How I See It, Volume 1, number 9, September 1999 How I See It Here in the far North, one of the many delights of fall is lowbush cranberry picking. The bright crisp air tinged with the musty smell of the highbush cranberries, the sound of chain saws, the fireweed turning red and purple: all make me grab my bucket and my dogs and set out. In other years, I have walked to my favorite spots, looked the berries over closely and decided that in just another few days, they will be perfect—not just ripe, but perfect. But alas, a few days later when I return, they are gone. The other day was the perfect day for someone else. As there are usually plenty of berries, we’ve just had to go farther and forsake our favorite spots. But this year I’ve changed my usual pattern. I decided that whatever day I managed to get afield and find the berries even close to ripe enough, that would be the perfect day. And so it was. Not even the voles had made a dent, and the deep red, round, ripe berries were aplenty. And, as always, no matter what diversions I try, my old dog always likes to be close and lies in the middle of the best patches, his tail wagging with joy, scattering and squashing as he wallows and snorts. Ah well. And then, there is always the bear scat which I am relieved to see is several days old. But none of this matters. And although I love the berries, they are really just another excuse to go out and walk, to fill my head with all the yellows, pinks and oranges of the trees, the red-violet of the highbush cranberries and fireweed, stuffing every corner of my mind to keep me through the winter. Then later, when the days are so dark, the snow is deep and the cold has numbed my mind, I can pull some berries from the freezer and make muffins. And maybe I’ll find a yellow or red leaf tucked with them and remember these wonderful days.
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