The houses backed onto the schoolyard.
The schoolyard backed onto the creek.
The creek had blackberries. Lots and lots of blackberries. Berries that glistened in the sun and were just out of reach. Hundreds of black fat berries that were best .... way out of reach.
My mother and sister and brother and I and all the neighbourhood would get down there at some time in the creek and along the bank and in the brambly bushes and pick those black berries. All over summer we did this, and other stuff. No permission needed in particular. Just evidence of our doing written on our faces or shirts filled with pickings. (Hard to clean, but worth it.) We all picked the blakkas. Pails would swing and be filled. Pink hands, stained with juice and mouths red - evidence of the quest for the best, or a repeat of the best.
The sounds of buzzing of the pesky flies and the legs covered in thin red scratches where our thin cotton homemade shorts came short but a small price to pay for pails full.
Heat and crackling sounds. Slithery sneaky sounds. Red belly blacks. Shy creatures. Not so keen on their homes being tramped on. Or maybe rats?
The edges were bare. The little kids and the oldies got the easy pickings. The determined pickers got right into it. The really determined took down planks and laid them over the thick prickly boughs. Planks with paint and scrapes and rough edges where we slid the thin homemade cotton shorts along to get to the best fruit. The pail was very quickly filled and spilt the best of the best while sliding back over the rough edges and the thorns that scrape. The thought of a warm bath softening skin and magnifying hurt pushed back into the brambles for a little while. Concentrate. Concentrate.
Another pail and now no more pails, so any saucepan or pan would do now.
As the pans were filled and bellies bulged we set back for home. Across the paddock and through the palings that became a hole in the fence. Sneaky sounds, sounds of retreat, satisfied sounds.
Now mum got to work. There was jam and stewed berries bubbling away on the stove and plates of fresh on the table, pushed away to make room for pastry. Maybe even custard if mum was not too tired. Score tonight! Blackberry pie! Crusty pastry and oozing black goo with lumps and bumps and odd hasty stalk. Oh bliss. Custard. She was not too tired. Happy mouth. Happy happy mouth.
For weeks we lived on the pickings of the summer. The jam lasted (if were were good) until the next summer. Jam rolly polies replaced the pies but that was ok. They were our sweet favourite after the pies. The scratches faded and the plank was back beside the fence. The sneaky sounds were hushed and low. The heat of summer shone through the jars if you held them up to the light and you could squish the lumps in the jam to remind yourself of the big best ones that you were brave enough to scrape skin for.
Big fat round berries. Big fat round bellies. Big fat round memories. Happy happy mouth.
The schoolyard backed onto the creek.
The creek had blackberries. Lots and lots of blackberries. Berries that glistened in the sun and were just out of reach. Hundreds of black fat berries that were best .... way out of reach.
My mother and sister and brother and I and all the neighbourhood would get down there at some time in the creek and along the bank and in the brambly bushes and pick those black berries. All over summer we did this, and other stuff. No permission needed in particular. Just evidence of our doing written on our faces or shirts filled with pickings. (Hard to clean, but worth it.) We all picked the blakkas. Pails would swing and be filled. Pink hands, stained with juice and mouths red - evidence of the quest for the best, or a repeat of the best.
The sounds of buzzing of the pesky flies and the legs covered in thin red scratches where our thin cotton homemade shorts came short but a small price to pay for pails full.
Heat and crackling sounds. Slithery sneaky sounds. Red belly blacks. Shy creatures. Not so keen on their homes being tramped on. Or maybe rats?
The edges were bare. The little kids and the oldies got the easy pickings. The determined pickers got right into it. The really determined took down planks and laid them over the thick prickly boughs. Planks with paint and scrapes and rough edges where we slid the thin homemade cotton shorts along to get to the best fruit. The pail was very quickly filled and spilt the best of the best while sliding back over the rough edges and the thorns that scrape. The thought of a warm bath softening skin and magnifying hurt pushed back into the brambles for a little while. Concentrate. Concentrate.
Another pail and now no more pails, so any saucepan or pan would do now.
As the pans were filled and bellies bulged we set back for home. Across the paddock and through the palings that became a hole in the fence. Sneaky sounds, sounds of retreat, satisfied sounds.
Now mum got to work. There was jam and stewed berries bubbling away on the stove and plates of fresh on the table, pushed away to make room for pastry. Maybe even custard if mum was not too tired. Score tonight! Blackberry pie! Crusty pastry and oozing black goo with lumps and bumps and odd hasty stalk. Oh bliss. Custard. She was not too tired. Happy mouth. Happy happy mouth.
For weeks we lived on the pickings of the summer. The jam lasted (if were were good) until the next summer. Jam rolly polies replaced the pies but that was ok. They were our sweet favourite after the pies. The scratches faded and the plank was back beside the fence. The sneaky sounds were hushed and low. The heat of summer shone through the jars if you held them up to the light and you could squish the lumps in the jam to remind yourself of the big best ones that you were brave enough to scrape skin for.
Big fat round berries. Big fat round bellies. Big fat round memories. Happy happy mouth.
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