Raspberry Memories

With summer here it puts me in mind of my favorite fruit, raspberries. When I was young, raspberries were a big part of my grandparents’ farm in early summer.

It all started in the 1950s I believe when a neighbor, Mrs. Mary Boyer at 1099 West Main, gave my grandma, Lorna Haueter, some of the old raspberry bushes that were growing in her yard. These were then planted in a patch near the large vegetable garden. The patch expanded over the years, until it must have been over 50 feet long and 5 feet wide. As a child it seemed to me it went on forever.

Berry picking was a family affair. My grandparents and Aunt Esther did most of the work, joined by children, grandchildren and even nieces at times. Over the years special Berry Buckets were set aside for this purpose. These consisted of any old pail or bucket that could hold a berry box. These Buckets were then tied around your waist with rope, so you could pick with both hands.

My method of picking berries, one-for-the-bucket, one-for-me, was not always well received! As children we tended to pick the easy berries, we couldn’t, or wouldn’t reach deep into the prickly patch, so someone always had to follow up behind us to pick what we missed. My cousins, who lived just down the road, helped out far more than I ever did and were thus better at it.

Once your box was full, you would remove it from the bucket at your waist and put in on the Carrier. These were made, I assume made by my grandfather, to carry many boxes of berries at once. They were square wooden trays with wooden A-frame on each side and a wooden dowel in between for the handle. They held 16 quarts at a time. Many times I have seen two or three of these trays full of berries after one picking.

Once the berries were picked, they were taken up to the farmhouse for Sorting. I remember this being done normally outside by the driveway, under the shade of white birch tree my grandma loved so much. Here at a picnic table, each quart would be sorted.

Every berry was examined by hand, checking for bugs inside and blemishes outside. The perfect berries were set aside to be sold. The slightly broken berries would be eaten by the family, and then the really broken ones were left for cooking.

Selling for $1 a quart, these very high quality berries sold out every year. My grandma kept a log book with her customers who had standing orders, year after year. Her tally of sold quarts usually ran into hundreds of quarts each year.

My aunt still tends a few of the original bushes, and there is nothing I prize more than getting to taste these incredible berries. I may be bias, but they taste better than any other raspberry I have had. Maybe it is the variety of berry, maybe it is the soil, or maybe it is the memories, but to me it is like enjoying family heritage with each berry.