Mom had a deep affection for berry picking — a real lifelong love. So much so that she’d often get lost at it. She’d find a quiet spot, settle in, and then the fog would close around her like a curtain. Before long she’d forget exactly where she was. More than once, the good men of Trepassey had to organize a little search party when she didn’t make it home for her three‑thirty mug‑up. She liked her tea and sweets, and everyone knew she wouldn’t miss them unless something was off.

Mom would cross the Barr Beach and head out toward Cape Mutton Pond or The Front Cove. Summer meant bakeapples — cloudberries glowing like little lanterns. Fall meant cranberries and partridgeberries. She loved it all.

One day I tagged along with Mom and her friend Marion. We headed for The Front Cove around eleven in the morning. Luck was with us — the bakeapples were thick, and each of us picked a full gallon.

On the way back, we followed a narrow sheep path that came down from Cape Mutton. The cliff dropped about two hundred feet below us. All of a sudden Mom slipped — just a quick misstep — and her berries went pouring down the cliff like hail. Marion and I grabbed her and hauled her back up onto safer footing. We managed to save most of her berries, but you could tell the three of us were shaken from the scare.

Mom was a teetotaler. I never saw her touch alcohol — not once — until that day. Marion’s house was our first pit stop on the way home, and she mixed herself and Mom a good strong drink of rye whiskey to settle the nerves. Mom didn’t argue.

That day has stayed with me ever since. Both Mom and Marion have long passed on, but I like to think they’re up there together — sharing laughs and berries in the Great Bakeapple Patch in the sky.