Nature is a source of joy and it's all around us; all we have to do is embrace it. Many poets have expressed a close-knit identity with nature. Wordsworth experienced his 'bliss of solitude' and lingering pleasure long after viewing the field of daffodils. Frost was enthralled with the serenity and calm as he stopped to watch the snowflakes fall on some remote wooded area. Everyone has a part of the earth that they can relate to most. Whether it be a majestic mountain, a roaring waterfall, a quiet trout stream, or the calm of the woods; these are places to get to know oneself and build bonds with family. For me, the mind has been most content, and the soul has left its print, when I have been berry-picking. For as Henry David Thoreau said, 'Heaven is under our feet as well as over our head.' I was returning to Summerville after Christmas vacation in 1956, when on the radio of the taxi that had picked me up at Southern Bay, (a stop on the since abandoned Bonavista branch of the Newfie Bullet), I heard one of my favorite 50s songs Fat's Domino's 'Blueberry Hill.' While too young to experience the romantic thrill of that song, I indeed had my first thrill of berry-picking on Hurt or (Hert) Hill a short distance from where I grew up. From childhood, I've held a close-knit identity with nature and a love or, what might be considered an obsession, with berry-picking. I can relate to John Burroughs feelings when he said, 'I go to Nature to be soothed and healed, and to have my senses put together.' Once, at an Educational conference, my former Grade 10 teacher and Principal at Russell Hall was telling everyone how he had rescued me from being a high-school dropout. During my high-school years, I lost practically the entire month of September picking blueberries to sell commercially to help get school supplies and things needed for winter. I do recall him interrupting our late afternoon baseball game enquiring when I was coming back to school, but I think he was overestimating his own importance relative to my intellectual pursuits. We picked blueberries for thirty-five cents per gallon. The early aim was to get at least three gallons in order to get a one dollar bill. Later I would double that by carrying a blueberry wooden box with a stick reeved through two rope handles. I had one memorable experience where I learned a valuable lesson. Against my better judgement, I deferred to an older chap, who was not a regular berry-picker, to go in on bicycle. On arrival at the purchasing agent's store, with the day's work attached haphazardly to the parcel carrier, my worst fears were realized. The berries were so wet the agent had doubts about taking them. She must have sensed my disappointment and devastation and finally assumed the risk of accepting them. The joy started to diminish a little, however, as September began to wane. It was not easy maintaining enthusiasm. especially while trudging through the early morning dew-drenched bushes and shrubbery that would probably not dry until the approaching lunch break. The one bright spot would be, on our return, sitting down to the evening meal of fresh vegetables amidst the glow of the kerosene light. After the blueberries, we advanced to the partridgeberries, known internationally as the Lingonberry, which were carried in flour sacks on our backs or over our shoulders. It was much harder on the hands than the blueberries; after a few days, the fingers became sore and bruised from the barbed, brambly underbrush. Some used a stall, a rag covering for a cut thumb or finger. I recall one year, in particular, the price was so good, our family picked eight barrels, enough to purchase our supply of coal for that Winter. Two types of berries which we now harvest that were not very popular when we were younger, (perhaps because of their low commercial value) are wild raspberries and cranberries. Picking the former is the least delightful; foraging for them requires tenacity, adventure, and some risk-taking. One needs long sleeves and long pants to counteract thorns, poison ivy, grubs, and spiders. (good we don't have snakes). Thorny undergrowth ensnarls one's feet; large, ripe berries dangle tantalizing over rocky ledges; swarms of mosquitoes, test one's determination to persevere when one's footing is so uncertain and precarious. Cranberries grow on coastal headlands or in and around bogs and marshes. I have picked them as I followed a brook or stream perilously close to the ocean. A friend in Cape Freels took me in on his ATV and landed me in a grassy marsh and picked me up about three hours later in the same spot. A few years ago, I spent a night in Old Perlican in October. I got up early on a Saturday morning to seek out cranberries. It was freezing cold with a strong North wind, but I decided to defy the elements and venture out. Later, my brother gave me a picture of my exploits; he had followed me and had clandestinely captured the moment. The bakeapple, or cloudberry, is the ultimate - the most cherished among the province's wild berries. It has been suggested the name has been anglicized from the French baie qu'appelle,™ meaning what is this berry called? It has been described as a distant cousin of the raspberry, red and hard when not ripe, golden amber, soft and juicy when ripe, with a superior, unique taste. They may fetch up to eighty dollars per gallon. I recall in the late 1940s my Dad and I were walking out by Long Pond, Old Perlican with our bucket of bakeapples just harvested from bogs where fog obscured our visibility. A car stopped, and a gentleman asked if we were going to sell our berries. I gave a barely audible no; I'm sure if prices like that had been mentioned, we would have given it more consideration. Another sublime or serendipitous moment occurred while picking bakeapples with my Uncle, under resplendent sunshine, taking a break to enjoy refreshments and reminisce. On a number of occasions, I have gone in from Pound Cove, walked around Gull Pond and surrounding area picking bakeapples. After about seven hours bending and trudging over bogs and carrying a bucket of berries in each hand and another in a backpack, it was a relief to reach the vehicle and get a refreshing drink. A few years later, I am also more aware of our fragility and our human limitations. 'All good things must come to an end,' penned by Geoffrey Chaucer in the fourteenth century is a constant reminder of the transitory nature of life. When my own life and career was still ahead of me, I recall my Dad's frustrations dealing with advanced age unsteadiness and spilling his berries. As Shakespeare said 'The wheel is come full circle.' I no longer can trek the bogs. Age diminishes our strength and robs us of our pleasures; unfortunately, we have no control over our situation, the only thing we have control over is our perspective.   Submitted By: NULL