The Berry Patch

Reading the draft Joyce sent to us for the Fall 2009 Writing It Real No-Contest Contest and the tweaked version, you’ll see an example of the importance of polish editing. Although an essay might be “all there” on the page, rearranging some paragraphs and tweaking the ending can make a huge difference in the effect the writing will have on its readers.

Joyce’s initial essay entry was already fully on the page. My comments concerned shaping and tightening changes that would help the essay more completely connect with readers. Editorial comments as directive as the ones I’ve made on this essay are always best left to late stages of development. You might want to review the three-step response method to see the kind of responses that help before directive suggestions.

Let’s start with Joyce’s initial entry, followed by my note to her and my suggestions inserted into her text. Then we present her revised entry and the judge’s comment.

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The Berry Patch
by Joyce Deming

Thunk. Thunk.

I stare into the white plastic bucket tied to my belt and count. One, two, five, eight, ten. Ten berries including the two I just dropped in.

I glance over at Vic who is straddling a log and peering into a nearly leafless bush. “How’s it look over there?”

“Not too good. Just a few berries and most of them are all dried up.”

It’s late summer in the Colorado high country and the air is warm. The Deming family has gathered once again to pick berries – a family tradition going back at least 70 years. This year, the family consists of just me, my husband and our dog, Buddy. My brother, busy with a new wife, a demanding job and a troubled teenager has begged off. My uncle, recovering from a heart attack, is still unable to travel at altitude. My cousins are busy with family plans of their own for the long Labor Day weekend.

It wasn’t always so. In years past, berry picking was a huge affair, with family converging on this place from all areas of the state. A literal truckload of kids rode to the berry patch in the back of my dad’s green, ‘67 Chevy pickup. No mandatory seatbelts and child restraints in those days. Aunt Lil packed a huge picnic lunch: Tupperware containers full of cold fried chicken and potato salad, fresh peaches from the Western Slope and a big cake pan of her chocolate frosted brownies. We kids gulped down lemonade and iced tea; the grownups drank coffee from thermoses in red plastic cups.

Berry picking started early in order to finish before the requisite afternoon thunderstorms. We picked for several hours, talking and laughing if near one another, lost in our own thoughts if we were not. Around noon we gathered around the tailgate for what we referred to as lunch and lies. My uncle and dad regaled us with stories of the good old days, the same stories we heard every year about the folks in town who paid them fifty cents for a gallon of berries. Good money for a day’s work when there were eight kids in the family and a father lost in the flu epidemic.

After lunch, my brother and boy cousins wandered off with their .22’s to plink at stumps and to lob firecrackers at one another. The rest of us went back to picking until thunder rumbled in the distant hills and rain was imminent.

I call them berries, but botanically speaking they are not. They are currants, black currants to be exact, Ribes americanum. Currants differ from berries in that the fruit retains part of the dried flower which protrudes from one end like a tiny pigtail. Their glossy black bodies are covered in tiny hairs which I suppose helps protect them from insects. They grow in clusters like grapes, camouflaged beneath the bushes’ maple-shaped leaves, and range in size from pencil eraser to thumbnail.

Black currants are a definitely an acquired taste, somewhat reminiscent of a not-quite-ripe blackberry. One year, a middle-aged couple happened upon our annual expedition and asked what we were doing. We glanced nervously at each other — should we tell them? Like the best fishing holes, the location of the berry patch was a family secret to be guarded at all costs. Finally my uncle confessed we were picking currants and offered them a taste. Involuntary puckers and shoulder-raising shudders assured us that this couple would not be horning in on our family berry patch any time soon.

Currants are best when mixed with large amounts of sugar and cooked into jelly or used like blueberries in muffins. My favorite dessert is black currant pie served warm from the oven, topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Of course, the berries are “cut” with sliced apples; to use only black currants would be sacrilege. After all, that gallon of berries has to last until next season.

