Prairie Visions II

Plump chokecherries heavily laden on green bushes always evoke images of chokecherry picking with my grandfather. One of my earliest memories of embarking on a chokecherry adventure includes a long car ride. I remember watching the miles of endless prairie glide by my window with nary a town a sight, unaware I was traversing the desolate territory of my ancestors. This was the country where my great-grandmother claimed her homestead next to my great-grandfather who established his in 1909. Romance on the prairie…did the waving grass sweep my grandmother off her feet? I wish I knew this story, though it may be far more practical than in my imagination, as two people persevered through the harsh Dakota winters.

“Two Top,” my grandfather proclaimed. Enthusiastically, he pointed out two knolls that interrupted the prairie. These quirky formations in the middle of the vast prairie captured my imagination for the rest of the day, as I entertained images of brave men and women who explored the caves and nooks and crannies of the unique hills in the face of wild critters with burning yellow eyes.

Farther down the road, we reached our destination for the day, the Slim Buttes. After we bailed out of the car, Grandpa had us lined up and outfitted for picking from bug spray to a bucket. He donned his familiar grimy, tattered straw hat that protected him from the sun and led the way. The details of who was in attendance that day are foggy. Often cars of extended family would join us, but this day I only remember finding a place next to my brother to begin my diligent picking. Of course, we had to taste the berries whose tartness immediately puckered our mouths as we tried to disguise our distaste. The choke is aptly named, I think. I am sure that this brought a grin to my grandmother who was quietly picking close by. Once our curiosity was satiated, we focused on our picking. Grandpa didn’t want any bad berries in our buckets, as he was worried they would spoil the rest. This made for tedious work. Plus those little berries take forever to accumulate in the bottom of a bucket. The lack of progress directly affected our motivation. We would take turns dumping our berries together to make it look better. Then we would glance sidewise at Grandpa, and he would have an impressive amount in his bucket. Motivated to compete, we would seek out a bush with more berries hoping that we could catch up. Of course, Grandpa would just stay put and diligently pick. Eventually we would realize that we just needed patience to fill our buckets, but eventually we would lose interest, and as we would squirm in self-defeat, Grandma would notice and dismiss us to play for a while. Grandpa would always admonish her for letting us go because he remembered diligently picking the prized berries as a child, and he was sure we could do it too.

With vision, I watch my great-grandmother navigating the terrain in her long skirts and with her three children in an attempt to gather the berry harvest to enjoy throughout the winter on the plains. As the winds howled and snow swirled in unpredictable patterns creating dangerous conditions, she would bring her children close to the fire and enjoy the fruits of the summer. In the meantime, she would work in the cool of the morning to keep her berries fresh and utilize the shade of the day to shield the crop from the ruthless sun. Two Top landmarked her location and comforted her. The kids would banter with each other and occasionally take a break before convincing their mother to spread out the blanket for an early lunch from the familiar tin pail.

With exaggerated reluctance, she would gratefully ease herself onto the soft prairie grass and watch the kids run in the breeze, her body weary, but a smile would cross her face as she watched her children romp and play, and her hand would rest on her swollen, restless abdomen. Her thoughts would drift like the clouds back to her childhood. The laughter would ring through the air like it was yesterday, and her steady gaze into the distance would take her back through the years to her family so far away. The ache in heart would be interrupted abruptly, as her oldest daughter squealed in delight at the flushing grouse.

As the berries simmered on the stove, the tartness would fill the air and bring a smile to my grandfather’s wrinkled face. Even his eyes smiled. In his heart, a fond memory would grow warm at the picture of his mother stirring berries over the hot fire. The woman who taught him to gather the berries, but who was gone before his firstborn, my father, arrived.

The tart jellies and syrups grew to be my favorite at breakfast, as I did. I think the memories of working together with my grandfather made it sweeter as I poured the thick syrup onto my mother’s buttermilk pancakes. Fresh homemade bread topped with chokecherry jelly would melt in my mouth, and I know the same sweetness in my memories.

Perhaps the importance of the ritual for my grandfather was based on his relationship with his mother, whose lessons from the prairie were unassumingly passed forth. Together we weave the generations with memories…unaware, but coursing intuitively through our blood.