By Mary, 5-11-05

Now, we were taught that God created everything and I believe that with all my heart. I have found no reason throughout my 58 (almost 59, but not quite if I get this done very soon) years to dispute that teaching. In fact, all I have to do is look around and see the wonders of this glorious planet to know there is a God and only He could imagine and create such magnificence.

We grew up knowing that not only did He create everything, but it was all good and it was meant for our pleasure. The Garden of Eden must have been something only God could imagine. Did that include GOOSEBERRIES???? Those things grew everywhere in OUR cow pasture! Big hunkin’ bushes that you couldn’t reach around or through (and survive), small ones just starting out, just about any size you might think of. It seems to me they were everywhere you looked—with tons of little, tiny, green berries. We would just think we were done being tortured and would hear Mom say, “Here’s a bush you missed.”, or “You’re not done with this bush, you missed this side, get over here and pick!” By the way, does anyone remember DAD being around???

There we were, every kid she could muster, holding some kind of container to put our “treasure” in! Treasure nothing—-I could have thrown this treasure in the gulley we sometimes stood on the edge of picking those things and not batted an eye! It was hot out there picking those gosh-darned berries. The bush might be one of those big hunkin’ ones, but it sure didn’t give any comfort or shade from the blazing sun. And, of course, they didn’t grow under those big wonderful trees just feet away where the breeze was gently blowing and there was relief! Get those berries picked!! That was our mission—that was what we did. We did it because Mom said to—there sure wasn’t any other good reason that I could think of.

I can still feel the sting and slash of the most wicked stickers any bush could have. My hands and arms (and sometimes nose or cheek) was mutilated by the time we were done. Now, the stickers must be there for a reason. God knew what He was doing. I’ll tell you what I think. Those dirty, stinkin’, rotten stickers are there to let you know—STAY AWAY, these berries belong to the BIRDS! Why do you suppose Mom never figured that out?

We did eventully finish and get back to the house. It was over, finally. Get the mutilated hands and arms washed a bit—darn it, that stung! But, we were back to safety—we were DONE with those things! Wait a minute, I think my memory says that the BOYS were done, but no such reprieve for the GIRLS. We watched Mom dump those little green things into dishpans or milk buckets or something—they did look pretty and we could be proud of what we did. In fact, Mom would now say, “They are the most elegant berries!” But we knew it was coming—”We’ve got to get these berries stemmed.”

Stemming gooseberries is it’s own form of torture even though you can sit—on the couch, under the maple tree, or about anywhere you want as long as you don’t spill them and lose any of them. They are tiny—and I don’t recall EVER having small, delicate fingers needed to handle the little things. And wouldn’t you think ONE stem would be enough for these little buggers? Oh, no, there is the stem that held it to the bush and then the other end of the berry had whisker-like stuff (I always thought it came from the bloom when the berry formed) that had to be pinched off. It was just horrid doing those berries—from start to finish.

It seemed like it would never end, but it must have because soon our Mom would have a gorgeous, steaming pie out of the oven. Oh, I’m sure there were more than one because Mom didn’t get the pie mess out for just ONE pie—that wouldn’t be worth the trouble. I remember those gorgeous pies. Mom sprinkled sugar on the top of the pie to “make it brown”, she said. (By the way, Aunt Blanche smeared cream on top of hers to make them brown—I liked her way too, so I do BOTH on my pies now.)

I can still remember the smell of pies baking. It was great. I love pie—especially Mom’s pie. And, even though I knew it was gooseberry and I knew I did NOT like gooseberry pie, I would have to have a piece!! I guess I thought it might be different this time. It never was, though. I can’t remember a gooseberry pie I ever liked. BUT, here’s the kicker, our Dad DID love gooseberry pie. Now, that explains it. The torture was for a VERY good reason.

I don’t know what ever happened to the gooseberry bushes. They may still be growing “up on the hill” out at the Frieden Farm. Perhaps wild turkeys lurk in those bushes and partake of the treasure. Someone should check! Anyway, the torture ended for us a long time ago—and I for one am glad. But, guess what our Mom did! Even as I write this story, there is an “elegant” gooseberry bush in Mom’s yard (not in a pasture) quietly growing big, wonderful, TAME gooseberries!!! Now, who in their right mind came up with TAME GOOSEBERRIES??? It’s just wrong!!!