes it moans and groans and whistles) John would wave and shout for me. I’d go over to him, he’d tell me a story about how many bakeapples he picked in his lifetime and that he was going to try over a bit farther. Mom would shout out that she was stuck so I’d leave him and work my way back to her. Once she actually fell and we had to pull her up. She was not hurt. She laughed, we laughed, and then John shouted for me again.

So, I spent the bakeapple picking time going from John to Mom and the distance grew exponentially each time I crossed the marsh. Did I mention the suction and how high you have to lift your knees. One does not simply walk on the marsh. Did I mention the bees.

By the time we finished, John had several cups in his bucket, Mom had several in hers, the Lewis’ had a wonderful time picking and had lots for their first experience. I got a handful of berries because I spent the time going back and forth.

In the end, my momentary worst of times (not really, but you get the drift) turned into a good day. As hindsight would reveal, it was the best of times. It would be the last time picking bakeapples for John and Mom. It was a privilege to experience that. When we went back to the Young’s for tea, you wouldn’t wipe the happy grin of either of them. They were exhausted but happy. This time of the year—bakeapple time, I always think of them on the marsh. I see John beckoning me. I hear Mom shouting that she needed to move but her rubber boot was still in the bog. These kind of worst of times are always remarkable and make the best memories. I’m so happy to have been there with them on their last great bakeapple pick.

The Hornet

Hate is a four-letter word. In my opinion, it is one of the worst emotions you can have because it takes more from you than it gives. I try not to hate for that reason. But, boys oh boys, when it comes to hornets, all that goes out the window.

I remember being stung by a bee once. Now it wasn’t the bees fault. We were picking blueberries and I was quite young when I reached my hand into the bush and felt the sharp prick. I pulled back instantly and when I poked my nose in to see what had stuck me, there was a bumblebee on a leaf and I swear she had her hands on her hips and she was buzzing her darndest at me for invading her space. I get it, she wouldn’t have touched me, but I touched her first. Totally on me.

So then comes the hornets. My first time. I remember being on a swing and I could see it coming at me. Stinger at the ready and making for my eyes. I couldn’t stop or run because the swing was carrying me forward right at the thing. I was holding on to the ropes, going pretty fast, so there was no way out. The sting was brutal. Somebody had to go to the marsh for some black bog, but my eye swelled out of shape and it pained for three whole days before I got relief. The bog took the stinger out but the lasting affects remained. This was unprovoked, I might add, as were two more encounters with said hornets.

The last time, after a run-in with one of those nasty things, it was so painful from my index fingertip right up through my shoulder and into my chest that I was considering asking the doctors to amputate my arm. It was a terrible three days of pure and unable-to-get-relief-through-medication agony. Seriously. I believe I’m allergic.

One time one got into the house. It was kind of stunned because it was in the fall. I remember screaming and running around though the hornet seemed to be mad at the light bulb or something. But when it set it’s eyes on me, it went into attack mode (honest). I swung my coat at it, my heart was pounding, I was still screaming, and the power took that very second to—go. Yep. Almost black and I was fighting for my life (at least every bit of my being was).

I must have struck the hornet because there was no noise. But I couldn’t see very well. I phoned my friend and said, “I’m coming over until Thomas gets home from work because there’s a hornet.”

That’s what I did. But it was cold out. So, I grabbed my coat to make a run for it and what do you think I grabbed? Yep—the hornet. Laying right on the collar. Thankfully, it was still out for the count but every bit of me shivered as I ran screaming and coatless from the house. True story. When the power came back and my husband got home, he cleared the property for my return.

So that being said, I hate hornets. Yes. It is my one, long-lasting, hate-fetish. I unashamedly HATE hornets.

But today I learned a lesson from one—no I thankfully did not get stung. I went to the shed to open the garage door and let the place air out. There, as I looked back at the window of the smaller door, was a hornet, and he was mad.

I got out through the garage door and made for the house. Yep, remember, I hate hornets. It must be an hour later that I went to the store and when I returned, I could see the hornet in the distance still pushing against the window trying to get out. There was a big open space right next to it, that he could have flew out through at any time, but no, he was still pushing on the same window that had blocked him before this.

That’s when I thought about the distresses of hatred. When you are mad at the world or at your circumstance, sometimes you need to stop and take a bigger picture view to get a big picture change. That’s a physical response to an emotional situation that you need to brave. Anger and hatred narrow your world to the point that everything in you is not enjoying anything. Really, you are narrowing your world even more than it already is.

Time for my lesson. Now I could have gone in and, using the broom, swat the hornet from the window and let it focus it’s attention on the bigger opening. It might be grateful at the freedom. But being angry for so long, it would turn on me.

So, he will have to figure it out for himself. He will live in his chaos until he becomes tired and can look around and see the opportunity he’s been given. Or the door may close before then and he’ll stay mad at the world, at the window, at his circumstance, until he’s too tired to fight any longer and he’s alone in the dark on the collar of a coat waiting to be disposed of.

Yep, I ain’t helping him. He'll have to figure it out for himself. My putting myself in harms way for him only goes so far. I feel for him, yes. But, I hate hornets.