It’s warm today, even in the shade of the spruce trees, but it’s a welcome relief from the oppressive heat we left in the city. The currant bushes thrive on the relatively damp, north-facing slopes and are often found in areas that have been logged, growing over the tangles of slash left by the loggers. One year, as I scrambled to get to a bush with some particularly large, plump berries, I slipped on the wet, haphazardly stacked logs and landed on my back. My head was pointing downhill and my body was draped like a parenthesis over the offending logs. I had berries in my hair, my ears, my belly button. My brother, picking not far from me, heard the crashing and cursing and peered down from the road above. “You didn’t lose any of your berries, did you?”

I love being in this berry-patch forest. It smells of spruce needles, pungent and nose-tingling, and damp, loamy soil, rich with decay. The forest floor is a tapestry in a million shades of green with an occasional red or white mushroom thrown in for visual contrast. The light is filtered through layers of evergreen needles and the air is cool. Off in the distance a hermit thrust sings his lilting, reedy call and at my feet, a trickle of water splashes over moss-covered rocks.

Even when it’s not berry season, we come here, under the pretense of “checking the berry patch.” Vic and Buddy and I hike a circle route down a section of logging road long ago abandoned. The road eventually necks down to a single path, grown up in trees, then opens into a large, wet meadow full of marsh marigolds and elk tracks. We follow the creek down to the “bear bush,” a large cluster of berry bushes so named for the sizable pile of purple-stained bear scat we found near it one year.

That was in the wet years, of course. Today, after several years of below-normal snowfall and dry summers, the forest feels much like the parched brown landscape we left behind in the city. The meadow looks tired and wilted. We follow the dry creek bed down to the lower road, the forest duff crunching like cornflakes under our feet. The berry patch, too, has felt the impact of the drought. The bushes are covered in a fine layer of red dust and many are stunted and have already dropped their leaves. What few berries we do find are small and dry and wrinkled like raisins. The bear bush is completely gone, grown up in weedy plants with yellow flowers.

I’m afraid the recent drought is not the only culprit, however. The old bushes have been disappearing for years and there are no new ones replacing them. The berry patch is dying.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m trained as a biologist and know about ecological succession, fancy words for “nothing stays the same.” These evergreen forests are part of reason for the bushes’ demise — as a pioneer species, the berries move in after an area is logged and disappear as the forest reestablishes itself. My brain recognizes this logic; my heart senses the loss.

It’s time to go. Vic and I walk back to the truck, the nearly-empty white plastic buckets still tied to our waists. We pause for a photo-op view of the mountains, point out various peaks and talk of climbing them some day. It’s also time to let go of this place, this family tradition and to give the berry patch back to the forest. We have our memories, layered as deep as the evergreen needles on the forest floor. We have our stories — banner harvests, fresh bear scat in the road and elk tracks in the meadow. And, the last time I looked, we still had a gallon of berries in the freezer. Mixed with enough apples, we can make them last until sadness fades to a tender ache of remembrance.

It’s time to go. Vic and I walk back to the truck, the white plastic buckets still tied to our waists. It’s time to give the berry patch back to the forest. We pause for a photo-op view of the mountains, point out various peaks and talk of climbing them some day. We’ll always have our memories, layered as deep as the evergreen needles on the forest floor. And our stories — banner harvests, fresh bear scat in the road and elk tracks in the meadow. Our buckets are nearly empty, but the last time I looked, we still had a gallon of berries in the freezer. Mixed with enough apples, we can make them last until our sadness fades.

****

Sheila’s Email Response with Editorial Comments on Joyce’s Entry:

Dear Joyce,

I have read you essay with great delight. You have done a beautiful job of evoking the place, the love between the couple, and the way families maturing and the forest maturing are parallel. I have made comments IN CAPS in the test. I hope they make sense to you. I view them as polish editing. Thanks for sending this lovely and informative essay.

I just bought some huckleberries, which must be similar I think to currants, today at our Port Townsend Farmers Market. I’ve never had them and the man and wife selling them said they grow wild on their property.

Yours,

Sheila

The Berry Patch
by Joyce Deming

Thunk. Thunk.

I stare into the white plastic bucket tied to my belt and count. One, two, five, eight, ten. Ten berries including the two I just dropped in.

I glance over at Vic who is straddling a log and peering into a nearly leafless bush. “How’s it look over there?”

“Not too good. Just a few berries and most of them are all dried up.”

