Last week’s column was based on nostalgic memories from years gone by, memories triggered by certain events of current times. I continue sharing more memories this week.
Our niece texted us a photo recently, showing a bush with lush purplish-coloured berries hanging from the branches. “What are these?” she asked.
Housemate identified them for her, noting the berries just begging to be picked were chokecherries.
My thought immediately turned to what could be prepared with enough of those beautiful berries: chokecherry syrup for pancakes and chokecherry jelly to be spread on toast with peanut butter.
My parents had a chokecherry bush in the front yard, spreading each year to take up more space until Dad decided it should be cut back to a more reasonable size. Once his shears did the job, the bush got even the next year and failed to produce enough berries for a winter’s supply of preserves. That was the end of the bush in our yard and after that we traipsed to other bushes growing wild along the side of gravel roads.
Housemate and I also pursued the annual hunt for the berries, with Housemate eating them and spitting the seeds back into the vicinity so other bushes would grow. It was a big deal for me the first year I processed the berries all by myself and proudly showed off my jars of jelly and old ketchup bottles filled with syrup just begging to be poured over pancakes or ice cream.
We found a huge growth of bushes along the highway towards the Gardiner Dam and went there every year for many years, picking gallon pails of the precious berries. One year we took along a friend who until moving to Moose Jaw had never heard of chokecherries but she liked the taste of what they produced.
She filled her pails and handed them to me as we dropped her off at her house after a day in the bush. I explained, to her shock, that those were her berries, to process following the recipes I shared. She was aghast at the idea that she personally would have to tackle the syrup-producing product.
She persevered and despite much grumbling, was successful in her first attempt at this Prairie tradition. She didn’t have as much syrup as I thought she should have produced and I do suspect she might have given away some of the berries but she never confessed. Nor did she ever go berry picking with us again.
Many years later we still laughed about her first chokecherry experience.
Nowadays we depend on the farmers’ market and some stores for our syrup and jam but for some reason it just doesn’t taste the same.
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When I was growing up, our summer holidays were short in duration because my Dad couldn’t be away from the gas delivery business for more than a day or two at a time.
Thus we usually did a quick trip to stay with some relatives or close friends who had a spare bedroom, with space on the floor for a sleeping bag for the young ’un who was part of the package. Eventually Dad built a plywood camper on the back of the half-ton and we slept in there, making it a visitation and semi-camping trip all in one.
If there were kids my age around, I was usually too shy to play with them until it was almost time to leave for home and then it was too late to make many memories.
Reciprocal visits from aunts, uncles and assorted cousins also took place, sometimes with advance warning and often with no warning at all until we saw their smiling faces at the door. If they knocked on the front door it signalled a first visit for we seldom made use of that entrance.
On one occasion, two cousins had written to say they were coming to visit us as well as another family member in the district. They were coming via bus. On the day of their arrival I was also involved in a picnic at Besant Park. By looking at the bus schedule we figured I could attend the picnic and be home in time to meet the bus. I wanted to make a good impression so I had curled my hair before heading to the park.
The Sunday School picnic rule was no splashing but with a whole group of us in the pond, enforcement was impossible and by the time I got in the car for the return journey, my lovely curled hair was drenched and flat.
My friend’s mother had to make another stop before getting me home and thus my cousins were already present and waiting to greet me with their own hair looking lovely and well cared for. I, on the other hand, looked less than presentable. My Mother was not amused. My Dad gave me that look before starting the fire for the wiener roast that had been delayed
Thankfully in those days I still had some natural curl in my hair and once it dried, it combed into what was surely a brand new style— one that I haven’t seen since.
My cousins kindly never mentioned that visit but they did show up to our wedding and commented that they liked my hair — covered as it was by a tiara and piece of tulle for a veil. There may have been sarcasm involved!
Joyce Walter can be reached at ronjoy@sasktel.net
The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author, and do not necessarily reflect the position of this publication.
