Berry Me Not
by Jeanne Rhodes

Chokecherries, chokecherries, purple and round.
How pleasant to live where these gems can be found.

My soulmate will love whatever I make,
Poured on a biscuit, or drowning a cake.

So, leaving a houseful of things to be done,
I grabbed up my buckets and vowed to have fun.

Off to the riverbank hot in pursuit
Of chokecherry bushes heavy with fruit—

I wasn't alone in the choice that I made,
Our cows were there too seeking water and shade.

Of course they had fertilized well where they lay,
So insects were thick on that scorching hot day.

But, darn it, I wasn't about to be licked
So I picked and I swatted and swatted and picked.

Then, both of my buckets heavy with loot,
I stepped in the mud as deep as my boot;

I followed it down with a face-forward sprawl—
Both buckets of chokecherries joined in the fall.

They silently sank in the cowpies and mud;
I picked up a few, they were covered with crud.

So back to the bushes, the heat and the bugs,
I picked them again, refilling my lugs.

Rushing back home, I started to cook,
Got dinner on somehow, by hook or by crook.

Washed all my berries and strained them for use,
Emptied my sugar sack into the juice.

It boiled for hours before it was ready;
I sterilized jars, I was getting unsteady.

I put on some supper, I cleaned up the mess,
And collapsed in a chair too tired to undress.

This morning my husband beamed over his plate
Of sausage and pancakes, and said as he ate,

"The best thing about this syrup to me
Is that these nice berries are utterly free."

To show that I'm tolerant and kind and forgiving—
The man that I live with is still with the living.

Grandpa Walter keeps Baby Ruby happy on Saturday evening. We'd gone to Scott's sister Tanya's in Kelvington for supper but as my cold was on its last legs I didn't allow myself to pick up this little girl who wanted to be carried quite a bit. It was torture; I love 'em at that age.

***

While it's still pleasantly warm I take a load of laundry from the dryer, folding and stacking it in piles: the boys', Scott's, mine, and household stuff. I transfer a load of wet garments from the washing machine to the dryer and close the dryer door. I clean the lint filter, set the timer dial, press the start button.
Nothing.
I open and close the dryer door, re-set the timer dial, press the start button. Nothing.
After repeating this series of movements about five times in disbelief — after all, the thing had just been running — I put up the clothes rack and hang the wet laundry on it.
That night I tell Scott, my fix-it man, "The dryer isn't working. You can hear the timer clicking, but the machine won't start."
A day or two later I ask if he's had a chance to look at it. He says, "It works." I inquire what he had to do to it. He says, "Press the start button." He rolls his googly eyes; this sort of thing is not unusual when it comes to me.
I say, "I did that! Numerous times!"
"Did you open and close the door?"
"Yes. More than once." I'm puzzled now.
"Well, it works. I didn't do anything to it."
What the F.
I mean, Yay! The dryer works.
But what the F?