to go by boat, but it had to be windy enough to keep the flies away. Although the bites from crawling blackflies, also called sandflies, didn’t itch too badly, they would get into every part of the anatomy and draw blood. The mosquitoes were torture, and their bites left huge welts that itched for hours. I remember Daddy scanning the skies looking for the ideal conditions to pick bakeapples, and finally it was time. I’ll never forget my first berry-picking trip in the boat. I was six. The memory of every detail is clear.
“Kin I go, Mommy?” I pleaded as I watched her take fresh buns from the woodstove oven.
“No, Josie, yer too small yet ta go fer all day. Ya’ll get too tired.”
“But, Mommy, I can pick lotsa berries, an I won’t get tired an I won’t eat even one!” I cried.
“Awright den, ya can come, but I don’t wanna hear ya complain,” she warned as she stuffed food into the grub bag.
“I’m goin berry pickin, I’m goin berry pickin!” I yelled, running out the door.
“Yeh? And I knows yer gonna pick lotsa berries, awright,” Sammy piped up, laughing.
“Yeh! And I can pick as many as ya can, cuz ya eats half yours,” I retorted, taking a chance sassing my big brother.
“Where’s me berry picker to, Mommy?”
“Dunno, Josie. Get yer little water can. Dat’ll do.”
“Awright den. It won’t take me long ta fill dis up,” I bragged, checking it for sharp edges so I wouldn’t cut myself.
After a hurried breakfast, Mommy finished packing the grub bag with enough food to last for the day. Finally, we were on our way, and as I skipped down the hill toward the stage, I thought about how many berries I was going to pick to make Mommy proud. As the motorboat chugged through the choppy sea, I could barely contain my happiness. Daddy landed the boat on the rocky shore, and we all piled onto the rocks. In my tiny sealskin slippers I huffed and puffed up the rocks. When we reached the chosen spot, we laid our things down at a high point near a big rock. We used the rock as a marker so we wouldn’t get lost. No time was wasted during berry picking.
“Get back here till I puts dis stuff on yous!” Mommy shouted.
“Pooh, Mommy, dat stinks,” I squealed, trying to wriggle out of her grasp. As soon as she finished, I grabbed my tin can and ran to pick berries.
“I sees a good spot!” I hollered as I bolted for the berry patch. But I couldn’t run. The ground was so soft my sealskin slippers sank into it, making me tired before I even started. When I got to the berry patch, I was huffing and puffing. I dropped to my knees to pick. One by one I picked each berry and put it into my can, fighting the urge not to pop the delicious fruit into my mouth. I kept picking and picking one at a time until my can was full.
I was so excited! But when I went back to empty my can into the big can, I fell down. All my hard work was now strewn over the mossy ground in front of me. I began to cry.
“Never min yer ballin!” Mom yelled as she kept on picking. “Jus pick ’em up an start over!”
In my mother’s view, children shouldn’t be coddled. There was too much at stake in such a hostile land. So I had no choice but to focus on putting the next berry into my can until it was filled up again. I emptied it into the bucket. It didn’t seem to make any difference to the big one.
Shortly afterward, Mommy called everyone for a boil-up. I was relieved because I was getting tired.
“Mom, Jos is eatin de berries!” Sam cried.
“No, I’m not! Yer eatin more en me.”
Mommy glared at both of us. “De both of ya better stop eatin dem or ya won be comin nex time. Deed ya won’t!”
The wind died down, so the fly dope didn’t seem to help much. The mosquitoes were relentless, but the blackflies were worse. The tiny pests left blood running down our faces and the backs of our necks. They kept getting into our eyes, noses, and mouths. Every now and then I’d hear someone choking, and I knew that meant they’d swallowed a fly.
It was mug-up time, and Daddy found a good spot to make a fire from blasty boughs. This was the fun part. I loved the smell of burning berry bushes, and a fire helped ward off the flies.
As the black smoke billowed upward, streaking the noon sky, I felt happy and secure in my little world. We sauntered about, collecting twigs and bushes to put on the fire. Daddy gathered a couple of larger sticks and made a tripod to set the kettle on. It wasn’t long before it was boiling, so Mommy poured tea into tin cans for us. After adding a little molasses to sweeten the tea, she passed around the buns she’d baked for our trip.
Afterward we were reluctant to get back to the berry patches, but it was unthinkable not to keep picking. Even though I was small I was still expected to pick my share. So we trudged on, picking some, eating a few, and brushing away the flies. I was exhausted, but I dared not complain.
Some families had favourite picking spots they returned to each year, but for the most part it was a free-for-all. Whoever got to the best patches first got most of the berries, and no one liked going to a spot that had already been picked over. Some people went too early to the berry grounds, and that made Mommy angry.
“Dey shoulden pick berries till der ready fer pickin,” she grumbled. We arrived home exhausted but content. Daddy limped around to secure the boat, then brought up the pail of berries. Sammy was always there to help. Although she must have been tired, Mommy went about getting supper.
If harvested too early, bakeapples are hard and difficult to pick, but if fully ripened, they’re soft and mushy when plucked, already have the consistency of jam, and don’t need cleaning. We could eat them just as they were. However, they’re best when mixed with a little sugar and a few drops of canned milk. We weren’t allowed to snack on bakeapples because that was considered wasteful. The berries were a precious source of food for hungry days ahead. When we came back from picking, we were thankful to be able to eat a few berries.
All the other berries had to be cleaned. It was a time-consuming job, and I just wanted to go out and play. Still, the chore had to be done. We’d collect the fruit by the handful, extract the twigs and leaves, and put the berries in a barrel. There would be pies or tarts for supper on Sunday night. Mommy would whip up fresh jam made from the various berries to spread on freshly baked bread. It was especially delicious on hot kingwaks, which were bits of bread dough roasted on the stove, then placed in the oven to finish cooking. We’d cut the kingwaks in half and slather them with butter and fresh jam.
Before we went berry picking we had nothing to put on our bread except molasses. That was why fresh berries were such a treat. Soon all the berries were stored for the winter, not to be seen until at least Christmas.
The most common berries in Labrador are blackberries, blueberries, bakeapples, and redberries. The shiny blackberry with a yellow centre blanket the ground and cascade down rocks in large clusters. They’re very juicy and make a dark purple jam that turns tongues black. Blueberries grow in abundance, intermingled with blackberries. They’re picked and eaten throughout the season. We canned and bottled them or made them into jams because they don’t freeze as well as redberries.
Bakeapples grow on boggy hills and marshes along the coast. They’re covered with a velvety shuck that’s difficult to remove. However, when the berry ripens, the shuck falls
