"To Be Eaten, Not Picked!"

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXIV, Issue 22670, 6 March 1937, Page 6 (Supplement)

"To Be Eaten, Not Picked!"

Men's Viewpoint on Blackberries

By JOSEPHINE BLIGH

'J'HE blackberry is one of the few things that we women feel we are getting for nothing. They grow for us in wild profusion without any help from manures, pruning, weeding or any other tiresome attentions or expensive stimulants, and they grow in places where trespassers are never prosecuted —they are usually just waiting for us to help ourselves. To gather them not even a licence is required, as in hunting, fishing and shooting. All we need is the gumption to get to the best spots before someone else—and that doesn t cost much! Husbands —strange dears-y-do not always see eye to eye with wives on this point. They will harp on the cost of benzine, the wear-and-tear on clothes and other little details which wives, being less petty, never consider. A woman can sometimes get a man to go blaekberrying once, but seldom ever again. Many a woman has never been able to persuade her husband to go even once, but this is probably because he did not happen to be courting her in the blackberry season, or, if he was, she had no desire or reason to go blackberrying at the time. If he did happen to be courting on the occasion or his initiation into the job, then he would pick with quite a good grace and thus would give his loved one the false impression that during their married life blaekberrying would be one of their annual treats! If, however, he is already married when first he goes ablackberrying, then at the end of the day his wife will be making a firm resolution never to ask him to do it again! There are few sights more pathetic than that of a husband picking blackberries. It is enough to move one to tears. From the expression on his face it is obvious that he considers the brambles are purposely going out of their way to scratch and hamper him. The tin of luscious berries, rich and juicy, he regards with as much distaste as he would a tin of weevils. It is no use his trying to cheer him up with visions of blackberry pie or jelly, because he does not want blackberry pie or jelly. Indeed, he never wants to see a blackberry again for the rest of his life. Of course, not even to a woman is a day's blaekberrying all joy; but when father and the family come back for several more helpings of her blackberry and apple pie, and when her blackberry jelly is looked upon as a special treat, then she feels that the day was well spent and that her labours are well rewarded.

In an attempt to protect her hands from stains and prickles she usually starts to pick wearing gloves, but soon she peels them off in disgust. She fesls clumsy and cannot pick deftly with tier hands encased in those strange tokens of respectability. At first, she is careful just to pick those berries near at

} I | / think there is something wonder- j s ful about the plain, quiet, home-mak- I j ing, motherly woman whom you can ! j go and see when you haoe a heart- j I ache. ? :

hand, but soon the fascination of the task engulfs her, and every berry that comes within her line of vision must be her prey. Unfortunately, the majority and the finest are not always within easy reach and before long she awakens out of her trance to find that she is in the middle of the brambles and very much scratched. To get out is a different matter. The brambles seem to reach out and entwine themselves about her arms and legs; they smite her in the face: they drag out her hair by the roots. Yet in spite of all this, it takes a great deal of persuasion to make her stop. The desire to get "just a few more" submerges all else. Though she may have taken an oversized tin and had to modify her ambitions considerably, she will carry 011 while yet there are berries and some light. But, oh, her poor back when she climbs into the car to go homel "I'll be all right when I get into a hot bath," she says to herself all the way home. But she has forgotten her scratches! It is not until she jumps into the hot water and jumps out again with a yell that she realises that a hot bath is not the most soothing thing after a day spent in picking blackberries.

Though there are now far more people who go blackberrving in cars than before, there are still a few noble souls who tackle it without. Imagine, you luxurious ones who ride in cars, or who pay some little boy a few shillings to do the picking for you, imagine going by tram or bus to the blackberry grounds and picking all day. Then imagine walking back to the tram or bus, carrying large tins of blackberries as well as a few baskets of picnic necessities, trying at the same time to look civilised, with stains on all kinds of undisguisablo parts of the person and clothes, and with a few rips here and there, an aching back, and a questionable temper. . . . "Stop!" cry the luxurious ones, and shuddering, turn away.