"Partridgeberry Panic"
The fishing was over, the blueberries were picked, and even the awesome bakeapples (just a few) were in our possession. So now where were the partridgeberries that I so desired? I had waited all summer for my special berries, their dark burgundy colour and exquisite taste something I had yearned for in my years away from Newfoundland and Labrador. During those years away my kind sister-in-law had, from time to time, sent me containers of those terrific gems of autumn. Now I was back in Newfoundland and could get my own, but where? The berries I would receive in the mail would be hoarded and squirreled away by me the same way I would hide licorice pipes from my siblings years ago.

My selfish frame of mind being, "They’re mine, all mine!" Not very kind but-oh well!

Now that might have been necessary with the licorice, but not the berries, because nobody I knew around me loved them as much as I did. I knew how delicious and versatile they were, and I craved for the enjoyment of picking the berries, and for baking with them. Their flavour was a sweet reminder of so many things.

I asked everybody where I could find them, even the driver of the courier truck who said "Never mind my love, you’ll get your berries after September 15th." That was always the magical date the partridgeberries were supposed to be ready for picking as they would be ripe and juicy by then.

September 15th came and went, the world had gone mad with crushing blows being dealt between nations, the stock market was teeter-tottering, and the News generally was not good anywhere. Usually I would be head first into three daily papers and reading and watching it all, being an intense person who observed world events with great interest.

But not that year! Mainly because by September 15th the wait for the berry picking, the relentless questions I asked that had no answers, had robbed me of all cognitive power, all rational thought, and I was on a stubborn overhasty quest to find those berries. This was serious business and it had happened to me before once or twice in my lifetime. I knew how ruthless I could be, and felt my inner core was about to self-destruct! So I had a long talk with myself and started searching again.

In my small place of abode, Shoal Harbour, I knew that somebody could help, I just had to find that person. The place we had picked partridgeberries so many times on our Newfoundland vacations was now a highway overpass, nobody seemed too concerned, and I could feel the familiar pins and needles of a Newfoundland rant coming on. The brilliance of the autumn colors, the deep blue of the sky, the smell of the junipers, and the cool sweater weather was all adding to my angst.

When October 1st came along, my quest shifted into ‘full speed ahead’. No more messing around I decided, I would find the berries myself!

I sat on a rock near the shoreline and thought back to childhood days on the coast of Labrador, high on a hill with the wind a welcome part of the day, keeping the flies away from us. The sun would be shining as the women and girls all engaged in a day of berry picking. The younger group would have a small container called a ‘picker’ to fill, then that was emptied into the large flour sacks and we started all over again. What excitement it was to see that sack fill up, bulging at the sides, the red stains of the berry seeping through the cloth! What delight to have lunch with the grown women! Every now and then someone would ask "Is your bottom covered yet?" If the answer was yes, then you were doing OK.

When the sacks were full, the women would take them to the highest, most windy, hill, and they would ‘winnow’ the berries. They would take a clean flour sack and container after container of berries would be held high and slowly poured into the sack, the wind blowing the browse and leaves away, making the sack of berries just perfect, no unwanted debris would remain. Then it was time to head for home.

What magical days they were? We made our way home exhausted, sunburned, and our mouths stained with red berry juice. The fly bites would itch and we would be thirsty, but what innocent times? I saw a Newfoundland painting that I just had to buy because it shows the children picking berries that was so like I remembered it that I knew it had to be mine, and it is!

My frustration had peaked. Finally I approached my husband and asked "So what about the partridgeberries?", launching into the story of my Labrador berry picking days, and the winnowing and so on.


"Well," says himself, "I’ll have to ask around again. We can find out where to go but you can’t do that to them anyway."

"Can’t do what?" I was deranged enough to ask.

"Can’t do that winnowing thing", he teased, "I just don’t know where you’ll find flour sacks in this day and age!"

That did it! I had been had again.

And then it happened. I stopped at a local grocery store and what should I see but BAGS OF PARTRIDGEBERRIES, BEAUTIFUL MOUTH-WATERING PARTRIDGEBERRIES! I made a frantic lunge right over the grocery cart and had three bags of those berries confiscated in seconds! I wasn’t sure how much they were, if I had money enough with me to purchase them, and I didn’t care. They were mine, all mine, finally! I was, to put it mildly, ‘ethereal’.

I checked out and headed for home, locking all the car doors and daring anyone to take my berries. I had no sense of reasoning left at all, but I was so happy!

I plunked the bags of berries down on the kitchen table. My husband walked in and took a look at my purchase.

"What are you going to do with all the berries?" he questioned.

I was gloating by then.

I said "Just watch me!" Then I went on to say that there were muffins, loaves, jams, pickles, sundae toppings, and so many other things for which to use them. My quest was complete, and what a marvelous feeling it was!

Now this year I need my berries again. But I know just where to go and I’m not telling! They’re mine, and all mine! I already quietly went through the exercise of the ‘quest for the berries’!

I just can’t stop myself it seems!

Bonnie Jarvis-Lowe,

  Submitted By: Bonnie Jarvis-Lowe