The Red Flannel Rag

complaining about the berries being so small and having Mom remind us that wild

strawberries have the best flavor. Besides, they were free for the gathering. This was

often following by a warning that God put these wild berries on the hill, and if we let

them waste, He wouldn’t provide for us in the future. I must admit that first bite of

strawberry shortcake the next evening was a memorable end to a mundane supper.

At the end of June, we picked sweet cherries from trees randomly planted by wild

birds as they flew over the fields after feasting on cherries. There were red hearts, black

hearts, waxed red and waxed yellow cherries as well as red sour cherries. We picked

some of each because each had a special use. Red sour cherries made the best pies. The

cherries were canned and later frozen when we were able to afford and to run a freezer

after electricity came to our community early in my childhood.

Up until her death in 2001, Mom had frozen cherries dating back to 1972 — the

year her favorite nephew and my favorite cousin, Randy, died. He was only thirty-six

years old when he died of aplastic anemia — one of the first cases ever diagnosed. He had

been dead a month when she invited his sixteen-year-old son to help us pick cherries. I

discovered that the invitation was part of mom’s grieving process. She invited him to

help so she could tell him stories about his dad helping her pick cherries and how he had

loved her sausage gravy so much he came by every morning for breakfast before work. I

would see an occasional tear as she talked. Perhaps the tears fell as she realized she

could not replace her dead nephew with his son.

Then came July--wild blackberry season. The earliest to ripen were called low

blackberries. You had to stoop over to pick those berries — what a pain. I remember one

summer I was picking low black berries with my cousin Ruby. She was married with

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