I THINK YOU CAN INSERT THE LATER PARAGRAPH THAT STARTS “I CALL THEM BERRIES” RIGHT HERE. SEE BELOW WHERE I SAY THAT. YOU MIGHT ADD A LINE AT THE END HERE THEN ABOUT HOW LABOR INTENSIVE PICKING THEM IS.

I THINK YOU CAN PUT IN THE LATER PART ABOUT THE TIME YOU SLIPPED ON YOUR BACK RIGHT HERE. SEE LATER WHERE I INDICATE THAT LATER IN THIS VERSION.

In those days the berries were abundant, a seemingly endless supply, enough for everyone to take home at least a gallon. This year, Vic and I will be lucky to gather enough to top an ice cream sundae or two. I THINK THIS IS BEGINNING TO BE APPARENT AND YOU COULD DELETE THE PREVIOUS TWO SENTENCES.

Currants are best when mixed with large amounts of sugar and cooked into jelly or used like blueberries in muffins. MAYBE A REWORDING HERE: CURRANTS ARE BEST WHEN COOKED INTO JELLY OR USED LIKE BLUEBERRIES IN MUFFINS, ALWAYS WITH LARGE AMOUNTS OF SUGAR. My favorite dessert is black currant pie served warm from the oven, topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Of course, the berries are “cut” with sliced apples; to use only black currants would be sacrilege. After all, that gallon of berries has to last until next season.

It’s warm today, even in the shade of the spruce trees, but it’s a welcome relief from the oppressive heat we left in the city. The currant bushes thrive on the relatively damp, north-facing slopes and are often found in areas that have been logged, growing over the tangles of slash left by the loggers. THIS NEXT PART ARE THE WORDS I THINK CAN GO EARLIER IN THE PARAGRAPH THAT STARTS “IT WASN’T ALWAYS SO. One year, as I scrambled to get to a bush with some particularly large, plump berries, I slipped on the wet, haphazardly stacked logs and landed on my back. My head was pointing downhill and my body was draped like a parenthesis over the offending logs. I had berries in my hair, my ears, my belly button. My brother, picking not far from me, heard the crashing and cursing and peered down from the road above. “You didn’t lose any of your berries, did you?”

I’m afraid the recent drought is not the only culprit, however. The old bushes have been disappearing for years and there are no new ones replacing them. The berry patch is dying.

MAYBE THIS LAST PARAGRAPH CAN BE EDITED A BIT: It’s time to go. Vic and I walk back to the truck, the white plastic buckets still tied to our waists. It’s time to give the berry patch back to the forest. We pause for a photo-op view of the mountains, point out various peaks and talk of climbing them some day. We’ll always have our memories, layered as deep as the evergreen needles on the forest floor. And our stories — banner harvests, fresh bear scat in the road and elk tracks in the meadow. Our buckets are nearly empty, but the last time I looked, we still had a gallon of berries in the freezer. Mixed with enough apples, we can make them last until our sadness fades.

****

Joyce’s Edited Essay:
The Berry Patch
by Joyce Deming

Thunk. Thunk.

I stare into the white plastic bucket tied to my belt and count. One, two, five, eight, ten. Ten berries including the two I just dropped in.

I glance over at Vic who is straddling a log and peering into a nearly leafless bush. “How’s it look over there?”

“Not too good. Just a few berries and most of them are all dried up.

We call them berries, but botanically speaking they are not. They are currants, black currants to be exact, Ribes americanum. Currants differ from berries in that the fruit retains part of the dried flower, which protrudes from one end like a tiny pigtail. Their glossy black bodies are covered in tiny hairs, which I suppose helps protect them from insects. They grow in clusters like grapes, camouflaged beneath the bushes’ maple-shaped leaves, and range in size from pencil eraser to thumbnail. While their branches are not covered in prickly spines like their red currant cousins, they do not give up their bounty easily.

The currants thrive on the damp, north-facing slopes and are often found in areas that have been logged, growing over the tangles of slash left by the loggers. One year, as I scrambled to get to a bush with some particularly large, plump berries, I slipped on the wet, haphazardly stacked logs and landed on my back. My head was pointing downhill, my body draped like a parenthesis over the offending logs. I had berries in my hair, my ears, my belly button. My brother, picking not far from me, heard the crashing and cursing and peered down from the road above. “You didn’t lose any of your berries, did you?”

