hunting and gathering.
raspberry rosebud
Mid September. The coyotes sing down by the river, and the raspberries ripen on the bushes while we pick them. As the sun creeps higher in the sky, berries that were not ripe minutes before are suddenly ready to harvest. The grasshoppers jump inside the bushes heavy with bright berries, and the earth is sandy and wet.
picking berries
Last year, at this same time, I was pregnant, and picking berries with the same group of women. Sometimes we chat while picking, and other times, it’s comfortably silent as we nibble on the sweet fruit. My hands are torn and stinging, but I don’t want to wear gloves. I love the feel of the tender, fragile raspberries on my fingertips, falling into my skin, slipping from my hands into the milk jug. Maizie sleeps for a while, and when she wakes, she wants more raspberries. She plays on the blankets I lay on the ground between rows of berries, and I’m careful to keep her contained, though she wants to crawl and explore–there are thorns and stickers all over. She giggles to herself and shakes her maracas, then taps her carrot against the raspberry vines. When she wants more raspberries, she calls out, “Mamamamama MAMA!” Her little rosebud mouth is stained with raspberry juice, and with each berry, she says, “Yumyumyum.” The sun is warm, the sky is bright, and the berries sweet. The earth moves slow, and I move even slower. Simplicity and bliss.
Later in the day, I enlist Tadz, my husband, to help me wash and prepare the fragile berries. My plan is to take small batches of my little jewels into the colander, rinse them, and carefully place them on cookie sheets and plates, one by one, to dry. Otherwise, the weight of berries upon berries crushes the ones on the bottom, and if they are not dried separately, or if they are crushed, they congeal into clumps. Before I can talk to Tadz about my plan, he is grabbing fistfuls of the berries, crushing them, juice dribbling between his fingers onto his knuckles. “Neanderthal!” I think, but don’t say. We disagree about how best to prepare them: he thinks of efficiency, and I think of tenderness, not time.
He partially modifies his process, after much grumbling about how it is going to take him “for-EV-er,” and he still crushes the berries. He complains and moans and tries to pester me into agreeing to his most time-saving way. We’re both laughing, but I still keep one eye on him, cringing. I tell him about the day of gathering–standing in the sun for hours, almost in the same place, just picking tiny pink fruit, nibbling and chatting and dreaming, and scratching my hands to stinging. The only decision to make is whether to eat this berry or to place it in the basket. I can tell he’s asking several questions in his head: You don’t map out which areas have the most berries? You don’t strategize and develop plans for a production harvest line? You don’t test variations on your picking style or catchment system? Maybe if my life depended upon this, but today, here, now…no. I just tried to pick and enjoy and keep Maizie happy and safe. And right now, I just want my berries to remain perfect, no matter the time.
helping daddy map his route to the Gila; truck is packed and ready to go!
Tadz just recently returned from a week of bow hunting for elk in the Gila National Forest; he was depleted, completely drained of everything when he came back. He has a passion for hunting, where there are maps and routes and constantly modified strategies, where adrenaline and cortisol are coursing through his veins. He barely eats and barely sleeps. He prepares for months before the hunt, and when he returns, it seems like he requires weeks of “re-entry” time, as I call it–endless phone calls to tell and re-tell the stories, eternal “what ifs” and “if onlys”. I call myself a “hunting widow” when elk season starts; a friend of mine jokes, “Does hunting season ever actually end?”
I too thrive on adventure–I shrivel up without it–and I seek intensity and adrenaline. But I also love sitting in the sun, or in the shade, chatting among women while crafting, or sipping wine, or picking berries. I wonder if he would find the joy in being in one place, staring at the same scratchy berry bushes, or if he would find it tedious and boring. I know that he would mention that cutting wood is tedious and time consuming, and that he doesn’t move around a lot, and yet he enjoys it. And I would say, “Yes, but there are power tools involved, sharpening blades. And chaps.”