It’s late summer and warm, even in the shade of the spruce trees, but it’s a welcome relief from the oppressive heat we left in the city. The Deming family has gathered once again to pick berries — a family tradition going back at least 70 years. This year, however, the family consists of just me, my husband and our dog. My brother, busy with a new wife, a demanding job and a troubled teenager has begged off. My uncle, recovering from a heart attack, is still unable to travel at altitude. My cousins are tied up with family plans of their own for the long Labor Day weekend.

It wasn’t always so. In years past, berry picking was a huge affair, with family converging from all areas of the state. A literal truckload of kids rode to the berry patch in the back of my dad’s green, ‘67 Chevy pickup. No mandatory seatbelts and child restraints in those days. Aunt Lil packed a huge picnic lunch: Tupperware containers full of cold fried chicken and potato salad, fresh peaches from the Western Slope and a big cake pan of her chocolate frosted brownies. We kids gulped down lemonade and iced tea; the grownups drank coffee from thermoses in red plastic cups.

Berry picking started early in order to finish before the inevitable afternoon thunderstorms. We picked for several hours, talking and laughing if near one another, lost in our own thoughts if not. Around noon we gathered around the tailgate for what we jokingly referred to as lunch and lies. My uncle and dad regaled us with stories of the good old days, the same stories we heard every year about the folks in town who paid them fifty cents for a gallon of berries. Good money for a day’s work when there were eight kids in the family and a father lost in the flu epidemic.

Black currants are a definitely an acquired taste, somewhat reminiscent of a not-quite-ripe blackberry. One year, a middle-aged couple happened upon our annual expedition and asked what we were doing. We glanced nervously at each other — should we tell them? Like the best fishing holes, the location of the berry patch was a family secret to be guarded at all costs. Finally my uncle confessed we were picking currants and offered them a taste. Their involuntary puckers and shoulder-raising shudders assured us that this couple would not be horning in on our family berry patch any time soon.

Currants are best when cooked into jelly or used like blueberries in muffins, always with large amounts of sugar. My favorite dessert is black currant pie served warm from the oven, topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Of course, the berries are “cut” with sliced apples; to use only black currants would be sacrilege. After all, that gallon of berries has to last until next season.

Even when it’s not berry season we come here under the pretense of “checking the berry patch.” We hike a circle route down a section of logging road long ago abandoned. The road eventually necks down to a single path, grown up in trees, then opens into a large, wet meadow full of marsh marigolds and elk tracks. We follow the creek down to the “bear bush,” a large cluster of berry bushes so named for the sizable pile of purple-stained bear scat we discovered near it one year.

That was in the wet years, of course. Today, after several years of below-normal snowfall and dry summers, the forest feels much like the parched brown landscape we came here to escape. The meadow looks tired and wilted. We follow the dry creek bed down to the lower road, the forest duff crunching like cornflakes under our feet. The berry patch, too, has felt the impact of the drought. The bushes are covered in a fine layer of red dust and many are stunted and have already dropped their leaves. What few berries we do find are small and dry and wrinkled like raisins. The bear bush is completely gone, grown up in weedy plants with yellow flowers.

I’m afraid recent drought is not the only culprit, however. The old bushes have been disappearing for years and there are no new ones replacing them. The berry patch is dying.

It’s time to go. Vic and I walk back to the truck, the nearly-empty white plastic buckets still tied to our waists. It’s time to give the berry patch back to the forest. We pause for a photo-op view of the mountains, point out various peaks and talk of climbing them some day. We’ll always have our memories, layered as deep as the evergreen needles on the forest floor. And our stories — banner harvests, fresh bear scat in the road and elk tracks in the meadow. Our buckets are nearly empty, but the last time I looked, we still had a gallon of berries in the freezer. Mixed with enough apples, we can make them last until the sadness fades away.

****

Comment by our guest judge Brenda Miller: “I enjoyed the authoritative voice that teaches me something new about currants, while revealing the writer’s personal connection to a particular place.”

Sheila Bender's Writing It Real

Community Writing Resource

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